“Help others, because magically, when you need help, it will be there for you.”

You may be one of them, those so-called “friends” who tease us about taking 2-1/2 years for a simple boat refit. That’s enough teasing. Because from another perspective, 2-1/2 years is sadly too short.

In 2007, when we bought Flutterby, we needed a marine survey. We lucked upon a wonderful surveyor — a Sir Veyor, to use Steve Roberts’ phrase — who turned into a friend. Jon Roop understood exactly what we were trying to accomplish. He was the reason we ended up in Beaufort, because he told us there was plenty of support available to do-it-yourself boaters there. Best of all, he said we could call him any time we had questions, as long as we owned the boat.

We tried to exercise restraint and only call when the question was really serious. But every time we did, he extended an invitation to dinner or a party at the beautiful house where he lived with his vivacious partner, Carol. This, despite my getting the Squid Wagon stuck in his driveway and having to call a tow truck to get it out (remember? I wrote about that).

As a former sailboat cruiser, Jon loved sharing the house, which he’d built himself. Every social gathering revolved around the giant kitchen island. Guests circulated around it, as if it was an indoor fire pit.

Jon would extend an impromptu dinner invitation to cruisers. “Bring your laundry, and take a shower,” he’d say. I was too shy to try the fancy jacuzzi in the guest bathroom, and I figured a shower was a shower. Then, at a gathering in January, I realized that was simply not true.

They’d thrown some sort of party a day or two before and had so much food left, they decided to invite more folks over to help finish it. There were about a dozen of us that evening, including some local friends and two British couples from the boatyard. There was some joking about The Shower, and one of Jon and Carol’s local friends realized from our dumb looks that Barry and I hadn’t seen it.

“Come on,” said Pam, dragging us back through the master bedroom. Elegantly tiled, it was the most magnificent shower I’ve ever seen in a private residence. It was the size of a small room, with showerheads on each wall and one coming out of the ceiling in the middle. There was room inside for about ten people showering, or two people dancing. I recalled many miserable, cold boatyard showers, and I decided not to be shy — I would bring my shower kit the next time I came over.

It was a pleasant, evening, with lots of stories and laughter. But it was a little low-key; Jon admitted, reluctantly, that he wasn’t feeling well.

News travels fast in a small town. It was only a couple of days after that dinner that I stopped at a local machine shop. “Did you hear about Jon?” He’d ended up in the hospital. “Not feeling well” turned out to be complications related to melanoma.

Everybody wanted to know what was going on. “Any news about Jon?” was the question around the boatyard and around town. Carol sent emails, forwarded by Pam, until finally they set up a Caring Bridge blog. For the next five months, Carol shared the good news and the bad news, and the frustration of dealing with the medical system. Whenever an email came in, “A new journal entry for Jonathan’s CaringBridge website was posted…”, I’d click on it immediately.

I can’t begin to express how much I valued Carol’s updates and the online community sending love, light, and prayers to Jon. When Carol described dealing with Nurse Ratchett and Doctor Numbskull, we all growled in unison. We cheered when Jon got into an experimental treatment program, but worried about him flying to Boston and Nashville for it. We celebrated when Jon proposed to Carol, and congratulations came from around the globe when they were married, right in his hospital room, about a week ago.

And we all cried this morning, when Carol wrote, “Today I deliver the news that everyone knew was coming but no one wanted to hear.” Jon passed away last night.

That’s why I wish this time had been longer than 2-1/2 years. I wanted to know him longer. Decades would have been nice. It would have been lovely to have him at Flutterby’s rechristening and relaunching party. And Barry and I only got to dance under that magical shower once.

Jon teased us a little about how long we were taking, but he also made the most poetic statement about our departure date. “One of these days, you’ll look up and see the geese migrating, and you’ll know then that it’s time to put the boat in the water and follow them.”

He was kind and generous and caring, and most of all, he had his priorities right. Jon’s cousin Steve wrote, “‘Help others because magically when you need help it will be there for you’ is the essential Jon Roop.”

That statement is also the essential sailboat cruiser. It should be the essential human. Jon Roop was a sailor who showed us how to be better humans. Now it’s up to us.
===
Jon’s photo is the top right one in Seven Precious Friends.

A recent email from Gary, cruising in Ecuador, said, “Write some more about your boat projects.” I stared at the email in astonishment. Was he serious? Or was he being, as they say, snarky?

Well, OK. Here’s the big news: The masts are up! The masts are up! The masts are UP!

Now, since Gary asked for more about our boat projects, I will bare my soul and tell you about mast refinishing. Be forewarned, though, you are getting the Meps perspective, which will probably be full of small factual errors that won’t matter as long as the story is entertaining.

When we bought the boat, it had these infamous circumferential cracks in the masts. We determined that they were not structural, so we wrote a big fat check and took possession of the boat. Surely, a couple of smart people like ourselves could figure out how to deal with a little cosmetic cracking.

Once we started doing fiberglass work elsewhere on the boat, my mast-refinishing confidence sank lower. I was intimidated by the thought of making two 40-foot cylinders perfectly smooth. The finish had cracked because they were wrapped like a candy cane, and there were cracks between the fibers. Even if we sanded that cosmetic layer off and re-wrapped them with bi-axial strips, how would we smooth the joints between each wrap? We would be sanding for the rest of our lives, or else we’d have a lumpy, bumpy mess.

We wracked our brains for a solution for over a year. Nobody in the boatyard or on the internet seemed to have a better idea.

One day, after another brainstorming session, Barry went off to ask our local expert, Alex, what type of fiberglass tape we should wrap it with. Meanwhile, I turned to the computer and tried something crazy.

I asked Google how to “refinish a carbon fiber sailboat mast.”

I never expected the answer to be there. It wasn’t, precisely. What was there was this: “build a carbon fiber sailboat mast.” Suddenly, the phrase “fiberglass sock” leaped off the page at me. I ran more searches. To my delight, I discovered a whole new industry — composite sleeve material! You could order carbon fiber, kevlar, and fiberglass in a whole variety of colors and weights and diameters. They use this stuff for fishing poles, windsurfers, and my favorite application, model rockets.

I jumped on my bike and pedaled triumphantly after Barry. When I found him and Alex, I was out of breath with excitement. “I found the solution! I found it! We need a giant fiberglass condom, and I know where to order one!”

I was practically jumping up and down, but they just stared at me. Alex sort of shrugged (politely) and looked at Barry. Barry looked at Alex, then at me, and later said I was acting too crazy to be taken seriously. At the time.

I dragged him back to my computer and showed him the websites. Now that I had calmed down, Barry loved my simple, elegant solution. After we sanded off the old finish, we’d pull a 40-foot stocking over each mast and paint it with epoxy. Then we would fair it, paint it, and be done.

The sanding and prep work was exhausting, done in the full heat of the summer under some borrowed shadecloth. Then we pulled on the stretchy tube material, an inexpensive product called the Easyglas Sock. It’s been 7 years since I’ve worn pantyhose to work; I’ve forgotten how to put them on. And I’ve never put them on 40-foot legs before! But it went as smoothly as could be expected, and when we left for the summer, the masts were refinished and primed.

Just before Thanksgiving, it was time for the final paint. Getting a perfect shiny finish on a 40-foot long pole is something that takes practice. We decided to hire Alex to spray the final finish on.

The challenge now was color. As long as the gray primer was on the masts, I was embarrassed to see them beside the red hull. Yes, I went to Ohio State, and yes, the school colors are scarlet and gray. That’s not something I care to announce to the world. (whoops, I just did)

I mocked up photographs in a variety of colors. The original black was ugly. White would be boring. Finally, I was inspired by a photo I took in 2004 of a Newfoundland fishing craft.

Standing next to the gray, primed masts, Alex asked, “What color do y’all want?” I took a deep breath and looked at Barry. We’d made the decision, but hadn’t told anyone yet. “Sky Blue,” I said.

Now, there are some people in this world who are bold and confident and not afraid of bright colors. When we chose sky blue (locally known as “Carolina blue”) to go atop our red hull and white deck, we bravely announced that we are two of them.

“It’s OK,” I told myself. “I have my artistic license.”

But in the dark hours of the night, I worried, even after they were painted. Were we announcing our color-blindness to the world? Would I regret this bold decision for decades? Would our sky-blue masts disappear against the sky-blue sky? Light blue, baby blue — I never wear it because it looks terrible on me. What was I thinking?

There was a lot of excitement on the day the crane came, and Kenny and Dale helped us put the masts back into the boat. There’s a lot more technical stuff about the mast heads and mast feet and mast steps, and how it all goes together in an unstayed Freedom, and I could tell you all that, but I won’t. (I can hear your sigh of relief all the way over here.)

The most important thing for me is that the masts look FANTASTIC. The finish is perfect and smooth, and it goes well with the red hull and white deck. I even painted a white band near the top of each one, like an old-style schooner. In a sea of aluminum masts, they are distinctive and eye-catching.

The masts are not the only distinctive addition — I’ve hand-painted the name on both sides. There’s also going to be a Flutterby logo, in black, white, and sky blue, on both sides of the hull and on the transom. It’s an amorphous scrollwork design, reminiscent of a butterfly.

Finally, Flutterby is taking on a colorful personality that’s as quirky as her owners’. With her bright colors, her unusual rig, and her unique graphics, she’ll be memorable. I hope I can live up to that.

Meps had just flown out for a couple weeks, and I am alone with Flutterby and her huge todo list.  I decided that I would pick up a quick and easy job so I could just get something accomplished and feel good about it, then move on to whatever I should be next.

Flutterby's blue binnacle

So I decided to re-assemble the binnacle–The painting was done, all the new parts from Edson have been here for ages, I had already re-built a LED compass light where the old incandescent one used to be.  It should be quick and easy, right?  Well, that was what I thought when I started the first day of working on it…

First I decided I needed to clean up the shaft that the wheel goes on before I re-assembled it.  Then I noticed there was a little bit of pitting in a couple places, so got out the dremel and some grinding and then polishing tips.  Nothing was very deep, it all cleaned up OK, and it took less than an hour.

Of course, I decided I needed to remove one split ring to inspect and clean under one bearing race, so I had to find somebody in the yard who had the pliers for that job.  I ended up having a nice chat with Ward and Audrey, but the quick part of my job was rapidly receding.

Then I tried to install the new parts of the wheel brake.  Only a minute to file the paint out of the hole it needs to go through.  Then I found that the brake knob spindle wouldn’t fit through the new bushing.  Oops.  Looks like it was once or twice tightened down enough to flare out the metal.  After dinner I probably spent another hour with a file and sandpaper fixing that.

OK, brake installed, shaft went in easily enough, and I didn’t make too big a mess when I got the grease gun out.  There were 4 threaded holes I had painted over; I was able to clean 4 of them out with a tap, and then had to borrow another tap to clean out the others.  That went well too.

Geez, those old 1/2” washers and lock washers look pretty corroded.  I should get new ones.  No problem, Bock has them in stock.  Now let me put the riser and the new idler plate on the base.  Odd, something must be a little warped; oh well, when I tighten the bolts down it should smunch together.  Oops.  The new plate (a massive bronze casting) is a lot thicker than the old (mild steel, rusted through) one was.  Now my bolts aren’t long enough anymore.   I wonder if Bock has any stainless steel (or bronze) 2 1/2″ long 1/2” Flat head machine bolts.  Nope, but they have more of the 2” long ones I can’t use!

OK, now off to the McMaster-Carr website to order the bolts I need.  Then I can put it together.  I go the order in early enough to be shipped out today; it might be here tomorrow, but Monday is more likely.

Uh-Oh.  That hole where the bolt for fastening the engine control cables is supposed to be on the back side of the pedestal, not the front, isn’t it.  Back when I patched the holes where the old autopilot used to be mounted, I left the wrong one.  Ah well, as Philip says, “another imperfection.”  And I suppose I’ll have to find the old hole and drill it out again.  Or maybe I can mount the cable bracket on the other side.  I guess I’ll try that…as soon as I get the new engine control cables.

Maybe I would have done better starting with a hard job?

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.