On the Hard.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007
1750 hours

We are hauled out. This means we are sitting on blocks in the yard, literally.

Seeing the boat come out of the water was a thrill, yards all cockbilled, hoisted up on a massive lift and rolling, suspended, over dry gravel. And living on a land-boat was an exciting novelty at first. The public doesn't complain because we're not open for tours. Daily boat-cleaning chores are cast aside. We climb a 20' ladder to get on and off the boat. It's like living in a big crazy treehouse, only without the tree.

But we have been hauled out since the 10th, and we are all getting land-sick. We have all of the inconveniences of the Chieftain with few of the conveniences. That big ladder? Every time we want to wash dishes, or clothes, or our hands, or use the head, we have to climb down it and walk a long way across a gravel parking lot to the facilities. Dirt and mud from that parking lot gets tracked all through our usually tidy boat. And though it's refreshing to have a break from dealing with the public, we've been working a lot of long days trying to stay on our haulout schedule.

We've been successful in staying on our haulout schedule, actually. We were given a very short timeframe to do a lot of work, and we met it. The bottom has been cleaned and painted with a substance that is hostile to the growth of marine life (read: extremely toxic). Hull paint has been touched up along the waterline. All the throughholes in the hull have been opened, checked and cleaned, and the propellers, shafts, and bearings have been pulled and prepped. The Coast Guard has inspected us twice, and seems to think we're more or less all right. The problem has been with the stuff we can't do ourselves, the propeller parts that have to be professionally machined in a properly equipped facility. This continues to hold us up, so that our departure date hovers out in the future, always moving away as we approach it, like the end of the rainbow.

For me, it's really only mildly annoying. It could be a lot worse: Port Townsend really isn't a bad town to be stuck in, as seaside towns go (despite the dearth of wireless internet within a mile of the shipyard), and our workload has lightened considerably since we finished painting. But other crew members were expecting to be in Westport by now, counting on it in fact, and they're starting to trickle away by ones and twos, off to schools and jobs and family, disappointed and vexed at having to find transportation by land instead of by sea.

Summer is losing its grip, skidding away from us into the mist. Rainclouds and flocks of geese pass overhead as we commiserate about how much we miss being rocked to sleep at night. This evening I rode the tiny one-speed boat bike (Hermes, messenger of the gods) a mile and a half up the path beyond the paper mill, pedaling hard, inhaling the scent of rain-washed autumn herbs. On the long lazy slope homeward, I gazed out at the little boats coming in from the sound. None of them were as cool as my boat, but they were out on the water, and I envied them that. I want to be on the move. I want to chase after the geese, clutch at summer's outstretched hand and slide on southward into brightness and warmth.

Postscript: The propeller shafts are back and getting a sleek coat of fiberglass at this very moment. We should "splash" sometime Friday. In other news, I just found out about the free wireless at the Safeway across the street from the yard(!).