We’ve been working with epoxy for quite a while now.  Meps probably wrote describing some of the messes it can make.  But today’s repair was one of our biggest messes so far. Actually, the word we used to describe it today was considerably less nice than “mess.”

Sure, epoxy is sticky stuff and gets on a lot of things. Sure, many jobs are best done applying it with a (rubber gloved) finger, which means eventually all fingers, and as a result, all tools, are covered with gooey epoxy. We’ve gotten used to that.

Today we started with a normal job — reshaping a porthole opening. Our new bronze portlights don’t quite match either the previous plastic ones, badly installed by the prior boat owner, or the ones put in by the factory decades ago. The resulting hole is too big in some places, too small in others, and has voids and ugly old screw holes. After grinding out bad stuff, we fill the holes with thickened epoxy, then screw in a wooden mold and add more epoxy around that, making a near-perfect shape for the new port.

This went pretty much as expected, but it was the 6th portlight we had repaired that way, and we had the drill down.  The next job was one we had only done once before.  It also involved more yelling and excitement the last time, so we didn’t expect it to be easy or straightforward this time either.

You can’t see it, and neither can we, but there is a void in our boat, between the cabin sides and cabin top. There was a piece of teak trim along this line, which functioned as a sort of eyebrow above the portlights. It was mounted with a lot of screws, which failed and allowed water intrusion. When we drilled them out, we found that many were connected via long void channels. So much for the squirt-a-little-thickened-epoxy-with-a-syringe solution…

So on the night of our big mess, we made a bigger batch of epoxy than usual and thickened it with Cab-o-Sil. Using a plastic spoon, a spatula, and our fingers, we started filling an empty caulking gun tube this messy goo. The batch was big enough to start heating up from the chemical reaction of kicking, warning us we have to move fast. Then we fought with the plunger and the caulk gun. By now, there was enough epoxy on everything that changing gloves was pointless.

And then the fun begins. It’s dusk as we go outside. I insert the end into a hole, as tight as I could, with a rubber adapter that fits the hole snugly. With a finger on my free hand, I plug the next hole. Meps is holding fingers over three or four, maybe even five more holes. I start squeezing the trigger, trying to force the goo a distance of about three feet, with holes every eight inches or so.

At a recent trip to Lowe’s (the hardware store, not the grocery), we got one of the better caulking guns, and it has twice as much leverage as a cheap one — lots of oomph! But this same pressure is now against our fingers, which don’t exactly fit the holes. As I force epoxy past Meps’ fingers, she starts hollering, “I can’t hold on!” and the pressure is rising at the earlier fingers. Two of them squirt out about a quarter cup of epoxy, but it hasn’t hit the end of the line yet.  I keep squirting, we both keep pushing, and she keeps fussing. Finally it gets through the void and comes out the last hole.

As fast as possible, I remove the gun, flailing about for a safe place to put it that won’t leave epoxy all over the deck. Meanwhile, another quarter cup squirts out the entrance hole. Meps is frantically trying to cover more holes with all her fingers, like playing an oversized gooey flute.

I grab for the tape, to cover the holes, but our gloves are too slimed by epoxy to find the end of it.

When we go down below to mix our second batch of epoxy, I notice the worst part. There is a blowout in the main cabin — behind a wooden trim piece, a hole went into the same void I was filling. Now, as Meps mixes up the next batch of epoxy, I see a huge white blob of epoxy spurting from behind the trim and oozing down the side of the cabin. Ack!

It was completely dark by the time we finished emptying three caulking tubes into the void. We used a half gallon of vinegar to clean up tools, like the wrench, the screwdriver, the box cutter I had to use to find the end of the tape, and the droplight we weren’t expecting to need. The caulk gun alone took a half hour, and the blowout inside took even longer. We also had to clean epoxy off a hatch, the deck, the toe rail, and the cabin side. As a result, we spent longer on cleanup than we did on the job itself — just as necessary, but a lot less rewarding.

I had a chilling phone conversation with my friend, John, last week. He’s been following my adventures in the boatyard, and he was puzzled by something. He phrased his question using an example he knows a lot about: Rally racing.

According to John, in the world of rallies, there are people who drive race cars (in his case, navigate), and there are people who work on race cars.

So he wants to know, am I just someone who works on boats, instead of sailing on them? Because in the years he’s known me, all I seem to do is work on boats.

I was flabbergasted. You know that story about the emperor with no clothes? That’s how I felt. “No, no,” I protested, “I’m not one of those people, like Oscar, who just work on boats forever.”

Oscar is the fellow here in the boatyard who has been working on his boat for 14 years with no sign of progress.

Still, I started to wonder, how does my working-on-boats time compare to my sailing-on-boats time?

Since I met John in 2002, I have worked on boats for 44 weeks and sailed on them for 25 weeks. Barry’s numbers are even worse — he’s worked for 48 weeks and only sailed for 23 weeks.

This brings to mind another phone conversation, this time with Lee. I was talking about my steep learning curve in fiberglass layups, portlight replacement, hatch installation, painting with 2-part paints, and all the other things I’m trying to learn this week. He pointed out that there’s conventional wisdom saying that a person needs to do something for 10,000 hours before they master it.

If I’m working toward 10,000 hours of boat repairs, I’ve got a long way to go.

Meanwhile, Lee points out that I already have my 10,000 hours in things like writing and graphic design. I would add marketing, editing, web design, content management, business analysis, cooking…

Which explains why it’s so much easier to sit down and write this than it is to fit a new hatch.

I also already have my 10,000 hours in one other area: Sailing. To answer John’s question, I’ll get back to that one of these days — after I learn how to fix boats.

We’ve been taking advantage of the beautiful, warm spring weather to get lots done. Combined with some graphic design and writing projects I’ve taken on, that means not a lot of time to write for the blog.

But I need to answer a recurring complaint that we haven’t posted any photos of the boat or the boatyard lately. I just got this picture from Nancy Bock, who’s compiling material for the website we’re doing. It was taken by her son, Alex, from the top of the Highway 101 bridge.

The photo shows less than half of Bock Marine. But as you can see, there are plenty of interesting people around Flutterby, and we have the best location in the yard — right on the water.

I can’t believe how quiet it’s become around here. My ears are tuned to every sound — I recognize the flapping of specific tarps, the slap of specific halyards. So when I heard a small clatter from the fiberglass shed, about 100 feet away, I walked closer to see what it was.

A tiny black cat, with yellow eyes like fog lights, froze and flattened herself to the ground. Nearby, her tiger-striped brother was camouflaged by weed and gravel. They stared at me, fascinated but terrified.

I went back to the boat and returned with cat treats. “Here kitty, kitty,” I called, in a soft voice, shaking the container. Their ears perked up; they knew the sound of food. I put a pile of treats out for them, then retreated to a safe distance. Meanwhile, I kept up a quiet running dialogue, so they’d get used to my voice.

“I know you guys are wondering about Ernie. He’s doing great! He got seasick and threw up, but then he got his sea legs before Blaine and Suzy did. Maybe that’s because he has twice as many… I hope you’re not still mad at them for luring you into the bathroom with tuna and then taking you to the vet. They saved your furry little lives, you know. I’m glad they did.”

The story of Blaine and Suzy and the kittens is one I’ve been meaning to tell for a while. The two cats just reminded me.

The first kittens appeared at the end of May, a week or two after Blaine and Suzy closed up their boat and left for the summer. If they’d been born a couple of weeks earlier, the whole story might have been different — there might not even have been an Ernie. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

There were always a few cats living in the yard. It was hard to tell how many, because they were so skittish, but it was probably three or four. One day, I saw one of them with a tiny gray shadow — a kitten! “What are we gonna do about those kittens?” Dale asked, rhetorically. Momma Kitty was feral, so nobody ever got close to her or the kittens, but she took good care of them. Sometimes I’d see them at 5:30 am, when I was getting up that early in the hot summer.

Then came October, when we returned from our summer travel. I ran into Dale one day, looking disgusted. “That damn cat had kittens again! They’re in the shed over there.” He shook his head, chewing on a toothpick as he walked away.

Momma Kitty was now a problem. The unstoppable kitten-making machine had produced eight offspring in five months, with no end in sight. It was a full-fledged Bock Marine Kitty Crisis.

There are always people around who have a special touch with cats. Irene, of Aphrodite, is one of them. She’d been feeding the cats, and she got close enough to Momma Kitty to pick up some of the kittens and pet them. But all too soon, she and Andy launched their boat and headed for the Caribbean. Now what? The employees fussed about the mess in the shed, but nobody did anything.

Then Blaine and Suzy stepped in. To our amazement, they took the four tiny kittens aboard Shirley Jeanne, which is smaller than Flutterby. Momma Kitty was pretty upset, but it was the best thing. Once the kittens got used to being around people, they could be sent out to good homes.

The saga continued through the fall. Aboard Shirley Jeanne, the balls of fluff from the October litter grew into friendly, curious kittens with distinct personalities and names: Faith, Hope, Patience, and Ernie. The ones from the May litter grew into lithe small cats, and we began calling them “the teenagers.” They ran around as a pack, like human teenagers. Sadly, this ended when one of them was taken to the Inhumane Society and put down, and another one simply disappeared.

It turned out that Blaine and Suzy have more than a special touch. They have a mission: Spay, neuter, and save cats. At their home in Oregon, they’ve fostered and rescued dozens, maybe hundreds, of cats. As Nancy Bock said to me, “Isn’t it lucky that when we had a kitty problem, Blaine and Suzy were here?”

I found myself thinking that if the first litter had been born when they were here, Momma Kitty would have been spayed sooner, and the second litter wouldn’t have been born. But that would mean no Ernie. Isn’t Ernie the whole point?

Blaine and Suzy found good homes for Patience, Hope, and Faith, requiring their new owners to have them spayed as a precondition for adoption. Around Thanksgiving, they trapped Momma Kitty, and Nancy had her spayed. And just before Christmas, Blaine trapped the two teenagers in the employee restroom, using canned tuna as kitty-bait. They, too, were spayed and returned.

The reason for Blaine and Suzy being in the boatyard, though, wasn’t to rescue cats. They’re accomplished cruisers who’d built a boat in the 80′s, sailing it to Australia and back when their children were infants. Then they settled down and raised the children, selling their first boat and starting to build a bigger, better one. It’s a big project, with a lot of work left to be done.

They wanted to go cruising now, rather than later. So they put the big project aside, rented out the house, found people to take care of their cats, and bought a little boat in North Carolina. It should have been quick and easy to get out on the water, but boat projects never go as planned. Cats never go as planned, either.

Blaine and Suzy didn’t plan to spend days caring for cats in the boatyard, time that kept them away from their boat projects. They didn’t plan to spend their carefully budgeted cruising kitty on kitties — food, shots, spaying. They didn’t plan on the headaches caused by cultural differences — in a region where stray animals are expendable, vets don’t want to spay feral cats.

They didn’t plan on Ernie.

Suzy advertised the cats with a photo showing all four of them. But whenever someone asked about the gold one, she’d say, “He’s already spoken for.” He wasn’t, but he had a special bond with Blaine. Finally, after they’d found homes for all the others, they admitted they couldn’t give Ernie up.

Ernie is the golden kitty — literally and figuratively. He was the smart, funny one of the bunch, the class clown who’s destined for Harvard. Somehow, he ended up with more personality than the other three combined.

As a result, Ernie is now the most spoiled kitten on the planet. He has the run of the boat, and although he will walk on a leash, he usually travels off the boat zipped into Blaine or Suzy’s jacket. When Barry loaned Blaine our red laser, they went out and bought Ernie one of his own to play with. When Ernie got sick, Blaine and Suzy looked more haggard than he did.

They set off a few weeks ago, heading south. Blaine and Suzy and Ernie, leaving behind the other five cats.

Which reminds me of another boatyard where Barry and I lived, in New Orleans. Instead of cats, that yard attracted a couple of stray dogs. The carpenter, Victor, lived on his boat in the yard and began to feed them. After many years, Victor quit and moved his boat elsewhere. The yard owner called him, saying “Hey, you forgot your dogs.” To which Victor responded, “Those weren’t my dogs.”

I love the fact that Bock Marine has cats instead of dogs. But saving cats is not my mission. I’ll do like Victor did, just enjoy them here and now. I am not taking one with me. Because after all, there is only one Ernie.