This Old Boat

Today was a boat day. That means I translate on the boat, make my famous vegetable stew and, if I'm lucky, do a bit of boat work.

Got the large translation done before lunch, way ahead of schedule. That's because I work like a maniac before boat days to get ahead. Translating at high intensity can distort your face...not to speak of your mind, as proven in the photograph below.

The pain of wrestling with words in the Toshiba

After lunch I took a relaxed walk through the marina to ventilate my spleen. Then I put another layer of white paint on the panels I had started to paint the other day and finished just Before Luis showed up.

Luis came to look at the gelcoat damage in order to write up an estimate for the insurance company.

Two weeks ago a 37 foot hunter lost its steering and rammed Jakatar (that's my boat) with its Delta anchor which then got tangled with my windvane. The skipper gunned the engine and now my Voyager windvane is toast. The other guy's insurance is paying the bill, let's hope.

Luis runs a boat shop and also owns a sailboat. We sat in the cockpit looking at this character boat that had sailed in yesterday.

Boat going to paradise

"Some guys are smarter than others," said Luis looking at the boat. "Some people work years and years to buy an expensive boat and these two [referring to the youngish hippie-like couple] probably paid next to nothing for the boat and here they are, going places we only dream of."

Although a lot of people would kill to be sitting on a sailboat on a beautiful sunny day, our minds were fixated on loftier goals. But don't worry, I won't start cackling about "living the life", since that topic has already been talked and written about to pulp...so much so, that it has become mere pulp fiction populated by faceless souls despairing about their personal doldrums. If you're reading this you must already know the score. Unfortunately, I know it all too well.

Welcome to Zero, it's time to find our Zen.

Boat Maintenance

Owning an old sailboat can be a curse or a blessing, depending on your personality, your mood at any given moment and on how many things need fixing, varnishing or just plain head scratching.

I've come to the conclusion that if you strive for perfection buy a new boat, otherwise you're likely to become crankier than an old Hurth transmission.


Having finished a fairly large translation on Wednesday, I drove to the marina Thursday morning to do a little maintenance. I could call it "Zen and the art of boat maintenance", but that would be about as kitsch as a flock of pink flamingos on my lawn. Nevertheless, boat maintenance can become a spiritual and liberating experience, to me anyway.

Today I decided to try some interior painting. The bare panel in the picture below has been bugging me far too long. It's also sagging and needs trim to hold the edges firmly in place.

Sagging panel with light fixture

While I was at it, why not paint the panel on the portside over the stove and, to get more mileage out of the brush, may as well paint the bare plywood in the pots and pans cupboard.
If anybody is looking for painting tips - forget it. I took the panels down, sanded them with 220 and slopped paint over them, one coat in the morning the other in the afternoon.

First coat

In the interval I made a tomato, pepper, onion, sweet corn and tuna concoction that would have tasted even better if I hadn't forgotten the wine. I also ran the engine for a while in reverse and forward to confuse the barnacles camping on the propeller. Amazing creatures, they could stick to a spinning propeller from here to China and arrive just as sane and healthy as if they had been sitting still all their lives.

That was enough "Zen maintenance" for the day. On the way home, I fed our vacationing friends' 7 cats and took this picture of the coastline.

Coastline view. Click on the picture and you'll see the "Cabo Carvoeiro" cape in the distance and the Berlenga Islands to the left under the cloud formation.

Boat Maintenance

Owning an old sailboat can be a curse or a blessing, depending on your personality, your mood at any given moment and on how many things need fixing, varnishing or just plain head scratching.

I've come to the conclusion that if you strive for perfection buy a new boat, otherwise you're likely to become crankier than an old Hurth transmission.


Having finished a fairly large translation on Wednesday, I drove to the marina Thursday morning to do a little maintenance. I could call it "Zen and the art of boat maintenance", but that would be about as kitsch as a flock of pink flamingos on my lawn. Nevertheless, boat maintenance can become a spiritual and liberating experience, to me anyway.

Today I decided to try some interior painting. The bare panel in the picture below has been bugging me far too long. It's also sagging and needs trim to hold the edges firmly in place.

Sagging panel with light fixture

While I was at it, why not paint the panel on the portside over the stove and, to get more mileage out of the brush, may as well paint the bare plywood in the pots and pans cupboard.
If anybody is looking for painting tips - forget it. I took the panels down, sanded them with 220 and slopped paint over them, one coat in the morning the other in the afternoon.

First coat

In the interval I made a tomato, pepper, onion, sweet corn and tuna concoction that would have tasted even better if I hadn't forgotten the wine. I also ran the engine for a while in reverse and forward to confuse the barnacles camping on the propeller. Amazing creatures, they could stick to a spinning propeller from here to China and arrive just as sane and healthy as if they had been sitting still all their lives.

That was enough "Zen maintenance" for the day. On the way home, I fed our vacationing friends' 7 cats and took this picture of the coastline.

Coastline view. Click on the picture and you'll see the "Cabo Carvoeiro" cape in the distance and the Berlenga Islands to the left under the cloud formation.

Marina Visit and a Sad Story

Sunday 6/11/2011

I drove 15 km to the marina to check on the boat on a typical autumn day in Portugal, under a patchwork of grey clouds splattered onto the sharp blue sky.

The port’s parking lot was still fenced off because of the recent stormy weather, so I parked the jeep near the fort and walked across the empty cheerless pavement to the marina entrance feeling the breeze that had lost its warmth.

At the boat, I dried the bilges, changed the alarm battery, readjusted the fenders a bit and left. It was one of those days when you don’t have the time or the inclination to start doing any real maintenance work. This, of course, triggered a vague feeling of guilt and sorrow.

On the way out I checked on Ryker, my Dutch buddy who has been living mostly in Peniche for a number of years. I found him sitting in the cabin of his 7 m fishing boat reading a magazine.

“Come with me,” he said, “I want to show you something.”

We walked to the transient dock and stood looking at a beautifully varnished 13 m ketch with wood masts. The lifelines were cluttered with drying clothes, but nobody was aboard.

Ryker told me how the French owner had worked seven years to restore the boat to its current pristine condition, during which time he was consumed with the dream of sailing to the Caribbean with his wife and daughter.

The hiccup was that they got caught in some nasty weather sailing down the coast, and that was it. The wife and daughter were through with sailing! This was the end of the line.

Anyway, the owner wanted my opinion on the best place to leave the boat for the winter. I told Ryker that Nazaré, only 20 miles north, would be my pick. It’s a small sheltered port and the marina is tucked into a corner protected from the wakes of commercial fishing boats. He could also put it on the hard, if he wished.

As we stood there discussing the situation, part of me wandered off into a daydream in which I sailed to the Caribbean, crossed an ocean again and lived carefree in warm foreign anchorages.

Then I though about how the French owner had worked during his spare time for seven years driven by daydreams of embarking on this very voyage that had now shipwrecked at this sorrowful marina. That's when it occurred to me that it was no longer autumn, it was already winter.

Checking a lonely boat

Stormy Weather

I'm pretty much always working on one or various translations at the same time. Right now I have a legal document due on the 11th, a one-page assignment due tomorrow and another that I finished today right after lunch.

Since Windguru is forecasting stiff wind and waves of nearly 8 meters from the west for tonight and tomorrow, I drove the old jeep out to Peniche to add an extra fender and more lines to the boat. Waves that high will leap over the breakwater and wash into the marina causing the boats to strain at the lines and to act like rocking horses.

I was going to work on the boat (translating, not boat work) Thursday, but it doesn't seem very feasible trying to concentrate with the wind whistling off shrouds, halyards slapping against masts, nylon lines groaning against cleats and the constant rocking action.

Here's what it looks like on a bad day.

The picture was taken by someone else from a marina pontoon.

Here's the unfortunate result. Picture taken from a local newspaper report last year.

The same breakwater on a normal day. Note the number of tetrapods for added protection.

This aerial view gives you an idea of the port's configuration.

And then there is this google earth shot.

This big boat has been here for a couple of weeks with lots of young people aboard. I hear the captain discovered that one of his wooden masts is rotting.

Zero is Now

I'm back to zero!
I'm standing still again.
I'm watching the parade.

The economic crisis rained on my escape plan. It's not that I'm broke, I've merely been short-changed.

The tide has changed and so has the blog. Forget about my past. Nobody wants to read yesterday's news, even if it's a good story. But if you're still curious about how I got this way, then read the early blog entries. That's all the information you'll need to make sense of this journey.

"Zen to Zero" is a metaphor for what is happening now, for my current predicament after taking that one damn wrong turn. Years of struggling for total freedom wasted like all the hats I've lost at sea.

As of today, I unveil me, right now, right here in Peniche.

Maybe I'll still reminisce about the glory days now and then, but I'm sure you'll forgive me for it.



Jakatar, my white Corbin 39 pilothouse sailboat in the center. The strange yellow boat was built in a nearby town by a Russian carpenter.

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Cleavage Meets Desire, Apartment Sold

FLASHBACK
My home for 7 years, and it all began like this.

 

On a sunny autumn afternoon in Lisbon I was leaning against a pinkish 8-floor apartment building waiting for the real estate woman with a promising telephone voice.

Earlier in the morning I had driven the Toyota pickup truck to the University Campus, parked in a dusty eucalyptus stand turned into a parking lot, and then took the subway to the Rossio Square. 

Downtown, sitting at one of the colorful outdoor cafés, I watched a two-way stream of faces, bodies and attires that contrasted with the quiet beach town where I had lived for five years. It was like being in a film in which something dramatic is about to happen. Sometimes a young woman shot me a look, but nothing materialized except the fantasies in my head. Being alone in a city is like that.

By the time the waiter took my money, the empty beer glass and the sandwich dish, the big-city novelty was already fading and the faces in the crowd were losing their mystery. I walked down Rua Augusta - a beautifully cobbled wide street for pedestrians lined with upscale shops - until the next intersection where I waited for streetcar 28 going west to Campo de Ourique.

The old streetcar jolted and clanked snaking along narrow streets of old quarters where pedestrians, looking more like villagers that city dwellers, walked the narrow sidewalks hugging old plastered walls trimmed in stone blackened by diesel exhaust. 

Back on the main street, the streetcar picked up speed, then labored up a hill past the parliament building and onto a flat open area. I saw the Jardim da Estrela park to the right and the massive white-stone Basilíca da Estrela church on the other side of the street

It was still early when the streetcar stopped in front of the park, and I got off on impulse.

Here's a link to a video of streetcar 28 to the sound of Fado music.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-nKi8dd118&feature=player_detailpage

Jardim da Estrela Park

Near the entrance gate there was a glassed café and restaurant. Most of the tables next to the duck pond shaded by large trees were occupied with patrons eating lunch in the company of pigeons and sparrows looking for fallen crumbs and scraps.

Breathing the scent of foliage and flowers, the spring sunshine warming my body, I recalled the real estate woman's voice over the phone as I walked the main path past old people on park benches, teenage couples entwined on the grass, two more gate entrances, another duck pond and back to where I had started. 

I then followed the streetcar tracks leading to Campo de Ourique, which struck me as a picturesque town within a city. Sooner than I thought, I was facing a fairly modern pinkish building with its own square on a street running all the way down to the Tagus riverside. 

I was thirsty by now and drank a mineral water at the counter of the small café on the ground floor. Then I went outside and leaned against the wall in the warm sun.

When a woman pulled into the parking lot in a black Audi A3, glanced in my direction and double parked unhesitatingly, I knew it was her. She walked briskly toward me wearing a knee-length black skirt, matching blazer and a white blouse. As she got closer I noted that she was petite, even in high heels, and her light complexion contrasted appealingly with her wavy black hair.

“Are you Mr. Horacio?” she asked.

I said yes with a quick glance at her push-up bra cleavage that revealed more than what you’d expect from a real estate saleswoman who looked five or six years older than me.

She introduced herself as Julia and we shook hands. After some small talk, we went inside and took the elevator to the third floor. I stood towering over her as she searched for the key in her bag, opened the door and then politely ushered me in with a smile and a sweep of her arm.

First she showed me the small dreary bathroom with an electric water heater bolted onto the wall above the head of the bathtub.

"It's a shame about the bathroom," she said shrugging her shoulders, "otherwise, it's such a lovely apartment."

It didn't take long to see the unfurnished one-bedroom apartment that, in addition to the bathroom, had an unusually large bedroom, a dining/living area and a narrow kitchen leading to the balcony overlooking the square. 

As I looked out the window at the buildings and cars parked everywhere, I began to have second thoughts about this whole Lisbon business. In any case, this was temporary, just another stepping stone on a directionless escapade. The real hesitation was whether I wanted to live in a city at all, even for a short period.

"It's an excellent opportunity for the price, wouldn't you say?" she broke the silence in that upbeat manner salespeople put on to drum up enthusiasm.

"Perhaps," I replied vaguely, looking at a stain of red lipstick on her upper teeth before she closed her lips.

"And as for the bathroom," she went on looking into my eyes, "I can recommend someone who'll do a excellent job for a reasonable price."

"But the water heater over the bathtub, now that's a problem," I said smiling, planning to use it to my advantage.

"Vá lá, there's a solution for everything," she patted me on the arm playfully. "Let's have another look."

We stood in the small dreary bathroom staring at the large water heater bolted over the bathtub.

"Do you prefer to shower or to bathe?" she asked.

"I prefer showering."

"That's perfect. The bathroom needs to be renovated anyway, so you can throw out the tub and divide the space into a shower stall and a heater compartment," she said and ran her fingers lightly over the inside of my lower arm.

"Perhaps," I said, feeling the effect of her touch.

"And you can also use the heater compartment for storage," she added, her voice noticeably huskier, and touched my back just above the waist.

"Is it wide enough?" I asked, really feeling it now as we stood very close.

"Of course it is." she said and quickly glanced down at me.

"Maybe it would be large enough for you, but I don't know about me," I said and felt her arm brush mine as we seemed to lean toward each other.

"Can I step into the bathtub just to get an idea?" I asked, no longer concerned with my growing condition.

"Of course, please do."

I stepped into the bathtub with a chuckle. "I'll pretend I'm showering," I said playfully and went through the motions.

"You'll get your clothes all wet," she laughed.

"It will probably be a little tight," I said, "It's hard to tell without a real wall."

"I'll be the wall," she volunteered, kicked off her shoes and stepped into the bathtub laughing embarrassed.

She positioned herself like a partition close to the heater, facing me. Her chest heaved slightly when she said "Now try it."

And I did.

Julia showed me the apartment two more times before I bought it. We also went for dinner a few times, until it became clear that a divorced woman with two children and a wannabe writer live in very distinct realms.