Well that sucked. A notable accomplishment is tarnished. Future options are reduced. A thing which brought me hope and joy is frayed and beaten. The optimism and strength I gained from that thing is depleted. A harvest of contentment and peace brought about by earnest endeavor and sincere building fades. It will snow soon. Winter, the season of death, is almost upon me. The best I can do is hunker down and ride it out.
What? Mid-term election wave? Who gives a shit? I’m talking about my boat!
I’m hamming it up, but I do have a point. I built a boat. I heartily recommend the powerful high that is the construction of one’s own boat. It’s a small and simple boat, but it sailed true and it was glorious. It lifted my heart. I got to be everything a man should want to be. I was Tom Sawyer, Jack Sparrow, Jack Abrey, Bernard Moitessier, and a goofy blogger in a floating plywood box. Life is grand!
Note: In my Quixotic prep work to sell my book I nuked my Amazon associates account. I sometimes link to Amazon to illustrate some thing I’ve mentioned. I intended my list of “boat guys” to have links. I would’ve linked to the following:
- The book by Mark Twain you either read or should have.
- Movies with Johnny Depp that you couldn’t avoid.
- The captain from Master and Commander. One of the best stories ever!
- A side character in the non-fiction “A Voyage for Madmen”. The real life absolute badass who walked off in mid-win of a planet-sized race “because I am happy at sea and perhaps to save my soul”.
- Yours truly, who hasn’t published his book yet.
So… what happened? The starting point was that I made a boat. If you’re wondering if you ought to build a boat, you probably should. I made the boat less to have a boat than to make a thing which would test itself (and me) against the real world.
Well before humanity shit its pants in 2020 there were harbingers of its inner torment. Madness eroding the whole of society made me tired and depressed. I sought refuge from the falseness of fake living. A boat cannot lie. It will sail, or it will sink. There is no “try”, only “do”.
No amount of meetings or credentials will make a boat. A dozen Powerpoint slides won’t change a thing that leaks into a thing that doesn’t. This is probably why our Navy has so many issues making them. (See also: Light Rail in California, NASA sitting on it’s ass since the Shuttle was retired, every economic theory you’ve heard from a college professor, all statements in every Zoom meeting, whatever the HR harpies are saying this week.)
The build took me forever. I refused to mention my endeavor on my blog until after it was already sailing. I feared people would mock the silly little craft.
Then I saw it differently. I mentioned it to encourage others. If you’re in social doldrums, consider building your own ladder out of the pit. Sick of meetings? Good! All the meetings in the world mean nothing. Your boat floats or it does not. This is reality. Reality is where you ought to spend most of your time.
To my surprise and delight y’all loved the stories and pictures. It brought me a lot of happiness. It taught me things I should’ve already known.
First of all, and I cannot overemphasize how important this is, it proved every naysayer wrong. In real life I got no end of people trying to erode my confidence. A small boat ain’t rocket science but think how avidly people discourage innovation. Neandertals made boats, modern dweebs fear to own a hammer! Normal guys once built fishing rowboats in their garage. It wasn’t a political statement; it was a way to catch a bass.
Times have changed, the workplace especially has evolved into the habitat of Eloi. I was warned I’d die for sure. Nobody thinks you’re weird to finance a $20k bass boat. They cluck like hens when I fiberglass a $50 construct of plywood. They really do fear and hate that some dude might do what they themselves cannot.
With the exception of family and online boat building resources, I got no help whatsoever. But it happened anyway. I built a boat. They did not. Fuck them all!
As Teddy Roosevelt said:
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena…”
A boat can be your arena.
Construction is just the first lesson. I had no idea how to sail.
The slogan “small boat = big adventure” isn’t trite. I did shit that’ll make your knees shake, but it was only scary because I was in an 8′ boat. The same waters in a 30′ boat is more about payments and slip rentals than mastering the elements.
Once, I sailed 7 miles to a tavern. Mrs. Curmudgeon was watching out the window. I began as a speck on the horizon. I pressed onward, tiny sail bravely harnessing the power of the sky itself. Eventually I beached and stepped onto land. I felt like a conquering hero. A couple complete strangers greeted me in congratulation. I slammed the anchor in the sand and drank the best beer a man has ever had.
It was just 7 miles, or it was a huge adventure. Take your pick.
But… life happened.
The boat hasn’t moved for years. It wasn’t just logistics, I had some health issues. I did OK this summer but not enough to play Jack Sparrow.
Reality is what reality is. The boat has been in the elements all this time. It’s only plywood and epoxy. It’s as mortal as I!
This summer I started working on a boat trailer. (My original trailer basically collapsed.) I never finished the boat trailer project.
The last two weeks, I switched gears. I cleared junk from my limited garage space. I threw out all sorts of heavy trash. All to squeeze that little plywood boat under cover. Then, with heavy heart, I flipped it over. I looked at what time and water had done to my plucky craft.
My analysis? The boat is battered but not destroyed. It’s no worse than I was a year ago. Like me, it can be repaired; like me it did take a hit. But, it’s a close call. This would’ve been its last winter.
I’ll have to sand and paint most of it. Possibly add fiberglass here and there. The “brightwork” can no longer be “wood”, it will now be paint. I’ll have to put on my thinking cap and handle a few spots of real damage. I will have to do surgery. A Japanese pull saw may be doing some amputations. It is what it is.
I built it. I can build it again.
God willing, the craft will be ready to sail next summer. Hopefully, so will I.
One last thing. For a brief time when the boat was new, I sailed in the presence of “real” boatbuilders. I was a tadpole amid sharks. They were real sailors. Their boats more complex than mine. But the great thing is they were very nice. They welcomed me to their hobby of madness.
What I learned is not what you think. People who build their own boats are absolute bad ass maniacs. They don’t cling to polished mahogany fittings. They stress masts and hammer daggerboards into the muck. They sail like they can’t wait to find out what will break first when they push it harder. They built the boat, they like building boats, damage is just an opportunity to have fun.
They sail like beings made of testosterone and physics.
I wanna’ be like them when I grow up!
Now you know my plan. Whether the boat hits spring shiny and smooth or a battle scarred Frankenstein’s monster slathered in epoxy… it hardly matters. I expect (hope) to feel healthy enough to sail it, so I’ll make it ready.
Last note; the boat wasn’t ignored because I was sitting on my ass. This summer I camped by motorcycle and by truck and even in my wife’s car. I experimented with CPAPs in tents. I ran around the forest on dirtbike and had a grouse dinner. I hiked often, cut some (not enough) firewood, and generally got all the exercise I could stand. A person must choose one path among many. I picked motorcycles over sail. Next year may be different.
A.C.
P.S. Next summer I hope I figure out the (*^)&&^*^* CPAP situation, what a PITA!