Not Meant to Be

How can something as useful as a radar system on a boat be such a damn pain in the ass? I shake my fist at the sky.

It all started when we bought the system. We put off installing it because we had more pressing issues—like the boat’s annoying habit of randomly filling with water and threatening to sink. She had other annoying habits, like leaking water into the boat from the decks. We've since gotten those issues resolved, and now we’re on to other “nice-to-haves” like a radar system and an anchor windlass.

A few summers ago we decided “this will be the summer of functional radar!” We installed the radar antenna (the dome) on the mizzen mast. We ran the wire down the mast and cut it. We plugged the other end into the back of the display and wired it to the electrical panel.

We spliced the cut wire back together, just like we’d done on every other electrical system on the boat. When you’re running cables on a boat, it’s rare that you’ll run one long-ass cable from point A to point B.   So you cut and splice to make working with the wires easier.  The radar cable has gigantic plugs on either end. To run that cable in its entirety, we’d have to drill gigantic holes into every wall to make the ends fit. To avoid that colossal pain in the neck we decided to slice and splice.

Todd finished the splice then turned on the radar display. It counted down the 60 seconds it takes to warm up, while Todd rubbed his palms in anticipation. The screen, however, remained blank. A call to Raymarine tech support informed us that cutting the wire wouldn’t allow the signal to carry over it anymore. Basically we severed the connection, never to be sliceable again.

We back burnered the radar until this summer. In the mean time, our radar unit had gone straight from discontinued to extinct. Ordering new cables to run down the mast and through the boat proved to be a month long ordeal. We installed the new wires, plugged them into the dome and into the display. We tested the unit while we were still in dry dock and were able to see the other boats around us. We cheered and jumped up and down.

On Friday night we ventured out into the bay for a few moments. We’d been working so hard to get ready for the big trip, we needed a break. The radar happily showed us the boats sharing the bay with us that night. It even showed us the navigational buoys. Then it, inexplicably, stopped working.

And then it wouldn’t, inexplicably, start working again. Todd ran a few diagnostic tests, which revealed nothing. He took time out of work today to go out to the boat and go over the system with Raymarine tech support on the phone. Turns out a circuit board in the dome is no longer functioning, and therefore no longer collecting information about the boats around us.

As I mentioned earlier, the system we purchased brand new just a few years ago has gone into extinction. No replacement domes for this system are to be found. Sending the dome back to Raymarine for repair will take $500 and 15 days.

We don’t have 15 days. We leave for New York City on Friday.  I spent a few hours today trolling the Internet and calling every possible source I could think of.  No dice.

I console myself by saying that Christopher Columbus crossed the Atlantic without a radar system. Surely we’ll be fine going the length of Long Island Sound without one. But Chris didn’t have to deal with drunken jackholes cruising around in their boats on the 4th of July weekend.

Looks like I’ll be keeping my eyes peeled even wider on my shifts on watch on Friday night.

Perseverance

There are 17 days left until the big trip up the Hudson. 17. Less than 20. Just more than 2 weeks. We are starting to freak out a bit because there is still so much to be done to make sure Sabine’s ready. We spend entire weekends preparing her, we spend entire evenings as well. The temperature is rising outside and in our heads as well. We’re tired. We’re getting burnt out. The promise of an awesome trip with new and functioning systems is what keeps us going.

When we bought Sabine she had a manual anchor windlass. This is the machine that sits on the bow of the boat that pulls the anchor and the chain out of the water and up into the boat. The manual windlass had long since seized. But hauling up an anchor and chain by cranking the handle on the winch back and forth never appealed to either of us. An electric windlass has long been on our list.

Not only has it long been on our list, it’s long been in our basement. We bought one five years ago or so. We also bought an obnoxious length of chain that I swear weighs a metric ton. The chain has been sitting in a barrel in the backroom at New England Yacht Rigging. Maggie and Charlie were nice enough not to hassle us about keeping it there all these years. If anything it became a running joke. The weekend before last Charlie nearly fell over when we went there and finally took it out of the shop.

Last Sunday we started the great anchor windlass installation project. Since then the project has involved a custom stainless steel plate fabrication by a local machine shop. (I wish I lived closer to home. I grew up in a shop just like that one and Dad would’ve had it done lickety split for me.) We bolted the machine onto the plate and onto the bow. Over last weekend we started running wires, and last night we installed the control box and finished all the wires.

We stood on the deck, with the remote control in hand, and pressed the button. The sun had just set and the summer temps dropped, thankfully. We’d been crawling in and out of the boat, slick with sweat, sticky and crabby. The no see ‘ums were swarming; I swatted frantically at my arms, legs and neck. We looked at each other expectantly and Todd pressed the button, but nothing happened.

The rotors on the machine did not spin. The chain did not retract below deck into the anchor locker. Nothing. Happened. I winced. Todd let out a frustrated sigh. He picked up the manual, originally written in Italian but badly translated, and tried to diagnose the problem. Over the course of the installation he’d already found 2 errors in the wiring diagram.

Out came the jumper cables and the voltage meter. We tested different configurations of the wiring, assuming another translation error caused the problem. We managed to get the machine to pay out the chain, but not return it to the anchor locker. Todd uninstalled the control box and puzzled over it.

“I think we got a faulty control box,” he said as he swabbed the sweat on his forehead with the sleeve of his t-shirt. We were crouched in the forward-most section of the boat. The air was stiflingly hot in there.

“Well, do you think we can order another?”

“Beej, it took weeks to get this from Italy the last time. We don’t have weeks.”

“That was 5 years ago. Surely they’ve managed to establish a distributor in the US in the last 5 years, no?”

“I don’t know. But look, there are screws in the top. They wouldn’t have put screws in this thing if they didn’t want me to open it, right?” he reasoned.

He unscrewed the top and meticulously laid out the parts. He pointed out the two electromagnets in the box, “See, the electricity causes the spring to activate the lever. Then the metal touches the contact which sends power to the motor. When the up button is pressed, the left lever is engaged. When the down button is pressed the right one is engaged.”

He connected the electromagnets to the jumper cables, and tested each electromagnet. They both worked. But the lever on one of them was turned the wrong way, so it never would have established the connection with the contact.

He reassembled the box, and then we pressed the buttons on the remote control. The chain went up, and the chain went down.

And then we cheered, high-fived and hugged.

And it never would have happened if Todd hadn’t had the perseverance to carefully trouble shoot the problem, disassemble the components and never give up.

Back to Our Roots

As you know, Todd and I have restored three sailboats in the last 12 years.  We are wrapping up Sabine's restoration this season, and then we'll wonder what the hell to do with ourselves every spring. 

When we restored our first boat, a 26' Pearson Commander we named Sugar Magnolia, we went to Orwell, Vermont just about every weekend and worked dawn to dusk.  We were in our early 20's then, and were ridiculously organized because there are no boating supply stores in that neck of the woods.  The nearest hardware store also rented videos and had a nacho cheese machine that would shoot gooey cheese on chips arranged in a plastic tray.  It forced us to buy our supplies during the week and painstakingly pack them in my Jeep Cherokee on Thursday nights (and pray that they didn't get stolen from the car because we lived in Boston and parked on the street).  On Fridays I woke impossibly early and took the T from our apartment in Brighton into North Station, then took the commuter rail from North Station to Andover.  And then I walked the mile and a half from the station to my workplace.  (I think it took about 3 hours, if I remember correctly.)  Andover was on the way to Vermont, so it made sense for him to not have to wait the 40 minutes for me to drive home, just to turn around and go back by there again. 

Then we bought the first Sabine and had her shipped north from South Carolina.  We lived in Norwood, MA at the time, strategically between Boston and Providence.  We had the boat shipped to Warwick, RI which is just south of Providence.  It was only 45 minutes or so from home, so this opened the possibility of restoration work on weeknights.  I took the red line from the office to South Station to catch the  5:40 train to Norwood.  At 6:15 or so I'd get into my car and make it to Warwick for 7.  Then we'd work until well after dark and up to 11 or so.  Then we'd get home for about midnight and do it all over again the next day.   We were still somewhat organized, but Saturday and Sunday mornings were spent chasing down supplies because Warwick offers a wide range of hardware and marine supply stores.  No need to plan in advance when you can just jump in the car and ride 5 minutes to get something.

By the time we bought the current Sabine, we had moved to Warwick.  Our house was 5 minutes away from the boat.  Not only did we have the variety of stores within a 10 minute drive, but our house was also 5 minutes away.  Sleeping later became an option.  Going home for lunch became another option.  Efficiency flew out the window. 

Now that we live in Podunk, we are still not quite as organized as the early years.  We talk about buying our supplies during the week nights, but it rarely happens.  I work 5-10 minutes away from where the boat is now, but with Todd's busy schedule at work he often doesn't get there until 7 on a weeknight.  Last night I arrived at the boat at 5:30 after picking up dinner and the dry cleaning.  I went inside the boat to do the cleaning until Todd arrived at nearly 6:30. 

We are finishing up the last of the projects that need to happen before the boat hits the water on Friday.  The wiring in the main mast is a mess, however we sorted out all the wiring in the mizzen mast over the long weekend.  The radar is wired up the mizzen, as is a brand new very loud horn.  Last night as we tested the spreader lights on the main mast, using a battery and jumper cables, a thunderstorm blew through.  We quickly became drenched.  The lightening in the distance didn't stop us from attaching jumper cables to the battery and to the wiring inside an aluminum mast between two giant metal buildings.

As we watched the lights glow from the spreaders, and wiped the rain out of our eyes, I remembered all those late nights and weekends spent plotting, painting, sanding, re-wiring, scrubbing, cutting, attaching, and clamping down of various boat parts over 12 years.  I looked at Todd and smiled while the rain soaked through my T-shirt and knew that despite the rain there was nowhere I'd rather be.

Living with the Bubonic Plague

While I was on my technology induced blog vacation, I have contracted what seems to be the Bubonic Plague. So it’s just as well that I haven’t been able to post, as you were all spared the gory details of my annoying symptoms.

I am back to eating solids now. Kind of. On Sunday I got cocky. I ate all kinds of things. And what didn’t I do for a Klondike bar? Oh, you’ve no idea! I ate pizza! Glorious pizza! Todd made jambalaya from scratch. The recipe called for roughly 8 metric tons of cayenne pepper. I arrogantly ate a few bites, and then promptly held my hands against my jaws to prevent my face from melting from the heat.

Yesterday morning I struggled through a few bites of toast for breakfast, and fed the rest to the dogs. I boiled an egg, and then split it in half for each dog as well. I got cocky and tried to eat a plain turkey sandwich. It took three hours to get through about ¾ of it before I gave up. Will someone explain to me why I thought Greek yogurt would be a good idea? Because really? It wasn’t. At all. Todd made me the world’s blandest chicken soup for dinner, and I ate about three bites of it before I declared I was done eating anything for the rest of my life.

But today is a new day. I am feeling better. My energy is returning. It’s amazing the effect that food has on my energy. My fuel tank is full. I am not doubled over in agony. My stomach isn’t making noises only heard from caged lions. And I am about 3 pounds lighter. Win win!

The major downside to living with the Bubonic Plague, is the lack of energy. We’re getting ready to launch Sabine, and there is still oh so much to be done. Working on weeknights is largely a bust, as we’re both tired from work. (I don’t know how we used to do that all the time? It used to be that we’d work on the boat until a million o’clock on weeknights and still go do our jobs. Where have those days gone??)

On Saturday we went to the boat, and then Todd promptly drove me home again. I squandered the day in a disoriented haze of illness. On Sunday, we made another stab at working on the boat, and declared the day a wasted effort as well. The new fuel tanks are inside the boat, but not hooked up to anything. The radar, while now functional (!!!) still needs to have the wires chased up the mast and through the interior of the boat. The boat’s a damn mess and it smells bad, too.

But there’s always next weekend.

It’s All Coming Together

The Great Hudson River Trip 2010 is quickly coming together. I’ve mentioned a few things we need to do to Sabine to make this trip a reality. We have a list, we’re already checking things off of it and we’ve barely scratched April’s surface.

1. We built the plywood templates for the new fuel tanks. We fit them into the space and then marked where the fittings are supposed to go for the filling hose, the feed and return lines to the engine and generator, the sender for the fuel gauge and the vents. On Saturday morning we drove the plywood templates across the bay to Bristol, RI where we met with the welder.

Going to the welder's shop was a nostalgia trip for me. I practically grew up in a machine shop much like the one we visited on Saturday morning. The smell of the machine oil, the sound of metal chips crunching under my feet as I walked, and the sight of the grease streaked walls were entirely comforting and familiar. I inhaled deeply and was instantly brought home. Normal people are brought home by the smell of baking bread, or cookies, or whatever Mom’s specialty was. Not me. It’s eau d’machine oil for me, my friends.

We’ll have brand new aluminum tanks in about two weeks. Better still, my boat will carry more fuel than the jeep for the first time in seven years.

2. Last weekend we installed a brand new alternator, pulley system and belt to Sabine’s Yanmar diesel engine. Last season the diesel, less than 10 years old, chewed through fan belts at an alarming rate. The smell of burning rubber singed our nostrils when under power, and a fine layer of shredded rubber coated every inch of the engine. A normal engine wears out a belt every few years. We were burning 3-5 belts a season, more of them as the years wore on.

When we pulled the pulleys off the engine, we noticed that they were precariously rusted to the point where the jagged edges caused Sabine’s increased appetite for fan belts. The rust was caused by an elaborate system of leaks remedied by the Great Paint Job of 2009.  We cleaned the layer of grimy rubber powder off the engine, installed a higher output alternator, pretty blue pulleys and a wider belt that is less likely to slip. The alternator will power our house bank of batteries so we can do things like turn on the lights indoors when we’re at anchor, and we’ll be able to do that for longer periods of time without fear of running down the batteries.

3. “But I thought you had radar aboard,” is something we hear from our boating friends. They point to the radar dome perched on the mizzen mast. I reply, cheekily, “Yeah, our radar dome is decorative. Sure is purty, eh?” But the lack of radar is becoming more and more of a problem. There have been many times where we’ve been stuck somewhere due to foggy conditions. A functional radar is a necessity that we’ve never had.

We’ve tried to make the radar functional, without success. Last week I spent an obnoxious amount of time on the phone with Raymarine tech support to determine what we need to get the radar functioning. We are currently waiting for just one more cable, and then we’ll be able to wire up the radar properly and hopefully check it off the list.

4. On Easter we cleaned out the gear room in our house in preparation of the Beej and Todd adventure season. In the ungodly mess that the gear room had become, we found bits and parts that we’ll need to work our way through the list for the remainder of April and May.

5. I’ve gotten ALL of my vacation time off approved. It’s marked on my Outlook calendar, and I keep staring at it longingly. We’ll be on the water for 2 weeks in July and then another week in August. I have the signed PTO forms in my desk at work, and I feel like jumping up and down every time I look at those as well. Just today, Todd emailed me and told me he was having a bad day. I took screen shots of my Outlook calendar and emailed them to him and said “Yeah, today you might be having a bad day. But look at this, we have a possible 25 days on the water coming up. Keep your eye on the prize!”

Now we just need to plan the trip… find amenities along the Hudson to make sure we can get things like fuel and fresh water. We’ve been reading guides and researching on the Internet on our spare time. More importantly, we also need to find a place where Todd and I will maintain one of our favorite vacation traditions: the buying of my vacation bling.

I Love it When That Happens

Restoring a sailboat is a financial mirage. Things that you thought would be a very cheap and easy fix often end up being very expensive. This is usually due to ripping a system out to find something like rotted wood behind it or another broken system that also needs replacing adjacent to the one you just ripped out. Or it’s due to a crappy former boat owner who did something stupid like splice wires together with masking tape, so then we have to replace the broken thing, or the rotted thing, or the masking taped thing as well.

Todd and I are in the midst of replacing or 7 year old temporary fuel tank. We have a space for the tank that’s 45” by 39” and 13” deep. The companion way (door) that is about 29” inches, thus making it impossible to get a 39” tank through the door.

Imagine buying a gigantic couch that will fit beautifully in the room, but it’s so gigantic you can’t get it though the door. So, instead you buy a sectional so you can get the pieces of your gigantic couch through the door. That’s how we’re handing the fuel tank/door issue. We decided that we’d have two tanks constructed that we’ll link together, so that we can fill as much of that space with fuel as possible and still get the tanks through the door.

We constructed plywood templates of the tanks that we’ll dry fit into the space first, and then we’ll have aluminum tanks made. We need to find a vendor to make these tanks, and we're fairly certain it won't be cheap.  Just today Todd and I had this conversation about it over email:

Todd: I just got a quote back on the larger of the two tanks. (Insert a number that is easily 1/3 of what we expected to spend.)

Beej: Was that quote from a welder or an origamist?

Todd: A welder.

Beej: But will the tanks be made out of, you know, actual metal?

You never really know until you get the finished product, I guess.

Accomplishments

We've now owned this boat for seven years. In those years we've restored every single system in the boat. We've put in a new steering system because the prior owner neglected to tell us that the hydraulic steering system was leaking in to the pantry. (When the outside of an unopened jar of peanut butter is oily, you've got a problem.) There was a massive leak where the propeller shaft enters the boat, which we fixed last season. We ripped out the water tanks and installed new ones, along with new hot and cold water lines and an electric hot water heater. (Our diesel engine also doubles as a hot water heater.) We take our hot showers in a newly tiled shower as well.

This season, so far, has been riddled with big boat accomplishments. I've shown you the paint job already. And we've also installed new canvas around the cockpit, so it'll stay nice and dry in the rain. The cockpit often doubles as the living room when aboard, and it's nice that the rain doesn't get on our couch or easy chair. We fixed the auto pilot, and now we can have a mini computer keeping a course for us. We can also steer the auto pilot from a Gameboy sized remote control as well.

There have been two nagging projects that we checked off the big list this year, and we crossed them off over the long weekend. One of them was installation of brand new dinghy davits. The davits are these poles that stick out the back of the boat, and we can now hook up our dinghy to them and hoist the dinghy out of the water. Like so:


Extra special thanks to my brother Kaz and his mad machining skillz. My brother MADE these davits (the curved poles in the picture). He made them. With his own bare hands.


Now that we've painted the boat with the black accent, you can see the dragons near the bow of the boat. For some reason, I crave Chinese food every time I am aboard now. I can't quite put my finger on the reason why.

The next nagging project was putting the correct name on the boat. The prior owner had named the boat "Tara Vana" which, allegedly, means "Crazy Man" in Tahitian. I am usually very suspicious of names and characters in languages that I cannot understand. For seven years, the name plates read what might possibly be "American Asshole" in Tahitian. Not anymore. I present to you you, Sabine, with her given and proper name emblazoned on her:

But wait, there's more!

In this one you can see the full enclosure over the cockpit. The panels are rolled open here, but when they are all rolled down the cockpit is completely enclosed.

And now all I want to do is spend every single waking moment aboard my dry, shiny boat

D’oh!

On Sunday we installed a brand new hydraulic steering pump. The pump sits behind the steering wheel, and has hoses connected to it. When the wheel is turned, the pump squirts hydraulic steering fluid into the appropriate hose. The fluid runs down the hose and applies pressure to the hydraulic steering ram, which then directs the rudder to point in the appropriate direction.

We installed brand new hoses on Sunday as well. The hoses start at the pump, and run down the steering column through the floor of the cockpit and into the pantry below. We secured the hoses to the ceiling of the pantry, and then ran them down the aft wall into the engine room. The hoses were secured to that wall, and then were run beneath it, just above the propeller shaft, and then curved upward under our bed in the master stateroom. Just aft of our bed is the hydraulic ram which controls the rudder on the outside of the boat.

We handled the hoses as if they were constructed out of radioactive material. Over the course of pulling them though all those twists and turns they could chafe on any sharp edges and eventually rupture and leak—just like the old ones had. We hooked them up to the autopilot mechanism, which is located under Todd’s side of the bed, where his torso lies when he’s sleeping. We secured the hoses into place, attached them to the pump, the ram and the autopilot.

Then we attached the steering wheel to the pump. The hub of the steering wheel does not fit the new pump. The wheel now too loosely hangs on the pump, and the wheel jiggles as if to say “If you try to steer with me I am going to fall off and you’ll be left holding a steering wheel attached to nothing. And then you’ll hit something.”

In my experience, with boat restoration, when we solve one problem we’re often faced with another. But this time the problem is a bit larger. How the heck are we going to steer this boat?

If You Have To Ask, You Can't Afford It

Sabine's still in the shed getting the finishing touches put on and she'll hit the water next week. We've been working on various boat projects every night after work and on the weekends to get her ready. The paint's done, the varnish is done, and now we have to do things like repair the leaking hydraulic steering, you know, so it doesn't leak anymore.

Today we were working, when our friend Tonya came by. While Todd took off with her for a few minutes I sat in the truck resting. Some people came into the shed, and I automatically ducked out of view so I could watch them. There are tools strewn all over the place in the shed, along with other way more expensive boats. When Todd and I are working in the shed over the weekends we are always very careful about not leaving the doors unlocked because we are paranoid about something expensive that does not belong to us getting stolen. So, I ducked down and watched these people as they walked through the shed to check out our boat, and the two other boats in there with us. I figured that if their fingers got sticky I could jump out and let them know that they were not alone.

"Wow, this boat is gorgeous," one of the men said as they walked around my boat.

"I wonder if it's for sale. I wonder how much it would cost," the other replied.

"Yeah, probably couldn't afford it," the first man laughed. They left the shed, thankfully without stealing anything. But it was gratifying to hear that someone thought our boat looked so good that it was entirely unaffordable. What a nice change from hearing "Wow, you've got yourself a project, eh?" from other strangers who saw our boat.

Until now, I called Sabine a "90 mile boat" because "She looks good from 90 miles away." Not anymore.

Now, the unveiling.

First let me show you the rebuilding of the companionway hatch. This hatch is kind of like the front door to a house. It's the hatch you go through from the cockpit into the interior of the boat. You slide it open and walk down the companionway into the inside of the boat. The wood on the underside had rotted so badly that it eventually sagged and the hatch became increasingly difficult to open. Eventually I had to brace my legs against the seat in the cockpit and shove at the hatch with all of my might, summoning all the strength of my "sailor mouth" and grunting various phrases starting with "mother."

We completely disassembled the hatch, but managed to salvage the teak on the top. We fiberglassed a piece of marine plywood underneath it, then we fiberglassed the teak on top of it.

Here we're fiberglassing the trim pieces on the edges. We put down some fiberglass resin and clamped it into place so it would dry in place overnight.

Like this.

Here you can see how it would look with the teak on top.

Now you can see the paint job. Put your bibs on, because you're going to drool.

The black parts just below the dragons are our name plates. I haven't gotten a pic of it yet, but now it says "Sabine" on those name plates. We've owned the boat for seven years now, and hadn't bothered to correct the name plates.
*swoon*

Perfection!

It’s Just Not Right

Every year it happens, just like clockwork. The weather warms up. May becomes June. Sailboats in the distance dot the bay. Todd and I make a list of boat projects we’d like to accomplish. We scramble to complete them because we know that once Sabine’s tied to her mooring we will lose all motivation to work on any of those projects. We’re too busy having fun instead. We complete maybe half of the list and say “We’ll finish next year.”

This year the list is longer than most because of the complete refit. We haven’t had access to the interior of the boat all winter, due to the boat yard painting and varnishing the interior. We lazed around all winter, until recent weeks. Now the boat’s painted, but the leaking hydraulic steering system has been ripped out. Replacement parts have been purchased but not installed yet. All of the “stuff” that was on the deck of the boat was moved below so that the yard guys could paint. Now that “stuff” is all over the place in the interior of the boat. A fine layer of dust covers everything. There’s more junk in the cabinets from past completed or abandoned projects. It’s everywhere, spilling out of cabinets that won’t close anymore. Books with moldy pages, Christmas lights, 12,784 miles of extension cords, a broken clock… why are we keeping this crap?

The list is swelling as we think of more projects that we need to complete, faster than it could ever hope to shrink. The installation of solar panels has been pushed down toward the bottom, while installing the anchor windlass has been pushed toward the top.

We spent all day Saturday and all day Sunday working on the boat. On Saturday we painted the boot stripe (the stripe that falls right at the water line). On Sunday we cleaned out most of the cabinets in the interior, and threw out much of the crap that was in there. I scrubbed every inch of the "living room," but still have the forward stateroom, our stateroom, the bathroom, shower and galley to scrub. I took all the cushions outside, drenched them with Febreze, and let them dry in the sun. We nearly finished constructing the lid for the hatch that’s way in the back of the boat. I finished sanding the nameplates, and then we will fill them in with fiberglass and paint them black. The sign company will stick letters on them that say “Sabine” and “East Greenwich, RI” on them in a font that we will deliberate over for far too long.

The weekends are not enough anymore. Wanting to restore a great old boat and get to actually use it takes a lot of time. Work, though necessary to finance the restoration and use of a sailboat, has become inconvenient. I feel myself growing disgruntled at the concept of having to show up to work every day at 8:00 AM, and having to stay there staring at a computer screen until 5:00 PM. In my mind the list remains, with items uncrossed. The clock in the corner of the computer screen mockingly ticks away valuable minutes that could have been spent elsewhere.

Every spring something else happens too. The walls of the cubicle close in on me. I stare up at them and wonder if it is my imagination, or if they are actually slanting inward. Though I like the job, I resent that it keeps me from living the life I want to lead. I resent having to ask permission to take time off. I resent the stressful moments while I wait to be granted permission to take vacation time. I resent giving “the man” the best years of my life.

I grow irritable. I become a nightmare to live with and to work with. I plot. I ponder. I grumble. I leave the office at 5 on the dot with a trace of fire in my footprints. I clench my jaw at the surprise project dropped into my lap on a Friday afternoon. I shake my fist at the sky and say “It’s just not right!”

Yet, for some reason I’ve never bought a Powerball ticket.

By Land and By Sea

I always experience mixed emotions on Sunday nights. I am usually winding down from a weekend filled with activity. I spend the evening being mellow so I can get to sleep at a reasonable hour and get some sleep so I can get up the next morning and go to work. I reflect on the fun from the weekend and dread going to work on Monday. I like my job, but I like weekends better than having to be in a cubicle at 8 AM on a Monday morning.

The weather is getting warmer, and Todd and I have been unsticking our butts from the couch. On Saturday morning we explored our town by canoe. There are loads of little ponds, rivers and lakes in Podunk just waiting for us to paddle through them.

We put the canoe in the water at Zeke’s Bridge, a boat launch where we often take to dogs for a swim. We ducked under the bridge and headed south. Eventually we paddled under I-95 and the lake thinned to a snake of a river. It’s times like these that I wish I had a crappy little digital camera I could just slip into my pocket. I have a very nice digital camera that I care a great deal about and would be extremely upset if I capsized in a canoe with it. So I will have to describe the scene for you.

The tunnel under the highway is a long creepy tunnel. It was about 8 or so feet wide and at least 30 feet high from the water and runs under the entire width of the highway--2 lanes and a breakdown lane on each side, and a large grassy median in the middle. As we canoed through it, the surface of the water was perfectly still, and the ceiling of the tunnel was perfectly reflected on the water’s surface. The reflection was so perfect that it appeared that the water was clear, and the ceiling of the tunnel was the bottom of the river beneath my canoe. I blinked several times at the optical illusion, trying to consciously convince myself of what I was seeing. The next time we go back there, I will bring my camera to show you. It was one of the cooler things I’ve seen in recent weeks.

Sunday found us playing with fiberglass resin in the workshop. We have some boat parts that we need to fix for the Big Restoration of 2009. I donned my safety glasses and mask, and sanded hardened fiberglass. Then I mixed batch after batch of fiberglass resin for another part we are fixing. While the fiberglass cured, we donned our bike shorts and put the bikes in the back of the truck.

Another great feature of Podunk is the bike paths. We discovered a map of a complex system of bike paths that extend all over the state, and all over New England. We’ve been exploring the parts in our town bit by bit; just 6 miles at a time until we get into better shape and can go for longer.

Today we parked the truck at the ice cream shop near the trail, and headed west. After a mile or two the paved bike path gave way to a dirt one. The trail follows the former railroad line, and crosses over old train bridges. I need to consult the book I just bought about the history of Podunk to see what the area looked like with a rail line going through it, because my imagination just isn’t cutting it. We stopped the ride at a defunct bridge with no surface on it then turned back. A friend has told me that the trail extends into Connecticut, and I would love to ride the whole thing one day soon.

But until then, I am watching the clock approach 9:00 PM, and am letting my eyes grow heavy. I wish I had one more Sunday, because Monday is a lousy way to spend one seventh of my life.