Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Lessons Learned

Work on the boat was largely finished.  We were down to the minutiae of pre-departure preparations now, and of course, loading and stowing all the gear and supplies.  As many know, space aboard a ship is limited, especially on a small vessel like ours.  We had to fit all the tools and materials and spare parts necessary to keep afloat a boat built the year my dad graduated from high school.  In addition, we had to fit all the personal items four people would need for four months into a area the size of a minivan with enough empty space left over for us all to live comfortably.  It was like putting together a jigsaw puzzle except that there was no correct solution and unused pieces were abandoned on the dock.
 
First priority when packing always went to those items necessary for the proper function and maintenance of Strolla.  Then, what was needed to keep the crew safe and healthy.  Far down that list came those superfluous comfort items for which there may or may not still have been room. When sailing through the lower latitudes spare clothing falls into this category.  A third, or even second t-shirt is so extravagantly unnecessary its more likely to find use soaking up a bilge leak or oil spill.  
 

 
(Items still waiting to be stowed)
 
It's at this point in the packing that the deepest cuts were made to one's personal items.  Having spent last winter sailing, albeit in slightly colder conditions (see: www.sailtocuba.blogspot.com).  I was well aware of just how stripped down a wardrobe is actually required for the stripped down existence of life on the waves.  I did my best to impart this hard won wisdom to my crewmates.  Some were easier to convince than others. 
 
Today was our first laundry day in Ft. Lauderdale.  Becca, who had run out of clean clothes, declared it time.  Mark by now was recycling his underwear.  I was no longer wearing underwear.  All of our dirty clothes together still only totaled one load so everything went in together.  In went went our socks, our shorts and white t-shirts.  In went Becca's red pants.  
 
Mark and I will spend the next four months dapper and dashing, dressed in subtle shades of pink.  They'll match our sunburns.
 

(Mark fabricates a part for the windvane)


By now, progress had dropped to a crawl.  Slowly, the holds were filled with the big items and then the crevices in between packed with ever smaller ones until there was no wasted space left.  This ensured we would be able to fit everything on board that we needed to.  It also ensured we wouldn't be able to find anything again without completely unpacking the holds.
 
 
(Nate takes a break for a peak outside while painting the fore cabin)

 
Weary of packing, tonight we took the evening off.  Our soft bottomed, inflatable dinghy was back from the shop and newly patched so, we decided to take her out for an evening cruise through the canals. The air was hot and muggy, our new outboard was purring happily, and we were living the high life with ice cold Miller.  Mark asked if maybe we should bring the oars with us just in case.

"Naw, gotta learn to trust the motor," I said, with a condescending clap on his shoulder.  The four of us piled into the dinghy.  I opened the throttle and, all 2.5 horses churning, we roared up the New River, beers in hand.  The waters on the canal were calm but with the four of us inside, our dinghy sat low enough in the water that we got wet anyway.  When the beer ran out and dusk descended, we turned for home.  
 
It was at that moment that the motor sputtered and died.  We were out of gas.  Mark observed that it would be nice to have oars at a time like this.  I informed calmly him that questioning the captain's decisions was mutinous and that mutiny would not be tolerated, not even in the dinghy.  With that, an uneasy quiet descended over the boat as the mosquitos whined and bit and we drifted slowly through the dark down the middle of the canal.

By the time we'd drifted to shore we'd come up with a plan.  Mark and Nate would stay and guard the boat.  Becca and I, the only two wearing shoes, would hike back to Strolla, get the oars, and return in the car.  The outboard took a fuel mixture of 50:1 and we didn't have any mixed back at the boat so it was agreed that rowing back would be fastest.

Becca and I set off into the dark, cutting across backyards, navigating our way through the maze of canals and cul-de-sacs.  Using the highest visible landmark, the I-95 overpass, as our reference point, we arrived back safely at Laila's house.  
 
I grabbed the oars from aboard Strolla, hopped in the car and raced back.  Nate and I exchanged places, he'd volunteered to cook dinner tonight and had to get started and, Mark and I began the slow paddle back down river through the dark.  We made it back just in time for Nate's tacos.  Delicious.

4 comments:

  1. I feel like there's some quote about no one planning to fail or failing to plan that applies to this situation.

    Pete, make sure to pack the Swiss Mix and a tennis ball for you to play with when your bored. Both essentials.

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  2. Wow, I know EXACTLY the kind of 'fatherly clap on the shoulder' you gave Mark. I've been on the receiving end of many such claps, and as it did here, they always preceded mishap.

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  3. Pete! This running out of gas only two people having shoes thing sounds awefully familiar... I vaguely remember running out of gas on a small island and leaving behind the only person who knew how to start the boat! Only to return victoriously with gas abroad a fancy boat of rich folks! I wish you all well and can't wait for the adventure to continue! Hopefully we share the sun this winter!
    Megan

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  4. Proper prior planning prevents piss poor performance. (and precludes a hilarious, and very familiar, story)

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