What have we been up to?

I know many of you are asking the question: "Where did they go?? It's been a week, and we've not heard anything." Well, wait no more. Here's the update from me, Jim, so it won't have quite the same level of intelligent wit as Rick's. First, let's step back just a little over a week when I took a quick trip back to the states.

Last Sunday, we were looking for a place Rick could spend the few days I would be gone. We wanted something a bit less hectic than Simpson Bay Marina. Although the people there were fantastic - it has the feel of being in the middle of everything. As an aside, we were able to see the latest Harry Potter movie at the local cinema which was within walking distance of the Simpson Bay Marina. Also, Rick went to the top of the mast to fix our VHF - while he was there, he snapped a few pictures.

Also, not to be forgotten is Maho Beach. Home to the Sunset Beach Bar AND the end of the runway to the Princess Juliana Airport. Those of you who know me, understand my level of excitement about being able to watch jets land close up. To make a good situation even better, the Sunset Beach Bar overlooks the end of the runway. That means I can watch planes land and at the same time, enjoy a freshly blended Mango Daquari at the same time. Heaven.

Here's a pic of me in front of the surf board that indicates when flights will be arriving.

So we headed out to Grande Case which is on the northwest side of the island. That meant changing our flags from the St. Maarten (Dutch) flag to the St. Martin (French) flag (a flag that smells a bit like stinky cheese. I've captured that on film :)

Grande Case has a beautiful beach and the town feels as though you're in a small French village. We had a very good dinner at a local French place and spent the night on the boat. The cove was a bit rolly, so we decided to move around the corner to a small Marina called Port Lonvilliers in Anse Marcel. And this place . . . truly out of a French story book.

Anyway, I flew back to the US from St. Martin to JFK. I won't go into the details of my travel day, but let me just say it started by trying to find a cab at 7am in a rather deserted area without the benifit of speaking much French. Shame on me for not planning better. But in the end, all was well and I made my flight to the US sans problem (maybe I can speak French).

I got off the plane in JFK and immediately wondered who were all these people? I've been used to being around Rick and the two nubbins for 5 weeks. Occasionally, we'll have a neighbor moored close by or another boat near us on a dock, but this was defiantly a culture shock. I have to say, I kind of liked it a bit - it just took a while to get used to. However, I do like the solitude of island living as well.

Three days later, after having some great reunions and meetings while in NYC and DC, I returned to St. Martin . On the cab ride back, the driver and I were talking about life and such. You'll find that you can learn more about the local culture from the cab drivers. They are incredibly friendly and will talk to you about most anything.

So, we originally planned to leave Port Lonvilliers within a few days - but then Dean happened. Rick is writing another blog about Dean, so I won't go into specifics now. But since he was headed our way - we decided to stay put. The marina is VERY protected so it afforded us a good hiding place from the impending wind. There are some good pictures of the boat that Rick took during these days. You can click on any of these pics and you'll be taken to our gallery on Picasa.

So that brings us up to date. We're planning on leaving tomorrow or the next day for Antigua. We may go via St. Kitts, but that kinda depends on the weather. I hope all is well with all of you and look forward to your comments and emails. Stay safe and be well.

The Handyman Can

All those who are old enough, please close your eyes and think of Sammy Davis, Jr.

Who can take a sunrise, sprinkle it with dew
Cover it with chocolate and a miracle or two
The Candy Man can, the Candy Man can

Now on a boat…

Who can take a stopped up head, and free it from the pee
Who can fix the radar, helping it to see
The Handyman can….the Handyman can.

I’ll apologize up front for putting that tune into your head. No doubt you’ll be humming it all day.

I’m the kind of guy who likes things to work the way they’re supposed to. I’m not the kind of guy who really cares how they work, just that they do. While I love creative projects, fixing a broken widget was never something that held my interest and I never really considered the creative genius necessary to look at a broken piece of equipment, accurately diagnose the problem and formulate a plan to fix it. My creativity comes in the form of talking the repairman into not going to his mother’s house to fix her air-conditioning in the 110 degree heat, but to come to my house and fix mine first because I’m having 10 people over for dinner that night.

With that said, let’s talk about a boat. A boat, no matter what age, what make or what model, is always broken. Now that’s certainly not to say that it’s unusable or even unsightly (unless, of course, it’s on cinder blocks in your front yard, (unless you live in West Virginia, then it’s considered a status symbol)). There is a direct proportion to the amount you brag about the fancy stuff your boat has to the amount of time you spend fixing all that fancy stuff.

Our boat has a washing machine. Ohhhhh…ahhhhh. It’s located in the starboard haul directly opposite from the head. The “head” is boat speak for the toilet. I don’t have any idea why it’s called a head. I do everything I can to keep my head from getting anywhere near it. While Jim and I were at the dock in Tortola, we were able to take advantage of the two, large, top loading washing machines I once took so much for granted. I did a few loads of laundry every week, figuratively patting myself on the back for being able to take care of this basic household task. Yolanda, our domestic aid back in the States, who, in my mind, has now risen to the status of home economic goddess, used to do all of our laundry for us. Dirty clothes, sheets and towels just vanished, reappearing clean and folded as if by magic. Well, let me tell you; sweat ain’t magic. It’s not enough to round up the dirties and get them into the washing machine. Unless your favorite color is grey, you have to separate them. If you love grey, well then by George, you’re in such luck. If it’s not, then separate you must. You then have to remember that they are in the washing machine. If you don’t, they tend to take on a smell all their own and you need to rewash and then re-remember that they are still wet in the washing machine. I was averaging 2.6 wash cycles per load.

Now that Jim and I have set sail for ports unfamiliar, that little, front loading washing machine in our head has become quite the gem. Jim had to head back to the States for business so I decided to keep myself occupied by cleaning the inside of the boat from top to bottom, which included doing the wash. It was with such glee that I stripped the beds and gathered up all the laundry, knowing that I was one of the lucky few who didn’t have cart my pile down the dock to the sole public washing machine. I filled our little front loading darling, added the detergent and heading up to the salon for a date with my book and a cup of coffee. Life was good. I got through a couple of chapters of Patrick O’Brian’s Master and Commander and then remembered the wash. I was already getting to be pretty good at this whole washing thing. I went down to the laundry room (bathroom/head), popped open the outer washing machine door and gazed into the fish tank like window of the machine. Hmmm. My little gem didn’t seem to have drained out all the water. Keeping in mind that I was well under my 2.6 cycles per load average and hoping that like I often did, the washing machine forgot that there was laundry not yet finished, I just ran it again.

Back upstairs I went for another cup of coffee and a few more pages of my book. Twenty minutes later, with my coffee and book attended to, I headed back down to the toilet to see if progress had been made. Hmmmm. I really don’t know a lot about laundry but surmised that all the water had to be out of the drum before I opened the door. Actually, that has less to do with understanding laundry and more to do with understanding gravity. What to do, what to do? As much as I wanted to put off the inevitable and not deal with opening the strainer at the bottom of the machine, sending three or so gallons of water into the inside of the boat, where, if you understand anything about boats, is the opposite side you want the water, I acquiesced. Luckily, my first load wasn’t the towels, so, with a bucket positioned to catch most of the water and plenty of dirty towels stuffed around the base of the machine, I opened the flood gates and let the water come. It came with a bit more force than I expected and ended up in my lap. The reason it ending up in my lap was because I was sitting on the toilet at the time (yes, shorts on and lid closed, but still, the image is pretty funny). The economics of space on a boat requires that it be used efficiently and as such, if you wish, you can make toilette and do your laundry at the same time. I can feel that sophisticated image I’ve cultivated for so many years just slipping away, but that’s fodder for another blog.

So there I was, once again with a load of wet clothes needing to be rewashed. Because my pride wouldn’t let this laundry event exceed my 2.6 cycles per load average, I just wrung out the clothes, hung them on the boat’s life lines and got out the old tool box.

The first thing I did was look at the instruction manual. It’s in German. Those Germans sure do love their syllables. Apparently, any single syllable word in English requires at least 15 syllables in German. Being internet savvy, I logged onto Google Language and translated the first sentence in the manual. This is the god’s honest truth. The translation read, “Through print gropes, takes place one waschzeitverkurzung.” Was it time for a cocktail? Understanding that the instruction manual wasn’t going to be any help, I did what any red-blooded American male would do, I just started taking out screws. Eventually, the belly of the beast was exposed and into the abyss I peered. Hmmmm. There wasn’t a button that said, “If your washing machine isn’t draining (or your waschzeitverkurzung kazuent draivingiklerspluggen) push here.”

The long and short of it is that I finally found the pump and took it out. I hotwired 220 volts, yes you read that right, 220 volts, with some old wires I found hanging around (don’t ask) and discovered that the pump was fine. I did some other tests with a voltage meter (which made me feel so butch) and found that the power to the pump was fine. I put the whole mess back together while sitting on the toilet and ran another load. You’d think this would be over; didn’t I say the long and the short of it? The next load ran fine until a clanking noise alerted me to what I already knew. I really didn’t fix anything. I only took it all apart and put it all back together again. However this time, when I opened the door, quite a bit of smoke came out with the laundry; but the drum did drain, or, the water evaporated from the heat that caused the smoke. Not wanting to ruin my 2.6 cycle average, I just hung my clean but smoky smelling clothes out on the life lines to dry, hoping with all my heart that the island air would whisk away the smoky smell and replace it with that beautiful “hung out to dry in the fresh air” smell my Grandmother used to achieve so effortlessly.

Once again, I sat down on the toilet, took the whole mess apart, tested the pump and found nothing amiss. Damn it. With a frustration that lead me to believe that dirty clothes weren’t all that bad, I put it all back together, crossed my fingers and yes, I know it’s hard to believe, I ran another load. Just so you don’t think I’m nuts, this time I sat on the toilet with a fire extinguisher in my lap. I couldn’t hold it in my hands because, in the interest of being time efficient, I read my book while I was waiting for the washing machine to explode. Guess what? It ran like a champ. Four loads and two hours later (the last two loads without the fire extinguisher) all the wash was done, hung out to dry then folded and put away.

I decided to reward myself by eating at the magnificent little French restaurant in the marina. Dressed in some of my newly cleaned clothes, I headed to dinner where I was greeted by a beautiful hostess who said in heavily accented English, “That is a very unusual cologne you have on. If you don’t mind me asking, what it is?”

“It’s called eau du Waschzeitverkurzung, and I made it myself.”