Got in @ 12;30 a.m., having spent 4+ hrs. driving from St. Pete, Fl to Miami, flying from Miami to Atlanta to Bloomington, and then driving 45 minutes home. Long day. Totally wiped out by the time we walked into our house.. Here's how fried my brain was: I had a towel in my hand, had to relieve myself, and lifting the toilet lid I nonchalantly tossed the towel in the toilet thinking that was why I had lifted the aforementioned lid.
We got in no sailing at all. My brain is not the only thing fried; the boat's transmission is ruined, and will cost our friends @$13,000 to replace, and it's money they don't have. So we lived on the boat for 2 weeks, and worked on other aspects of the boat in need of repair or upgrading. A lot of hard work mixed with moments of serenity and peacefulness, as we we would rest on the deck of the boat in the evenings and take in the quietness.
Some random thoughts and observations:
**Life on a boat sounds exotic and enchanting. It's not. It certainly has its moments of beauty, but the moments were mingled with hours of hard work, disappointment, and frustration. Parts break, malfunction, and simply die without warning, leaving you immobilized. The refrigeration system wasn't functioning to up to par. In addition, a boat has a tank which holds all the excrement, etc. A man comes once a week in his boat, nestles aside each boat, and drains all the crap into a tank on his boat ( I wasn't even aware of, much less dreamed about becoming, a poop pumper.) From what I observed, he's rolling in a lot more poop than he is dough. Our boat filled up, the motor in the poop pumper went out, and for the past week we couldn't use the bathroom sinks or toilets or showers. We had to walk to the marina beach/bath house to shower and use facilities throughout each day.
**I'm into t-shirt logos and bumper stickers (what an adrenalin rush!) I saw a couple t-shirts occupied by women and I don't have a clue as to what these women are thinking. I saw an attractive couple in their 30's/40's. She was wearing a tight t-shirt, the cotton barely containing her breasts of great endowment. If hers wren't surgically provided then God overlooked at least three other women in making provision for her. Across the breast-line, in large letters, were these words: RUB FOR GOOD LUCK. Ms., what are you thinking? Are you a piece or a person? Are you just merchandise to paw? And what is her "man" thinking? She's waving a sign enticing and inviting any and all to come on to her. That's got to make a guy feel really good--any guy but her guy.
It was Mother's Day and my wife and I were walking St. Pete pier. There was a mother and daughter sitting at an outdoor table, taking in the scene. Mom was in her 40's, daughter in her teens. "Aw, how Norman Rockwellian. . . time together on this special day of honor and tribute." They had matching pink t-shirts with white lettering. I thought, "So c-u-u--u-t-e!" Mom's read, If You think I'm a Bitch You Should Meet My Daughter. And, of course, her daughter's read, If You Think I'm a Bitch you should Meet My Mother. It just goes to show you, the mother and daughter that preys together, stays together. What are they thinking? Is there some kind of demented bonding that they're proclaiming to the planet? I guess you B's stick together and are proud of it. If only I could have been a mother and had that special relationship with my little B. Whatever.
**Boat names are rarely valiant and noble. Miss Behavin. Nauti Princess. Cirrhosis of the River. Miss Guided. Seaduction.
**A highlight. This boat is 74 feet long. A very tall mast. Uh, VERY tall. About 30-40 feet up the mast is a crosspiece which contains two lights that shine down onto the deck at night. Both lights were out and needed replaced. Our friend and host, Tom, gets a panic attack on a footstool. So, I volunteered and he put me in a harness and hoisted me up the mast by rope, and I replaced the bulbs. "While you're at it," he says, "do you mind me hoisting you on up to the peak of the mast so you can grease the pulleys up there?" From sea level to the peak is 85 feet. Think a seven story building. "Sure," I said as I wet myself. Actually, it wasn't a problem. He hoisted me up seven stories to the top of the mast and I performed the necessary tasks and mission accomplished. Tom would call it "panic.' I call it "adrenalin."
** I took a lot of pictures, none of which I am able to download onto my or anyone else's computer. Not even Walgreen's could download my memory card. Hopefully, I'll have something to show you. Eventually.