It's All in the Details

Yesterday, Erik and I spent the day together in the cockpit. The seas were calm, the sky was postcard-blue with little fluffy clouds, and we were glad. My seasickness behind me, we even shared a beer as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Pretty idyllic, right? Well. Let's add in some details.

Yesterday, Day 8 of our slowest passage in six years of sailing, Erik and I spent the day together in the cockpit cleaning a bad load of fuel. Finally the seas were calm, and the 40+ knot squalls that had plagued us for a week had given way to a sky of postcard-blue with little fluffy clouds. We were glad the cargo ships all around seemed to notice us, and no one had tried to run us down for at least 12 hours. Eight hours of diesel work shook my optimism that my seasickness was behind me. But, by the time we finished, nothing could stop us from sharing a beer as the sun dipped below the horizon.

"So, Amy," I hear you ask, gently skirting past my allusions to pathetic 50 NM days and knock-down winds, "how does one clean bad diesel? And how did that happen in the first place?" (Erik just asked me if I mentioned The Engine Impeller That Shredded Itself And Everything Overheated And We Lost 18 Hours, but I think I'm asking enough of you already.)

Hanging The World

For years and years, we had a small inflatable globe aboard. It was a $6 impulse buy from a toy shop along our route, and you could tell. Place names were frequently misspelled, and colour fills didn't always match their intended borders. But we had drawn our route on the globe, and it was fun to twirl and look at where we had been.

Alas, our $6 globe was only $6 worth of robust, and developed a leak. It was now a sad deflated thing, sitting in a corner and waiting for me to consign it to the Great Map Collection in the Sky.

And now I can.

Reassuring the Boat

Something strange is going on around here.

First, the SSB/modem system wouldn't work, despite pretending all was well during frequent troubleshooting sessions. Then the inverter/charger began to charge erratically or not at all. The new lifelines wouldn't fit through the stanchions. The bolt for the bail on the mizzen was too short. Erik found a dubious spot way up the main. Some of these were little problems, some of them enormous. All of them were suspicious. Being a methodical sort of person, I sat down with a cup of tea and pen and paper to figure out what was going on.

Possible culprits for recent issues on Papillon
1. Ghost.
2. Saboteur.
3. Ghost-saboteur
4. Small-and-unusually-nimble crocodile escapee from the neighbouring mangroves
5. Angry Australian bird, likely deadly.

Should I Stay Or Should I Go?

Like all good moms, my screensaver scrolls through my photo folder. And since I've taken a thousandfold more pictures on this trip than I did in all the years that preceded it, most of the pictures that flicker past are boat-related.

It would be easy to slide down into the caramel-coated Pit of Nostalgia every time I see how utterly adorable the girls were when we started out. I mean, look at this:

Smashing the squee-meter

But, lately, those early-day photos remind me of what a huge mental adjustment we had to make to succeed as cruisers. Erik was coming off years of constant travel and round-the-clock work. Stylish was in school full-time. Indy and I darted between swimming lessons, music group, library storytime, and all of the other activities that fill a city toddler's days. In short, we were people with a schedule, and we knew how to keep it.

Speake, Rattus Rattus - updated

As the sun set yesterday, I sat wedged between a wall and a cardboard box, watching peanut butter drip off a piece of ham. Why? Because we have a rat.

Some of you will remember our last experience with a rat. We were enjoying the quiet waters of Guatemala when an unwelcome guest swam out to the boat and stole up the anchor chain. Those were innocent days on Papillon; although I was careful to keep food sealed in tins and bags and tucked away in the cupboard, I hadn't yet developed our current draconian everything-stays-in-locked-Tupperware-no-matter-what system. Indeed, it was Samuel Whiskers the First that prompted such changes.

Tackling Leaks and Selling the Dream

Amy: Girls, they are going to be here in half an hour.  I need you to tidy up the cockpit.

Indy: Who?

Amy: Those people... Dave's friends. Like we talked about at breakfast? It doesn't matter. Just tidy up.

Indy & Stylish: Okay, Mom.

Papillon: Hee hee hee.

Amy: Why are you laughing?  Let's see, I need to cut up some baguette--

Papillon: I have a surprise for you.

Amy: What? No. No surprises. I have an unknown quantity of Kiwis arriving in thirty minutes.  I have to finish getting ready.

[pause]

Amy: What is that dripping noise?

Papillon: Chortle!

Amy: Girls! I need to take the companionway stairs off.  Don't come down this... girls?

[Looks outside. The girls are playing with friends on the dock.]

Amy: Stylish and Indy! Get this cockpit tidied!  And don't come down the... never mind.

[Puts in boards to avoid a fall. Removes stairs. Removes floorboard. Locates drip with a flashlight.]

Amy: Why is it dripping there? The water isn't running.  The sump pump is off.  Everything is off.

[Removes two more floorboards. Sticks head into bilge.]

Amy: Okay, it is coming from somewhere forward on the port side. Hmm. I did laundry earlier; maybe the hose leaked.

[Checks laundry locker. Dry as a bone.]

Amy: Let's try the galley.

[Removes galley floorboard. A small river is running aft.]

Amy. Aha.  By which I mean, unprintable.

[Looks at the salon.  Removing the port side floorboard necessitates removing two other floorboards first and judicious use of a shim.]

-creeeaaaak-

Amy: [balancing the six-foot board]  There we go.  And let's see what we UNPRINTABLE!

Living With Less

Travel is an exercise in discovering many other wonderful ways of life.  Everywhere we have been, we have found something that we loved.  It is tempting to grab our favorite ideas from these various places and weld them into a sort of Frankenlife.  Cruising only exacerbates the issue, because cruisers definitely do things their own way.  And that's all well and good - I'm comfortable with my TV-less, underscheduled, more-spontaneous life.  It's only when you go home that you really get the reality check of How Weird Have We Become?

While I was home, I spent a day helping a friend sort through her clothes in preparation for moving house. I used to do the same thing every time I moved: cull the clothes you will never wear again, and pack them up to be donated. Everybody wins.

But as we got started, and kept going, and kept going, and... kept going, I started to get chest pains.

Stitches, Burns and Breaks: The Injury Hall of Fame

Here I am again, that old good-for-nothing bird, runaway Mayzie - still on vacation and still just as lazy.* Today, let's review some of the better injuries we've had aboard. I have even included a bonus, hitherto-unreported injury for those of you willing to make it to the end. (But be warned: this post contains mildly yucky photos, so if you don't like blood, you'd best skip along.)

Injury 1: Amy's broken finger.  Originally appeared in Question and Answer Time, November 15, 2010.
Q:  What is worse than having to do the dishes by hand three times a day?
A.  Having to do the dishes by hand three times a day with a finger you can't get wet.

It was a sunny morning.  We'd gotten the anchor up with minimal annoyance (read: mud), and I was clearing up the deck and feeling rather good about life in general and this trip in particular.  I opened the port deck box to put away a hose.

Wham!

The spring holding the lid buckled.  Down came the lid onto my right index finger.  It hurt so much I didn't make a sound; I just crumpled onto the deck.  And just how bad did it look?  Well, let me show you.

Battle of the Pests

Friends, I am doing something very exciting: for the first time in four years, I am going on vacation. "Amy," you say, "you live on vacation."  Well, yes.  But even when I am supposed to be lolling about on a beach somewhere, I am thinking of you, dear reader, and the stories I want to tell you.

But right now, I'm heading home to see my family.  And to mark this momentous occasion, I am going to leave my blog behind for a little while.  Now, don't start weeping into your hankies just yet.  I've dusted off some golden oldies for you to enjoy while I'm gone.  As a bonus, I've added an update to the bottom of each.  So while I am busy spoiling my nieces and nephew, you can hear about some of the fun we had during the early years on Papillon, and how things have changed since then.  Feel free to comment as usual, and I'll see you in a few weeks.

Originally posted as: Rodent vs Insect, July 20, 2011.  Rio Dulce, Guatemala

In my youth, I wasn’t very fond of spiders.  Alright, I was kind of scared of them.  This wasn’t helped by the fact that our house backed onto a ravine, and every once in a while a spider the size of the Loch Ness monster would scuttle across my bedroom floor.  In general, I could manage if they were a) outside the house, and b) couldn’t contact me in any way, but if they violated either of those terms, their creepy little lives were forfeit. 

Once I had Stylish, I tried very hard to get over my spider issues.  When we encountered bugs and spiders, I would take a steadying breath, then we would examine them and talk about how interesting they were.  Eventually, my feigned non-revulsion became real.  And once we moved aboard, I was quite happy for any spiders I saw, because I knew they were keeping the bug population down.  As for the bugs themselves, pfft.  Bugs.  Big deal.

And then, it happened.

A giant cockroach.

Sailing Acrobats

Both Stylish and Indy consider the lines aboard their own.  Yes, fine, we might need them for actual sailing now and again, but, as far as they are concerned, the lines are mainly for climbing.  We have had to set strict rules about the whens and hows of such activities.  Early in our voyage, Erik looked up from the deck to find Stylish most of the way to the spreaders.  Not wanting to scare her, he calmly asked her to come down, and we had a little talk about potential energy and how perhaps she didn't want to earn herself a wheelchair at age six.

At anchor, we often fix the spinnaker pole over the water, attach a line, and let the girls swing off the deck into the water.  Before long, they gave up on the ladder altogether, and were climbing back up the line again, monkey-style.

Out...

...and up again.

Working the Priority List

 

Every sailor knows the true story behind the Odyssey.  It didn't take Odysseus ten years to get home after the Trojan War because the gods were annoyed with him and he got blown off-course: he was late because his boat kept breaking and he had to fix it.  Heck, if I had ten years of repair delays to explain, I'd tell my spouse the same thing.  "Sorry, honey, I was fighting a cyclops."  It sounds so much cooler than, "Sorry, honey, that hole in the bilge just kept opening up."

There is no such thing as a boat in perfect condition.  There is always work to be done.  Always.  The goal is to make it just a little further down the priority list.  Our holy grail, like that of many sailors, is to redo the teak.  When we have fixed and maintained the boat to the point that teak makes it to the top of the list,I'll know that our boat is pretty mint.  (Either that, or we'll be trying to sell it.)

I've been doing my best to keep Papillon in good repair while the captain is away.  I run the engine, watch the battery bank like a hawk, and generally try to keep us above water while still making sure the young ladies are educated, fed, clothed and otherwise presentable.

Some weeks it is easier than others.

Thief

Someone robbed my boat last night.

I woke up at about 1:30am because I heard noises.  Someone was approaching the V-berth.  I thought one of the girls must be coming to see me - nighttime visits are not unheard of around here.  I registered that whoever it was had a flashlight, which was odd, but not impossible.
"Honey?  Are you okay out there?" I called.
Scuffle, scuffle.
As the intruder turned and started pounding up the companionway, I came fully awake and realized what was happening.  And I started screaming my head off.
"Help!  Help!  There is someone on my boat!  Please help me!"  I jumped out of my hatch and kept screaming as the man raced away down the dock.  The otherwise silent, still dock.

Nobody came.

Sickness & Travel: How to Deal

My ultimate low in travel-related illness came when Stylish was three years old.  The two of us were on our way back to Canada from Spain, and we both had rotavirus.  Every ounce of liquid I forced into her came right back out.  Waiting for a connecting flight in Philadelphia, Stylish went Exorcist on our last clean clothes.  As I stood in the airport bathroom in my underwear, washing my preschooler in the sink and wondering what shirt I could rinse well enough to wear home, I knew I had hit bottom.  Parenthood is a humbling reminder that even the most elegant and cool among us will smell of baby vomit from time to time.

We are on our way home from holidays, and, once again, we are one man down.  When we booked, I was annoyed that our flight schedule would force us to stay an extra night in Cairns.  Now, I am grateful that we have an extra day to chase the bugs away before getting back on a plane.

Illness happens.  Anyone with a school-age child or a family member who travels understands that viruses invade with depressing regularity.  And cruisers, moving from place to place, joining one community after another, understand this as well as anyone.  Sometimes there is a clinic nearby - sometimes not.  So, what do you do to stay healthy on the water, and to fight sickness when it comes?

Love and Marriage Aboard

One of the questions I get with some regularity is: how has cruising affected your marriage?  And I understand why people want to know.  I do.  People are awed by the prospect of spending 24/7/365 with another person, even someone they love.  But this is a question I have avoided so far, because usually it comes from about-to-be-cruisers, and what they are really asking me is, "Is cruising going to be great for my marriage?  Please reassure me."

And I will.  Sort of.  But I'm going to make this an inductive argument, so hold my hand and be patient.

Am I Still A Cruiser When I'm Not Sailing?

I spent Wednesday evening packed into a small cafeteria with two hundred other parents.  As we listened to Stylish's principal talk about school rules and signing homework planners, I smiled to myself as I thought of how many similar "welcome to the new school year" talks I'd been to in years gone by.  French or English, here or there, every primary school seems to follow the same script.  Just the like the birthday party Indy attended the weekend before.  Same kids, same moms, same presents, same activities.  Except for the language, it was just like home.

A chill ran down my spine as the realization hit me.  I am living my old, pre-boat life: staying in one place, husband away working, kids in school, me running the household.  Am I even a cruiser anymore?

Shoe Destruction

On Sunday evening, Indy buried her head in my leg and cried, "I don't want to go back to school!"
I patted her head.  I was surprised, I had to admit it.  Indy was always keen on school; she had been so pleased that the new school year would begin the next day.
But before I could say anything comforting, she went on: "I can't stand wearing shoes all day!  My feet get so hot!"
Oh.
"But your new shoes are so comfy," I said, certain I was the only parent in Noumea trying to reassure her child that her feet wouldn't catch fire from wearing shoes all day.  "And I'm sure they will breathe well.  You can take them off the moment you get home."
"How about the moment school is over?"
"Nope.  At home."
"Fine.  I'm going into the hammock."

We have a troubled relationship with shoes on this vessel.  Most of the time, we go barefoot.  It is comfortable, it is breezy, and everyone likes it.  But that isn't possible on shore.  Aside from the issues of broken glass and ubiquitous dog poo, one is expected, as a civilized person, to hide one's ugly hobbit feet in a more pleasing wrapper when gadding about town.

Super Bowling in New Caledonia

The girl at the tourist information center blinked at me uncertainly. “Pardon?” she asked.
“The Super Bowl,” I said again. “It’s a big sports event. American football?”
“You mean rugby?” she asked hopefully as she twisted her hands together. I felt sorry for her 21 year-old self - they clearly had not covered this eventuality in training.
“Not quite.” I looked over my shoulder at my father. He smiled at me hopefully. I hated to burst his bubble, but even if I spoke French like the President of l’Académie Française, there was no way I was going to find him the Super Bowl on TV in Noumea.

A good host should be prepared for all eventualities, but, I have to admit, this request caught me by surprise.  I've always been of the opinion that sports, like most things in life, are better played than watched, so these major viewing events aren't really on my radar.  Before my parents arrived in Noumea, I did what I thought was sensible: I prepped the dinghy for water excursions, saved the car rental number in my phone for land trips, and had a list of ideas at the ready. But after a couple of lazy days of reading, adjusting to the time change and having the girls crawl all over them, my dad decided it was time to take care of priority items, and in the number one spot was: where was he going to watch the Super Bowl?

Denial and Other Adventures in Avoiding Reality

Everyone has their own way of dealing with life's unfortunate events.  Some people eat.  Some people cry.  Some people exercise until they fall down from exhaustion.  As for me, I grew up in a strong WASP-y tradition.  That means when the weather is hot, I'm accustomed to spying men in kneesocks and long shorts.  When it's Sunday dinner at Grandma's, we eat roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.  And when reality serves me something I don't want to deal with, I hide.

Mentally, of course.  You can't physically hide from reality - that would look ridiculous.  Did Lord Grantham lock himself in a cupboard when Downton was circling the drain?  No.  Like all good avoiders, he just locked himself into a mental pattern of "la la la, this isn't happening, I don't have to change my ways, oh good there's the gong, let's all dress for dinner."  And while some of us aboard Papillon take a, shall we say, more Teutonic approach to unwanted events, some of us are just chasing distractions while we wait for the metaphorical dinner gong.

Our cloud on the horizon is work.  This is a cloud-that-isn't-really-a-cloud.  Work means money means we can keep sailing... just not for a while.  The bad side of work is that it will remove Erik from the equation for a time.  Oh, the work will be exciting, and he has a great team, and he'll be home as often as he can, but nonetheless.  The whole point of this trip was to spend time as a foursome.  I'm selfishly sad to give that up, even for a little while.

So, how have we hidden from our woes?

Bringing Home a New Dinghy

I have never owned a new vehicle.  My first car: used.  Ditto cars two through four.  Papillon is older than I am.  And all three of our dinghies were previously enjoyed.  (Even our former house was in its eighties when we bought it, but since it didn't stand up and walk around à la Howl's Moving Castle, I don't suppose it counts.)

Last year, we did a bit of a dinghy shuffle. We sold the old inflatable, and took on a tinny and a small sailing dinghy.  This was a good move.  The sailing dinghy is fun for the kids - especially Stylish, who loves to row it around the anchorage - and the tinny is perfect for Pacific conditions.  It can handle sharp coral-rubble beaches, and it is just right for longer trips around the lagoon.

But the tinny we bought was old and much-repaired.  We knew that going in, and we got it for a song.  It was the perfect tester; we knew it wouldn't be a long-term solution for us.  Much like the beater car that you can use in-town but not on the freeway, the Ramco will be great for someone sticking close to shore or going fishing up the river.  But the dinghy is our family car, and it needs to perform.  We needed something more.  And since dinghy prices in New Caledonia are surprisingly reasonable, it was time to make the big leap to Buying Something New.

A Cruiser's Difficult Relationship With Water

I think I smell bad.  After spending three hours in the park then hiking over the hills of Noumea in 30 C heat, how could I be anything but sweaty?  I lean away from the woman sitting beside me in French class, hoping that the cool air in our basement room will mitigate my stink before it reaches her. But I know the real answer to my problem: I need a shower.  Again.  The very thought fills me with despair.

You may have noticed that cruisers are somewhat preoccupied with resource consumption.  Obsessed is a better word.  But when you carry around all of life's necessities in what amounts to an oversized backpack, you want to be sure you have absolutely everything you need.  Especially water.  If you run out of your favorite saltines out on the blue, you'll live.  If you don't have drinking water, it's an emergency.

So cruisers learn to conserve.  I mean, really conserve.  We are a stingy bunch when it comes to H2O.  Every guest who comes aboard gets the same lecture.  And they all nod and agree and are eager to cooperate - absolutely, we'll be careful with the water.  Be sparing, got it.  And then we hear the water pump run, and run, and run, until Erik and I bury our faces in pillows so no one hears us sobbing.  Because "being sparing" means something very different to a land-dweller than it does to a cruiser.  To them it means: try not to use more than you need.  To us it means: use the absolute bare minimum.  Land-dweller: don't forget to turn off the tap when you're done brushing your teeth.  Cruiser: you get two tablespoons of water for brushing your teeth and not a drop more.