How do you write a poem?
Fill yourself full of tears.
Let their blackness rise up, up
Until they overflow
And fill your inkwell.
Then set the tears
To the page.

This is not the poem.

Keep writing until the ink runs dry.
What you find beneath the tears
Is the poem.
###

About a week ago, I wrote about our decision to stay here in the boatyard for the holidays. At the time, I was feeling sorry for myself, and my tone was so wistful that friends and family responded with consoling emails (my favorite was the invitation from Australia).

Then the celebrating started, and I forgot to be sad.

My dictionary defines “jamboree” as “a large celebration or party, typically a lavish and boisterous one.” Some definitions involve Boy Scouts or country music.

One of our holiday activities was attending the Christmas show at the Crystal Coast Jamboree with the Bock family, boatyard employees, and liveaboards. But the real jamboree was the evening’s dinner, held at a Japanese steakhouse. The chefs flipped and twirled and tossed the food to us as though we were trained seals. At one point, Kenny egged Dale into eating some wasabi for the first time. “DAMN!” he exploded, practically spitting sushi. “What IS that stuff?”

Our solstice bonfire - Barry, John, Marilyn, Philip

The days grew shorter and the nights longer. On December 21st, we celebrated the Solstice with a bonfire — well, actually a little campfire on the edge of the sandblasting pit. We ate roasted weenies, melted cheese sandwiches, and toasted marshmallows. Most importantly, we ran a 100-foot extension cord and plugged in a crockpot full of mulled wine. We were warmed inside and out.

It takes more than food and fire to properly celebrate the Solstice, though. This is the window between the lunar and solar new years, when evil spirits inhabit the earth and must be kept at bay by merriment and partying. At least, that’s what Philip of Oryoki said.

Our merriment included dancing around the fire in leafy green headdresses and playing some extremely loud percussion. “Extremely” means that some steel boats are more fun to beat on than drums. We bid the moon farewell (guess who did so by actually mooning it) and listened to every song I could find in our collection about the sun. “Eu Quero Sol” and “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” were the most apropos.

Philip chases away evil spirits

Then came the event that was my real reason for staying over this Christmas: A North Carolina oyster roast. I stuffed myself on steamed oysters dipped in melted butter, and Barry ate multiple helpings of deer stew and hush puppies. Dale sucked down more hot vinegar sauce more than wasabi peas, though. Everyone was smiling as we stood around the fire barrel, relaxing and enjoying each other’s company without any of that silly boat work.

Meps gets ready to slurp an oyster

Warming ourselves around the fire

After the oyster roast, the boatyard closed for the holidays, but we kept the fires of holiday spirit bright, celebrating Christmas Eve and Christmas aboard our boats. Flutterby was chock-full of little wrapped gifts, sent from Washington and Florida and Oregon and Ohio, and cards — some of them homemade — from everywhere. Oryoki was decorated with garland and colored lights. We sported Santa hats around the boatyard and debated on which side the pom-pom should dangle.

Wonderful collection of cards

Our Christmas dinner was a delightful sort of scavenger hunt — I got my 12-pound turkey out of the refrigerator on Ula G and took it to the lounge to wash it. Then we plopped it onto the huge propane grill that we’d rolled from Pelican (a monohull) to Oryoki (a catamaran) to keep it out of the rain. The turkey was just the centerpiece — the table on Oryoki groaned under cranberry sauce and stuffing and homemade rolls and veggies. The butterscotch pie waited out in the cockpit, and the whole thing was washed down with Marilyn’s homemade egg nog.

I wore my Santa's helper lingerie all day on Christmas

Barry on Christmas Eve aboard Flutterby. Hot artichoke dip was a hit!

Nobody turned down the butterscotch pie with meringue topping (see Foodie Gazette for recipe)

Homemade eggnog by Marilyn - yum

Beginning on the 18th, each day the spirit of generosity and gratitude increased in my heart, until I felt like the Grinch — my heart was three sizes larger. I was connected to friends and loved ones all over the world, even when the phone stopped working for 24 hours on Christmas Day. There was so much love, right here! How could I ever feel wistful or sad? It was the best Christmas EVER.

We’ve done so much traveling this year, together and apart, that we decided to stay here in the boatyard for Christmas. Theoretically, we’re supposed to be working on the boat, although the weather and our respective cases of bronchitis are hampering our efforts. I hate the thought of coughing into my respirator.

I got a little sad this evening, thinking about our plan to stay here on the boat. Our liveliest boatyard neighbors, Charlie and Dick, have gone back to Ohio to be with family. Our best friends in town, Ted and Malla, slipped Ocean Gypsy’s lines and headed south for the winter on Monday. Between the four of them, they’ve left us two boats and ten vehicles. That’s enough to open a used car lot!

Bock Marine threw a fantastic Christmas party, but it was over too soon. They’ll be closing down for a whole week. Without Randy and Larry and Dale and Kenny, the place is dreadfully dull. Minutes seem like hours. And there isn’t even mail delivery to distract us. No Christmas cards. No packages. Sigh.

For me, the hardest thing will be simply spending these days without any family. We love Mom, both our Dads, Grandma, and all our siblings and nephews and niece — and we have never, ever, ever in our lives spent a Christmas without at least one of them. I spent some time today looking at photos and videos from past Christmases, seeing how the sheer joy of being together is reflected in our faces. Not this year. Sigh.

A few days ago, I received an email asking what my favorite Christmas traditions were. I was initially stumped, having no decorations, no lights, no tree. With two people, how can we eat a whole butterscotch pie and a roast turkey? I sat here, sighing, in my Santa hat, wondering if I even have Christmas traditions this year.

In my Santa hat? There’s a tradition! We wear our Santa hats all the time in December. When it’s warm, don’t come on the boat — we might not be wearing anything with them. When it’s cold, my Santa hat goes great with my pink Death Bunny pajama pants. Which I sometimes wear out in the boatyard, just for grins.

How about making homemade cards every year? Sometimes they don’t go out until February, but I’ve never bought a Christmas card in my whole life. Our lengthy holiday card list is like the Hotel California. Once you are on it, you’re stuck for life.

And then there are the homemade presents. We’ve made mustard, soap, jam, apple butter, signs, jewelry, baking mixes, bookmarks, spiced nuts, and refrigerator magnets. We’ve burned some very strange CD collections (anybody remember “Goin’ to the Dogs?”). This year, I wrote four whole books.

And then there’s the calendar, a 5-year tradition. It’s a week-long project, because I seem to get sick just after Thanksgiving every year anyway. I might as well sit at the computer and design a calendar showcasing this year’s best photos.

I wish we could give one to every friend, every year. It gets harder to decide how many to print and where to send them. Rumor has it that one family member likes hers so much, she keeps the old ones hanging up and pastes new dates onto them.

The past week on the boat, I’ve been on elf-duty most of the time. I designed the calendars and cards, and Barry helped me assemble and wrap and sign them. We made some goofy presents, burned some silly CDs, and wrapped them in old road maps because I refused to buy wrapping paper. I forgot I was wearing my Santa hat at the post office, and wondered why everyone was smiling at me.

It’s going to be a great Christmas. I’ve spent the past couple of weeks thinking of ways to make people happy, and now the envelopes and packages are winging their way across the continent. My thoughts turn to our friends who are staying in the boatyard for Christmas — John, Philip & Marilyn, Audrey & Ward (whose nickname is Scrooge, but I don’t believe it). What can I do for them? And especially for Barry, who got me the Death Bunny pants?

Generosity — that’s my holiday tradition. Taking the time to let people know I love and appreciate them, no matter how far they are from me and my Santa-meets-the-Death-Bunnies outfit.

There are many things to be afraid of in the boatyard — rotten balsa, corroded stainless, falling off the ladder, stepping on a copperhead, and coming face to face with a bear are a few. But last night, the really scary things came out for a Halloween party.

Luckily, there was plenty of food to appease them. Actually, since it was a potluck, the scary things brought food! Not scary food, though. This potluck had no blue turkey.

Here are a few of the pictures. As you can see, nobody took the easy route and wore a Tyvek suit or a dust mask. But Audrey came as Randy, and Dick came as Charlie, and John came as Tony, which confused the heck out of people who didn’t know Randy, Charlie, or Tony. It left the rest of us gasping for breath, we were laughing so hard.

Audrey dressed up as a miniature Randy. She was almost as cute as the real Randy!

Dick came as Charlie, wearing a shirt that said Tony. He even made the same tasteless jokes as Charlie!

Celeste and Donna, with pointy things on their heads and great makeup.

Father Charlie had all the props, including the beer and the cigarette. He generated a few tasteless jokes, too.

Val and Harold brought the toga theme, which went well with Celeste's Pan look.

Is this the result of too much bottom paint? Wait, Scott's boat is not even hauled out!

Who was behind the mask and wig? He could be anyone, but he said his name was Barry. Then he went home with the honey bee. What's that about?

This is what we'll all be wearing to work on our boats, instead of those boooooring Tyvek suits.

The whole dressed-up gang, complete with jackstands and boats on either side of us. Scary!

I like the term journeyman.  Part of it is because I like to travel, but that is really just an irrelevant bonus.  Perhaps it is because I’ve never done a formal apprenticeship program, and don’t have to worry about any unpleasant aspects of it.  But I’ve been thinking about it just the same lately.

You see, I (with Meps by my side, keeping up with me) have spent a lot of the last year doing fiberglass repairs and construction.  I didn’t have a formal master, although there are several people here in the yard who have that level of skill, and they have been generous with their advice.  As I understand it, there is a journeyman piece which is completed.  It represents a test of skill and knowledge, and marks the end of the apprenticeship period.  In fiberglass, I consider the re-finishing of two 42-foot long carbon fiber masts to be a journeyman piece.  Perhaps I am exaggerating, but only a little.

We finished that job a couple months ago before we left for Seattle, and I am finally getting back to some of that work.  And I’m realizing that this journeyman level of skill is something I have in some areas, but not in others.  For example, I’m still quite a few steps away from claiming that level of skill when painting, especially with two-part polyurethane paints.  And I doubt I can claim that level of skill as a writer either.  And as an editor, I don’t even want to get there very badly.

I think I realized this when I tried to write about two weeks of working full-out on re-finishing our masts.  It had some good information in there, and a few funny bits too.  But it went on and on (the job did too, so that was accurate).  I am sure that it would be possible to edit it into a nice (short) funny story for this website.  It would also be possible to write a big detailed piece that would be very useful for anybody about to re-finish a carbon fiber mast, and interesting to a few people, but pretty boring to the rest of you.  But I just don’t feel like slogging through the editing work, so it will stay as it is….much closer to the big long description.  The story does include a bunch of pictures, but if technical details of fiberglass work make your eyes glaze over you have been warned.  (Download my telling of our mast refinishing project (PDF format) in all its glory if you wish.)

Strangely enough, I don’t find anything negative or bad in this.  I like to know what I’m good at.  And also what I want to get better at.  And while I don’t particularly like to suck at anything, there is room for that in my world too.  There are a few thousand things I can happily leave for people who love or need those skills more than I ever will.

A day later, I went back to finish my goop job; I screwed on the bases of my bow lights, and shoved the wires down the hole before putting the light on and completing the installation.

But when I pushed the wires on the second light through, the stopped early….and came back up with the ends covered in white goo. I obviously was only 50% successful with my wire-string-rope gadgets to clean the goop out of the holes. I wasn’t too surprised because I did pull that one through before I intended to. And then when I tightened the screws holding the teak block all the way down and watched the goop squeeze out all around I suspected that this was happening.

So today I got out a wire probe an forced it though…then forced a string through, then tied another little bit of dead rope to the string, and went below and pulled it through, cleaning out the excess goop. It was quick, and I didn’t leave a path of goo in my bedroom. And only a few minutes later, the second bow light was screwed in.

Before I cleaned out the goo, I went back to my used glove box, and found two pairs I had used lightly while installing the teak blocks. Now that I’m done, I think one will survive for yet another day…but the other two probably have too much goop on them to be usable when it kicks. I’ll find out later.

But when I talk of goop winning a battle, I am not speaking correctly. I am actually directing away from my point. The (up-to-now unstated) follow-on sentence is about me winning the war against the goop, but I just can’t say that. Because I’m not in a war with the goop. The goop is on my side, although it can be a sticky partner. I do look for the humor or entertainment in my struggles with partners like this, but there is no battle here, nor is there a war. And I do occasionally struggle, but I am enjoying the work. If I struggle, I am usually learning more and I like that too.

In truth, I don’t feel like I’m working against any part of Flutterby. Instead, I’m lovingly working on turning her into the boat of my dreams. The one I will sail on. When I’m at sea, I trust that she will take loving care of me when I need protection from the elements. Because somehow, I believe she will be returning to me all that I’m putting into her here on land. Most of what I do is to make sure she is seaworthy and sound. But not all. Some things I do are simply because they make her feel like a more wonderful boat to me. Or perhaps just because I love her.

Today I did something on my todo list that was big enough that it definitely counts as real progress. I did quite a bit of work in the last few days, and even did some of it before we left the boat back in July. But I’ll get to that later.

You see, today was really about the gloves. Boat projects are full of nasty chemicals. Often breathing them is a bad idea, so I wear a respirator, but today I was outside and it was too hot anyways. Also, I believe it is possible to absorb some of them through your skin, and even if that doesn’t happen, they can be difficult to clean off. Thus the gloves.

Flutterby has surely consumed 10 boxes of disposable gloves by now. Our favorites are the blue nitrile rubber ones from Harbor Freight. They are sized, and fortunately, the same size (Medium) fits both of us. Most other brands are one-size-fits-almost-everybody-but-not-very-well. They are thinner and blow out very quickly. The Harbor Freight gloves work well, fit well, and cost about $10 for a box of 100 gloves. We’ve been ordering three boxes at a time lately.

But you see, I’m frugal. Even though they are disposable, they can often survive the job without too much damage–maybe just a little dried paint, or some sweat stains. Those could still protect my hands another day. Other times they are too messy, or get holes. Those finally get thrown away. Sometimes after a nasty job, I clean up the tools with solvent or vinegar. If I keep wearing the gloves during cleanup, as a side effect, I end up with a couple “washed” gloves. I’ve also taken an idea from the medical profession, and I usually put on two pairs at once, and just keep changing the outside ones. The inside pair usually stays pretty clean So we have a box of “used” gloves, waiting for the next job.

Today I got out the 3M 101 and put down two blocks of teak that are both the front of our cap rail and a mounting space for our bow lights. I screwed them down, then re-installed the chocks which separated this piece of toe rail from the piece aft. It sounds simple when I say it like this. But that doesn’t explain the gloves either.

This job went as well as could be expected. It took me 10 minutes to open up the (partially used) tube of 101 enough that I could operate the caulk gun. Then once I put the goop down it started getting all over. I had masked the teak blocks and the deck. But of course, I didn’t do quite enough masking. By this time I had thrown three or four gloves overboard due to blowouts or too much goop. Then the screws didn’t seem to be going into the pre-drilled holes. For a long time. Then I picked up the block and dug around in the goop underneath. And threw some more gloves overboard. And a gooey rag too. Finally I got the screws going where they belonged and tightened them down.

Then I put the chock down and screwed it in (That was easy!).

Now I repeat the process on the starboard side. It went about the same, except that I had so much trouble starting the screws that I actually climbed down below, opened up my ladder and worked on it from the side, trying not to look into the setting sun. By this time, both the mosquitos and the ferrel cats want me to feed them. I don’t have a choice with the mosquitos, but the cats will wait a little longer.

I didn’t describe the next step on the first side. I’ve got an odd crooked hole that goes through the deck and the board to allow the bow light’s wire down below. I was afraid that I would get this hole filled with 101 and be unable to install the wires later. So I tied together a short piece of heavy wire and a the core from some dead rope with a little string. I stuffed the rope into the wood block, and left the wire dangling. As I was putting the gooped block onto the deck, I threaded the wire through and let dangle inside the anchor locker. (Yup, another glove goes overboard!) Once I had the block screwed in and (I hope) just about all the goop squeezed into position I went inside the boat, trying not to goop the boat and crawled into the anchor locker, and tried to find my little wires to pull them through. Then I tried to carry this goopy mess outside without making a mess on my bed or the rest of the boat.

Finally I was almost done. I then started cleaning up extra 101 that had squirted out all over the place. I used a rag and mineral spirits to try and remove it from the teak. I threw more rags overboard. Probably a glove too. By this time I had killed all the “used” gloves and was getting new ones.

The last thing was to re-use a couple more gloves. I tie them over the 101 cartridge to keep the goo inside and (hopefully) keep the air out and prevent it from kicking off before I can use it.

Finally I can check something off. And now I can feed the cats too.

Unfortunately, I have too many !@#$! lists. The boat list was the one I was going to chip away at. But today I think I figured out my electrical problem with the Squid Wagon–it looks like all the wires are intact and connected, but somehow it ate another battery.  Forutnately it isn’t quite a year old, so it should be under warranty. The other one seems to be good enough that it still turns the engine over by itself, although not quite as cheerfully as two healthy batteries would. As a former electrical engineer, I should probably be embarrassed that I didn’t figure it out yesterday when I realized something was odd, but at least I’ve figured something out. Too bad I had to notice that the rubber gaskets where the various parts of the steering linkage are attached all look kinda shot. I think I’ll just ignore it for now, as Squidley’s steering doesn’t feel any worse than usual!

I also realized that I really should have lubed the chains of the clunker bikes we left out in the rain here before we left–they weren’t turning very well, but a little Boeshield T-9 and some riding got the kinks out. And I even found the bike pump in my storage unit without having to dig very deep, so I had full tires when I rode back. (It isn’t far–from the boat to the mailbox is farther than from the mailbox to the storage unit!)

Sadly, both of these items belong on other lists than the boat todo list, so I still can’t cross them off! I think I’ll go and attach the oak trim I previously cut to fit around the outlet I added in the dinette. That can at least be added to the boat list!

I’m back in Beaufort on Flutterby, on the hard at Bock Marine, our “home” boatyard.

Meps is on the road in Spokane, making her way here slowly.

I just counted 92 items on the boat todo list.
Some are simple: “Re-install bow cleats.”
Some are a bit more involved: “Design rig: Size, shape, battens, yard, attachments.”
Many depend upon other items not yet completed.
Some will require Meps’ hands to assist me, or mine to assist her.
Some probably won’t be finished before we go cruising.
Many must be finished before we can go cruising.
Some may not be finished while we own Flutterby.
Some things need to be done and didn’t even make it onto the list yet.  If I do one, I may add it just so I can cross it off.

Yesterday I screwed up two pieces of trim in the V-berth.  It wasn’t on the list and only took about five minutes.

Today I didn’t do anything at all on the boat.

Tonight I’m just feeling overwhelmed.

Tomorrow I’ll pick one.  I wonder whether I’ll finish it or not.

Blame it on Barry and the bandsaw.

What happens if I stick my nose on the lens?

The morning after the kittens were almost born on Charlie’s head, Barry trotted over to Charlie’s trailer and asked to use the bandsaw. When he fired it up, Momma Kitty looked at him askance. Her eyes seemed to say, “What the heck do you think you’re doing? You’re hurting my kittens’ ears!” Never mind the fact that five hours after being born, the kittens’ ears were still stuck flat to their heads.

The next morning, I stopped to see Charlie and the kittens. “We have a kitten crisis,” he told me. “She took one of them away.” We looked at the cat and one remaining kitten sadly. RIP, I thought. Momma Kitty seemed more attached to Charlie and John and Barry and me than to her kitten. “Maybe if you sleep with her tonight, instead of on the boat, she won’t abandon the last one…” I suggested, hesitantly. I hated to ask that of Charlie, but he’s a hero. “I’ll do that,” he said, brightly.

The next morning, I stopped by, and it was deja vu all over again. “We have a kitten crisis,” he said. “She slept with me all night, but she took the other one away this morning. I tried to follow her, but she knew I was tailing her (har, har) and gave me the slip.”

I was a little more successful at tailing her, and I found where she’d stashed the kitten — under the back seat of John’s conversion van, which he’d left open to keep it cool and aired out.

This created a whole new set of problems. In order to buy groceries or do laundry, John needed to drive his van. But it was 100 degrees that day. If he carted the cats to Beaufort and locked his doors, he’d have two roasted cats under the rear seat. And if he did so without Momma Kitty on board, she’d be frantic while he was gone.

Then Barry went back to use the bandsaw. “What was that squeak?” he asked Charlie. I guess he thought one of Charlie’s power tools needed oiling.

Charlie couldn’t think of any power tools that made that sound. So they dug into a huge pile of toolboxes under a bunch of cabinets and found the source — the other kitten!

The family was reunited in John’s van, and then my slippery path to sainthood began. Nancy Bock and I looked all over the boatyard for a place to relocate the cats. But nothing seemed right. Finally, Barry and I decided to cat-nap the three of them and put them on our boat for the time being.

Since the kittens look exactly like Mom, we suspect it was a virgin birth

We walked over to John’s van with a large plastic tote, and Barry put on a fleece sweater in case Momma Kitty tried to scratch or bite. But she didn’t. He gently lifted her out, and she sat docilely in his arms as I put her two squeaky kittens in the tote. Then we walked across the boatyard, carried them up the ladder, and put the tote into a cozy, defensible spot in the quarterberth. Momma Kitty did a quick lap of the boat, proclaimed it acceptable, and climbed into the quarterberth to resume nursing.

It’s been a few days, and Momma Kitty now goes by the name, “Buttercup,” because of her sunflower-yellow eyes and her princess status. The two kittens haven’t been named; we call them the wiggle-worms. At one week old, their eyes are not yet open, although they do have ears now.

It’s a happy story, except for one thing — I have two weeks to find a place for them. My attempts to place the little group with a foster family, no-kill animal shelter, or permanent home have been unsuccessful. I have made numerous calls, posted ads, and sent emails. But if you are an animal, Carteret County is not the place for you! The Humane Shelter here is referred to as a “high-kill” facility.

The few volunteers in the area who work to save pets are desperately overloaded. I call their message phones, and most call back from restricted numbers. “We can’t help you,” they say. “We have too many cats already.” If I was the praying sort, I’d be praying for help about now.

When do I get tuna?

So we’ll keep looking, and in the meantime, we’ll enjoy this snuggly, docile kitty and her two wiggle-worms. If you don’t want a pet permanently, let me suggest that you foster a cat or dog, wherever you are! I can’t tell you how rewarding this is. When these kittens open their eyes — tomorrow or the next day, I hope — what will they see first? Momma? Me? Barry? Or the underside of the quarterberth? They’re sure to think that living on a boat is a natural thing, so we’d better get them settled in a house soon, or they’ll be ruined forever. Just like me.