New engine bulkhead and galley table

The piece on the left is the engine bulkhead and the piece on the right is the new table. They are of cedar and not yet finished. You will notice that the knots in the beautiful woodwork grew, amazingly enough, in strategically located places to coincide with parts of constellations. (Very nautical, I think!!) In the foreground is the prototype of the table hardware. It will eventually be mounted to the engine bulkhead. In these pictures, it’s laying down in relationship to how it will be mounted. (You can click on these pictures and get a little better view.)

This is a close-up of the table supports. They mount under the table and to the bulkhead.

This is the first sequence as the table begins to move into its stowed position.

The table continues to move toward its stowed position.

Here, the table is in a fully stowed position against the engine bulkhead. All of the hardware will be out of sight behind the table top.

Close-up of the hardware design. The locknuts are not yet fully seated because I foresee the need of disassembling many more times before arriving at a “finished” state. My object here was merely to prove that the design would work… which it beautifully did leaving me relieved and satisfied. The hardware is aluminum that I scrounged years ago from an old portable blackboard that had been discarded at work. The pivot shafts are also aluminum, which I threaded on both ends. The brown piece between the bracket and strut is Formica laminated to a thin piece of plywood. It acts as a spacer/bushing/dampener, to stabilize their action.

The table’s success and notoriety will depend on a specially designed latch to hold it in the fully extended and fully stowed positions. So far, this latch design is only in my mind but I’m confident it will work.

The only costs, to date, are the aluminum pivot shafts and locknuts… less than $10. The cedar was cut and milled from a tree on my friend’s property. I had to pay $100 to the sawmill for a huge, huge stack of cedar that I will be hard-pressed to find enough uses for. Therefore, the cost of the lumber in the table and bulkhead is barely computable. I suspect that there will be a lot of cedar used in the exposed interior finishwork of this boat!

Three Times the Charm - Chapter 2

Steve was a handyman. He was born with it… a natural comprehension of all things mechanical. That kind of stuff came easy for him so he capitalized on his interests and eventually got an engineering degree and became a vocational arts teacher. When I knew him, he was teaching electrical engineering in the industrial vocation department at Canby High School in Oregon. Because I had children in high school, I knew who he was and what he did but I had no clue that he was into sailing.

He grew up with an ambition for adventure and early in his marriage (late 60’s) he became interested in boating. One day while reading from the monthly periodical “Rudder,” a flattering review boasting the virtues and handling characteristics of the Privateer caught his eye. An intensive investigation revealed that the boat was still in production and was affordably available as a hull and deck “kit” to be finished by the owner. Numerous communications ensued, which even included correspondence with the boat’s designer, Thomas Gillmer. Eventually, a deal was struck, the money was paid, and the hull and deck was delivered to Steve’s home in Albuquerque, New Mexico where he was then living. This would have been in 1974 or 75.

He assembled the assortment of components and rough built some cabinetry and berths to the point that made the boat serviceable. He figured out, drew up schematics, and installed all the wiring then converted a 4 cylinder gasoline Datsun engine for marine use by building a custom designed water jacket for the exhaust header and an exhaust/water mixing elbow. He designed and built a water lift muffler and for a transmission, he designed a variable speed hydraulic pump and motor drive system. He built a rugged goose-neck style trailer to cradle the boat during construction and, before completing any of the finishing touches, began sailing on the various lakes of New Mexico.

And the Intrepid Turtle was born. Its name has a bit of a story. In that era, as old timers will remember, the America’s Cup winner (and namesake) was named Intrepid. If he ever found himself in a regatta, win or lose, Steve figured that the name of his boat would apply wherever he placed in the race.

A teaching position became available near Winchester Bay, Oregon and because of the ocean’s close proximity, making the decision to move came easily. They pulled the boat to Oregon and launched it in the bay. Then they returned to Albuquerque with the trailer and used it to move the remainder of their belongings. Although he and his family only lived near Winchester Bay for a short while, they enjoyed numerous opportunities to experience the movement of ocean swells and the maladies that motion brings as they ventured on short excursions up and down the coast.

Better pay and a more prestigious position motivated their next relocation and they moved north to Canby Oregon in the fall of 1981. This found them further inland but relatively close to the Columbia River where they would remain for the next 12 or so years. The school year was about to start and time was short. They choreographed this move similar to the first by off-loading the boat into the Columbia then using the trailer as a U-Haul.

After the move, the first order of business was to settle-in. There were many boxes to unpack, job-hunting for his wife, and finding his “place” in a new high school with new peers, unfamiliar students, and demanding responsibilities. The stresses of establishing a good reputation by demonstrating his conscientiousness monopolized all of his time and priorities during the first few months of school. Because of these distractions, the boat, safely tied in a secure moorage, slipped to the back of his conscious attentiveness. Besides, winter was on its way and most of the boating community in this area goes into hibernation until spring.

As fate would have it, winter that year came early and with a vengeance. Much school attendance was lost to snow-days and travel throughout the valley was difficult at best. Unusually heavy snowfall choked the traffic flow but the big news was freezing rain. After an unprecedented 12 to 14 inch accumulation of snow, it began to rain, which saturated the snow then instantly froze. The weighty buildup of water bloated snow brought down trees and power lines everywhere.

I remember being stuck at home for days, unable to open the garage door because of deep snow and ice. It was beautiful to look at but treacherous to navigate by car or even by foot. I remember watching the local news broadcasts reporting the number of power outages and tallying a death toll of senior citizens who, without power, were found frozen to death. I still incredulously wonder how, with so much technology and so many amenities available, someone in this day and age could possibly freeze to death in their own home. It must have really been cold that winter.

Streams, lakes, and rivers froze solid including the mighty Columbia. It froze over from shore to shore except for the strip of faster moving water down the center of the channel. This was a good thing because when it eventually began to thaw and break up, that strip gave the ice a place to go and to keep moving. I remember another winter near Idaho Falls, which froze the Snake River over solid. When it began to break up, there was no place for the ice to go so it piled up upon itself and created a dam, which caused massive flooding. I wonder if that could have been the same winter.

While trapped at home trying to cope with the seriousness of the weather, I remember watching an evening news late development. The heavy snowfall was wreaking havoc on the waterfront. The weight of the snow was causing gas explosions and electrical fires in the floating home communities. Because of their remoteness and the terrible weather conditions, land based fire trucks couldn’t get to them. They usually depended on fire boats for fire protection but, because of the ice dangers in the river, the boats couldn’t come either so all that the homeowners could do was evacuate then stand on shore and watch their homes burn to the ground… well, to the waterline. When one caught fire, because they were so close to each other, their neighbor would begin to burn… and so on it went until the whole neighborhood was gone. Who would think, surrounded by all that water, that it would be a lack of water that would cause them to lose everything?

I feel another story coming on so I’ll interrupt myself briefly and share it before I lose it.

After the storm had passed and spring approached and the weather began to improve, a friend of mine (another Steve… we’ll call him number 2) contacted me to see if I was interested in joining him for a floating adventure. He owned a 24 foot sloop that he kept on the Willamette River above the falls near Oregon City. He needed to sell the boat and since I was not in a financial position to buy it (as badly as I wanted to) he wondered if I would enjoy accompanying him to take the boat to a broker. Since he had no trailer, this trip would entail floating through the locks around the falls then through the downtown Portland area (raising railroads, street bridges, and impatient driver’s blood pressure) and finally heading upstream in the Columbia. It would be an all day voyage covering some 35 miles.

The day was disappointingly calm (no wind) and we motored most of the way. This was probably good because it was colder than an Eskimo’s toilet seat that day and, had the wind been blowing, it would have felt even colder. There was a short period when we thought that we detected a whisper of wind action so we raised sails but it quickly dwindled away making it hardly worth the effort.

In the late afternoon as we approached the area where Steve thought the brokerage was located, we headed in off the river into a large mooring basin. We discovered that it was still tightly locked in with ice and appeared frozen solid.

He knew the broker was expecting him and felt an obligation to make every effort to deliver the boat as agreed upon. I expressed my lack of understanding as to why a broker would expect us to deliver a boat to an inaccessible dock. My impression of Steve had always been that he was a logistic conservative; a cautious and wise decision maker. So you can imagine my surprise when, upon seeing all that ice, I looked at him… he looked at me… then with a slight smile and a shrug of his shoulders, he decided to keep going in!

The outer ice posed no resistance because it was melted and thin but as we continued to advance and the ice got thicker, we began to feel the boat rise ever so slightly then settle, rise, then settle. The closer we got to shore, the longer the space became between the rise and the settle! You’re probably already guessing how this story is going to end.

However…

My apprehensions about what was going on caused me to cross my fingers, utter a silent prayer, and keep a sharp eye on the shore (which was still a ways off) while mentally making an on-going recalculation of our odds against successfully making it to the dock. Each time I felt the boat begin to rise, the odds rose too!

While straining my attentions on the safety of shore, I noticed a Good Samaritan on the dock frantically jumping up and down and waving his arms to get our attention. When I saw him step off the dock and begin to walk quickly across the ice toward us, I pointed it out to Steve and suggested that maybe we needed to “hang-on” for a second. He throttled down, we felt the boat slide to a crunching stop followed by a cracking sound then it slowly settled one more time. The man stopped about half the distance between shore and the boat and began to yell at us.

The conversation went something like this: (I’ll courteously substitute the adjectives out of respect for the young and the otherwise more refined and higher educated adult readers!)

Man, at the top of his lungs: “What the phooey do you think you’re doin?”

Steve, meekly and calmly: “Is this where the {Such-n-Such} Brokerage is located?”

Highly irritated man, again at the top of his lungs: “What the heck is the matter with you? Are you freakin nuts?

He went on to insult our family origins and our mental competence and pointedly hollered that the {Such-n-Such} Brokerage was clear on the other side of the island. He then discourteously demanded that we “get the heck outta here” and agitatedly (and clearly to the point) explained how he was not in the mood to organize a rescue party for brain deficient and otherwise undeserving victims.

With a calm voice, Steve asked me ever so politely if I wouldn’t mind going forward to add a bit more ballasted assistance to the boat’s ice-breaking duties… then added, “I wonder what his problem is!?”

It wasn’t easy but we managed to make a slow, wide, U-turn and began moving back toward liquid water again. I clung to the bow pulpit with white knuckles and exerted all of my energies in mentally willing the ice to keep breaking beneath us. I was exhausted when we finally emerged from the ice into clear water again and I returned to the cockpit and collapsed.

Whistling as though nothing had happened and to ease the tension, Steve confidently steered us around to the other (ice free) side of the island and within 30 minutes we were safely tied to the obvious brokers dock. I say “obvious” because of the huge letters on the huge sign loudly proclaiming, {Such-n-Such} Brokerage!

But, I digress!! Now, where was I? Oh yeah… watching a late breaking news report about tragedy on the waterfront.

It turns out that Steve (number 1) must have been watching the same news report that I was watching. He sat with intense empathy as the camera panned across the burning carnage of floating dreams and expensive comfort going up in smoke. Then, he began to recognize some prominent landmarks in the area. He pointed them out to his wife and shared the startling revelation that the collection of burning homes was immediately adjacent to the moorage where his boat was tied. As the camera continued to move across the scene, his empathy evolved to serious concern then rose to panic as his slip came into view and his boat was not there. At first he thought that he surely must have been mistaken due to the amount of snow and ice piled on top of the neighboring boats making them difficult to identify. The TV story segued from home tragedies to boat tragedies and the camera zoomed in and his panic turned to terror. His fears were confirmed. His boat was there after all. The close-up angle showed that the only thing visible above water was the stern section. There was no mistaking the font and the painted graphics. The Intrepid Turtle of Albuquerque, New Mexico was, for the most part, sunk! The only thing keeping her that much afloat was the stern dock-line that had not yet broken.

(Hmm… Why do my stories always seem to involve boats that sink?)

It took a week before the roads were clear enough for him to get to the moorage and begin organizing the salvage. There was a witness, probably the moorage owner, who said that the boat was so top-heavy with ice that it began to roll until the scuppers got below water level and started to flood. With that much weight, it didn’t take long for her to sink. By that time, there wasn’t anything that anybody could do.

The Turtle wasn’t the only boat to sink in that storm. Within about a month, the many boats that had gone down and their locations were identified, a floating crane was volunteered, and a big salvage/rescue operation commenced. It took a couple more weeks until they got to the Turtle. They strung slings under her and lifted her enough until pumps could empty her out without the boat taking on more water. Floating again, Steve ordered a tow to the boat ramp where he loaded her on the trailer to take her home. It wasn’t until he pulled the boat and trailer up the boat ramp that he realized that the crane operators had placed the slings badly. They had gotten the aft sling under the rudder, which broke it and bent the propeller shaft. The only other damage beyond scratched paint was to the bowsprit pulpit. It was slightly bent and popped out of its mounting bracket, which probably happened when the boat rolled against the dock. Fortunately, none of the spars, sails, or rigging was in place at the time. Steve had left them at home during the move and had never taken the time to reinstall them onboard.

He parked the boat near his barn and, in an effort to save the engine, he opened the oil pan drain plug and emptied all of the oil, water, and muck from the engine. He then filled the engine with diesel through the oil fill neck using the logic that the diesel oil would displace any remaining traces of moisture and save it from rusting. This turned out to be quite effective. When I eventually opened the engine up, I found the bottom half pristine and as shiny as brand new. What he failed to do was remove the spark plugs and fill the upper parts of the engine as well. When I pulled the head, because of the inch thick layer of rust, I couldn’t tell where the cylinder walls stopped and the piston head started. It had a 12 year accumulation of decomposition and was rusted solid.

As far as I know, his effort to save the engine was the last act of compassion that he offered to the boat. It appeared that he never touched her, boarded her, nor gave her another thought for the next 12 years save to move her out of his way so he could mow the blackberries that would inevitably begin to grow over her. Maybe he had gotten seasick at Winchester Bay too many times and lost interest. I don’t really know why she let him neglect her for so long. I like to believe that it was because she was patiently waiting for my destiny path to finally join hers. I didn’t realize it at the time but that news report was our first meeting, albeit a less-than-favorable introduction!

Part 10

The sound seemed deafening and I could feel the concrete floor vibrating beneath my feet as the blade screamed a double high G at fortissimo. Describing myself as apprehensive didn’t come close. I was downright scared of that table saw and didn’t want to be anywhere near while it was running. Don’s gruesomely detailed lecture two weeks previous about the saw’s retribution to the unwary and over-confident operator didn’t serve to bolster my self-assurance in the slightest. I was greatly relieved when he said he would make the first few cuts to show me how easy it was but informed me that I would have to take over after that. It was my project, after all, and he wanted me to be able to say that I had done it all. Deep in the outer fringes of my darker fantasies I wondered if his misery only loved company and was hoping I would lose a finger too.

Our trio practicing had turned into a weekly routine and prior to our get-together the previous week it had occurred to me that Don’s woodworking skills and his shop might prove to be a blessing in disguise. I didn’t want to take advantage of him but I couldn’t help picking his brain. I still hadn’t resolved the design challenges of my next boat and his building expertise might solve the riddle. So, when our rehearsal came to a close and the expected girlish chit-chat commenced, I found Don and filled him in on my sailing history and my plans to build another boat. I showed him my sketches and in an instant he had the solution. “Make it have 2 points, like a catamaran,” he volunteered.

That solution had never occurred to me and in a few minutes the sketches had been altered and an acceptable shape immerged. It presented a few challenges but Don assured me that it wouldn’t be too difficult to build. He helped me create a materials list and volunteered to pick up the supplies for me and even offered the use of his shop for the project. We met after school the next day and following a quick trip to the lumber yard, we had the lines drawn and were making the first cuts. Despite his desires for me to be able to claim that I did all the work, he sensed my trepidation and graciously did all the cutting that was required on the table saw.

Beyond what I have so far recounted, I don’t have many recollections of the building process. I know that Don was there much of the time offering suggestions and giving supportive encouragement. He even entrusted me with a key to the shop in the event that he didn’t happen to be home when I wanted to work. In his shop, not only did he teach me skills and building techniques that I still use today, but he helped me discover self-esteem and confidence in my abilities to successfully be creative on a professional level. Many parts I did more than once in response to his observations that something could be done differently with superior results. With time, I conquered my fears and began using the table saw, fearlessly cutting like a pro. Today as an adult of his approximate age but nowhere near his stature, I now know that the time that he sacrificed in my behalf was costly and dear. On many occasions in life I have been tempted to hoard the value of my time but have remembered his example (and others) and have sheepishly changed my attitude and taken advantage of opportunities to repay my debt to him by “paying it forward” for someone else’s benefit like he did for mine.

By the time my 9th grade school year ended, the project was far enough along that I no longer needed the advantage of his shop and tools, and since Don didn’t know much about fiberglassing, we transported the boat to my home where I could spend more time at my leisure without imposing on others. For my purposes, fiberglass proved to be within my skill level and all the seams were soon concealed and watertight. A good sanding and several coats of paint finished the job in time to use the boat that summer.

Launch day was a typical hot Saturday morning at Fishhook Park. The year was 1965. My mother drove and I remember my sister being there. I must have invited a friend since the boat was bulky and cumbersome and required more muscle to get it up or down from the top of the car than my mother or sister could provide.

As is usually traditional on the launching of a new vessel, champagne across the bow seemed appropriate. Since alcohol was not part of my upbringing, Jessie and I had come up with an alternative… “champoogne.” We placed the boat near the water and after a youthful but genuine plea to Neptune to be kind and to protect my little ship, I gave Jessie the honor of breaking the shampoo bottle (in those days they were made of glass) on the bow. But after several tries by both of us it became apparent that the bottle was not going to break but rather do damage to the paint job so we abandoned that idea and commenced with the sea trials.

The boat greatly exceeded my expectations. She performed without a flaw and eventually provided years of relaxation and the acquisition of innumerable sailing skills and experiences. Sage-knowledge-acquired prompted me to include a drain plug in its design but I never saw a drop of water leave her interior.

There was a time several years later when traveling back from a day-sail and a particularly big gust of wind caught the boat and plucked it (car racks and all) from the top of the car. I heard it happening and felt it go and, with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I looked in the rear-view mirror to see it tumbling end-over-end down the highway behind me. After making 3 or 4 flips, it settled on its topsides and finally slid to a stop. I dreaded that, at the very least, the boat had surely met its demise. When I went back to do my civic duty by cleaning the road and picking up the pieces, to my surprise and amazement, I found the boat still intact and relatively undamaged. The aft-most starboard corner had been slightly caved in, probably from the initial kiss of the asphalt, which required being rebuilt and re-glassed. Beyond that, there were numerous scrapes and dings all of which only needed some touch-up paint. Even after all that, the boat never leaked. I guess I was learning!

I believe that this picture was taken in the summer of 1968. I'm at the tiller and my brother-in-law is standing at the bow. His oldest son is in the foreground. Jessie probably snapped the photo. I would have just graduated from high school. I seem to look a lot younger than that but Ed's presence with a child tells the tale! Note the sagging boom after 3 or 4 years of use. Muslin is affordable but not the ideal material for building sails.

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Throughout the construction, 2 close friends in particular made it a habit to keep themselves apprised of my progress and eagerly awaited the chance to go sailing again. I take credit for the fact that, after numerous excursions to the river, they both became smitten by the sailing bug and they both eventually designed and built similar boats. It became somewhat of a contest as they tried to improve on my design. Both boats admittedly looked better but, in my opinion, neither one sailed as well. What rests fondly in my memory were the choice times when we were able to sail together as a fleet to all the available latitudes of the Ice Harbor reservoir. Many hours were spent together in the pursuit of youthful adventure which quenched the “Tom Sawyer itch” that nags and tugs at all teenage boy’s restless imaginations. Through all of these experiences a lifetime bond was developed and I still look forward to our next sailing reunion.

Over the following years spanning my brief college education and 2 years of missionary service, the boat remained unused and stored safely in my mother’s garage. As a married man and beginning a family, my wife and I had the opportunity of living in mom’s home while she and her new husband served a mission on the east coast. When we moved out, we took the boat with us but really never had the chance to use it. Eventually, we tired of moving it from place to place so I gave it to another family with boys who had a lake near their home, all of which contained the ingredients guaranteeing the likelihood of more sailor conversions.

Since I’m taking so much credit, I might as well tell one more story that relates to this boat and illustrates my responsibility for infecting yet another unsuspecting victim.

My brother, the middle sibling, was away from home throughout the beginnings of my sailing ventures. When he returned from his missionary service, I invited him to go sailing with me. This was a first-time experience for him since he had spent his teenage years absorbed with hot rods, girls, and his rock & roll band, “The Frets.” You might wonder how teenage years spent thusly would prepare a boy to be a missionary but that’s a “whole-nuther-story” which he will have to tell for himself.

We loaded the boat and headed for the river. On the trip, I gave him a brief overview of sailing fundamentals so he could understand what was going on. There was a nice breeze producing light whitecaps when we launched the boat and, with me in control, we made a few passes across the moorage area so he could get a feel for all of my explanations. He was an unexpectedly fast learner and immediately commandeered the tiller and headed the boat into the river and downwind, which on this day was upstream. We ran downwind for about 30 minutes, which got us further upstream than I had ever been. I knew from experience that the return trip upwind was going to be a long, wet slog and I prayed that the wind wouldn’t strengthen because we were already challenging the outer fringes of my confidence since I had never tested the boat in such gusty conditions. It took us 2 hours to make the exciting return trip through mounting swells and a stiff breeze. When we finally arrived at the dock, my brother absconded the boat leaving me stranded on shore. I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting alone, quietly in the shade of a lonely tree, forlornly watching my boat ply back and forth under his command. I have long since forgiven him especially considering the extensive impact that day’s experience had on his future. After all, it was such a minor infraction. He had only committed mutiny. It’s not like he had done the unpardonable by neglecting to request permission to board!

My brother eventually went on to design and build a forty-some-odd foot brigantine and has spent a goodly amount of his adult life living aboard a sailboat with his wife in balmy, southern California bays. I try not to covet his lifestyle but I take pride in my role of launching him toward realizing such dreams.

By unjust comparison, I’ve nurtured and coddled the dream since my youth but the path of my priorities led me to a landlocked way of life. The financial strains of raising seven children on a “three-children-income” always managed to consume all of my spare time as I tried to creatively earn enough to meet their needs. Consequently, the illusive dream seemed to always be hiding barely beyond my reach. I’m not complaining! My day will surely still come… at least that’s my ever-present and undying aspiration. My life is rich in rewarding memories of irreplaceable family experiences and blessings that I wouldn’t trade even for a wayfaring voyager's life. I’m just hoping to still be able to squeeze in at least a taste of the other and experience a bit of that dimension before I leave mortality.

Addendum (appendix!!) to “Getting Sick”

Cameron sent me a couple of snapshots he took while I was hospitalized. I had completely forgotten about having that tube down my throat. Seeing it makes me wish he hadn’t reminded me! Some memories are best forgotten. The reason for the tube was to vacuum my stomach to ensure it was completely empty before they did the surgery. It was only there a couple of days and when I came out of the surgery, it was gone… something I was very thankful for!

I had my post-op appointment yesterday. The doctor removed the stitches from the wound and gave me a clean bill of health. He drew a clever sketch of my innards and thoroughly explained what had happened based on their findings after the surgery. They found where the appendix had been leaking. It’s good to know that he wasn’t mistaken in his diagnosis and that all of this was not a waste of time or perfectly good suffering. He explained how the bacterial leakage immediately begins to spread throughout the stomach cavity and to attack where ever it lands. It forms a pock or small abscess and white blood cells go to work to kill it off. It was his opinion that the flu symptoms I was suffering could have been simply a reaction to the bacterial sickness going on inside of me. So… there’s a bit more evidence refuting the culpability theory that I caught something from the grand kids. It’s one of those questions that, I guess, we’ll never be able to answer for sure. So, quit feeling guilty Kotryna!!

Anymore, I have good days then I have bad ones. Today happens to be a sorta bad one. I’m just feeling sickly and not well all over. I’m a bit concerned because the incision continues to weep near the top. It has been a month since the surgery and it seems like it should be totally closed and dry by now. The doctor didn’t have much to say about it so I’ll assume that it’s OK for a while longer. Hopefully it stops weeping soon.

I continue to fight for an appetite. Food has to be very flavorful for me to want to eat it. I lost 25 lbs. before I finally began to gain again. Today, the scale says I’ve gained 5 so I’m only down 20 lbs. now. I generally have to force myself to eat so the weight gain hasn’t been easy but I’m encouraged to be making progress.

Sleeping and nausea have been a struggle too. I had been taking a pill to help with the nausea but then began suffering intense insomnia. While awake one night, I went online to investigate what could be the cause. I’m always suspect of medicines and, sure enough, Compazine (for nausea) listed insomnia as a side effect. What do I do now? I must sleep so I stopped the med and do my best to tolerate the nausea. It’s getting better with time, except for today! But how much time is required? I so dearly want to feel normal and whole again and I don’t understand why it’s taking so long. I try not to dwell on it for fear of depression taking hold but it’s difficult to deal with so many emotions. This has truly been a trial.

Interlude - Sometimes We Just Get Really Sick

A few have courteously inquired as to what has happened to cause such a lag in time between recent postings, the suspicion always being that something catastrophic has occurred. Well, something has occurred, perhaps more “semi” than catastrophic on the scale… but, here’s the whole story as best as my drugged and sedated memory can recall.

On July 27, I was admitted to Kaiser Permanente with intense, life-threatening abdominal pain. To some, turning to Kaiser would be considered to be a death sentence in and of its self! The initial exam suspected possible appendicitis but, because of my history with Irritable Bowel Syndrome, leaned toward a developing condition of diverticulitis or intestinal blockage, which is usually treatable with simple antibiotics. In extreme cases, surgery is required to remove the part of the intestine that is affected, which is not a pretty experience. An incision is made and the intestine is cut from the colon and the colon is stapled shut. The intestine is shortened to remove the infected area then a “new one” is cut and installed somewhere in the abdomen and a bag is installed to collect and manage all the waste until such a time as the GI track is healed and functional again whereupon the abdomen is re-opened and the intestine is re-attached to the colon in a traditional fashion and life goes on as ever before... assuming the psychological trauma of it all is kept in check! The very thought of the procedure makes me break into a cold sweat and when the doctor explained all of this and said that the only way to know for sure was to go in and see, well… I’m getting ahead of myself.

After a series of 2 CAT scans, each of which necessitated drinking a totally intolerable radiated sport drink that my body absolutely refused to hold down, the doctor decided that there appeared to be an abscess on my appendix, which appeared to be infected suggesting that it had ruptured and that it needed to come out. He installed a drain into the abscess and began pumping antibiotics hoping to clear up the infection, make the appendix healthy again, and then remove it orthoscopically in about 3 months. To do it this way is much less invasive.

Regretfully, he didn’t see the progress he had hoped for and began to suspect the possibility of 2 ailments occurring simultaneously; appendicitis and diverticulitis. He ordered a third intolerable CAT scan to better see what was going on and that’s when he said that the only way to know for sure was to go in and have a look. When I went under, I had the worst case scenario on my mind and I remember coming to after the surgery and asking the first person closest to me if there was a bag on my abdomen! She replied with a cheerful smile that all had gone well. It was only the appendix, which had been removed and that my intestine was in pretty good shape for such an old guy! With a sigh of relief I promptly fell asleep through the post-surgery recovery process. Had I known what lay ahead, I wouldn’t have sighed so prematurely.

In this type of appendectomy, it is possible to only close the muscle of the wound and leave the skin open, which allows a drain to remain inserted for several days to insure that all the infection is removed. When the drainage stops and the concern for infection passes, the drain is removed and the skin is then sewn closed and allowed to heal. Those several days were hell but when it came time to remove the dressing and close the wound… This was truly HELL! (Scuze my language!) Writing this makes my eyes tear up again as I recall the terror and pain of the doctor pulling timidly at the gauze that was by now dried and stuck down to raw skin and muscle tissue. I don’t know why they couldn’t have used a non-stick gauze, but they didn’t. I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt of knowing what they’re doing and assume that it isn’t possible to do it that way. If it was oversight, somebody’s neck deserves a mighty wringing! I remember helplessly laying there screaming profanities at the top of my lungs and then hearing him finally say, “There, it’s all off. That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” He’s fortunate that there were no bats or clubs within my reach!

My next recollection is coming to again and a pretty nurse saying, “There you go Mr. Gibb! You’re all sewed up and put back together again!” I should point out at this point that there is some discrepancy in the story here. Kathy claims that it wasn’t until the next day after the gauze incident that I was sewn up. I remember it happening immediately after the gauze incident, which would deserve double bats or clubs. If he was going to put me under to sew me up, why didn’t he put me under before he began to remove the gauze?

And thus began (because of the invasiveness of this style of appendectomy) my tedious and lengthy recovery process. I remember the pain drug of choice was morphine and that it included a self-medication button. It limited the frequency of doses but otherwise allowed me to choose when I needed more. That button became my best friend. I never lost it over the side of the bed or misplaced it in the covers. I was constantly aware of its where-abouts at all times and centered my entire life on its availability. Usually, I kept it gently coddled in my hand… cradling it to protect it from being lost or damaged lest it not be there when I needed it. It must have worked well because I don’t really remember suffering much pain but I do remember waking up and pushing that button over and over again. I remember the soothing sound of the intra-venous pump running 2 or 3 cycles in response to my push then, with a smile on my face, drifting back to sleep almost like going into a self-induced drug coma. It was bliss! I would make a good addict!

I remember one evening being agitated or upset about something. Most likely, I had been pushing my button but because it limited the frequency, it wasn’t allowing the fix I thought I needed. The nurses were just changing shifts and the new nurse mis-read my symptoms. I think she thought I was in pain and took it upon herself to give me more morphine. I, of course, was eternally grateful but it turned out to be a bit of an overdose. Kathy happened to have been there when this was going on and had an uneasy feeling about it all and decided to spend the night so as to keep an eye on the situation. I’m glad she did. It’s hard to tell how much damage I would have done to myself had she not been there to stop me. Because of their remoteness and busy schedules, the nurses would have never caught it or stopped me in time. She said that on at least 2 occasions she became awakened by my rustling about in bed. One time I was trying to undress myself. The other time I was diligently pulling off all of the heart monitor leads and anything else that was connected to me.

Kathy, “Leon, stop that!”
Leon, “Huh? Stop what?”
Kathy, “You shouldn’t be doing that!”
Leon, with child like innocence, “Oh! OK!”

I was way off the deep end that night, which brings up the next important point of this story; my eternal gratitude for Kathy’s diligence. With tearful acknowledgement I realize how difficult this whole experience would have been without her and her sane, un-hazed, and clear mind there keeping track of decisions on medications, schedules, and procedures. Knowing me like she does and her intuitiveness in which direction to take that would best benefit my improved health was verifiably invaluable beyond description. I’m a very blessed man to have somebody like her… willing to sacrifice so much sleep, time, and attention in my behalf in my times of need... when I was so undeserving. How can I possibly repay this debt or even begin to say an adequate thank-you? If the tables were turned, I know that I would come up miserably short when using her example as a comparative measuring stick of my devotions in her behalf. I don’t have a clue how she managed to sleep on that chair during the nights she chose to spend at the hospital. I don’t know where she found the ambition to wake up in the morning, make sure I was taken care of, and then spend the day at work only to return in the evening to do it all over again. And it’s not like this was the only time she has ever done this. There was the heart attack, followed by an allergic reaction to medication that attacked my lungs. That lasted 2 weeks in 1994 over the Christmas holidays. Then there was a suspected but unconfirmed second heart attack, a stroke, hernia surgery, and now appendicitis. I’m on pins and needles wondering what could possibly be next. Whatever it is, for sure I know where she’ll be throughout the “adventure.” Thank you, Kathy, for loving me.

So, after a 19 day stay, they finally released me to go home. Bear in mind that throughout my stay, until the last couple of days, I had been fed intravenously. I struggled to find my appetite again but it just wouldn’t come. I managed to eat by forcing myself and with the help of anti-nausea medications. Even the thought of food made me gag but I was determined to get the jump on my recovery. I diligently walked each day, which helped to wear me down so I could at least get a partial night’s sleep.

Then the worst of all circumstances struck. Somehow, I caught a stomach flu bug. Though there is no way to prove it, I most likely caught it from the grandkids that happened to be visiting when I came home from the hospital. The fact that my resistances were already quite low didn’t help much. I had diarrhea for 2 days then began to vomit uncontrollably. After 3 days of that Kathy decided that I wasn’t going to be able to fight this off on my own and set up with Kaiser for me to come back in.

At this point, acknowledgments and praise are due to Kaylen (our youngest son) who had also been suffering a more mild bout of the flu. (Before all was said and done, even Kathy eventually came down with it.) Kathy had been working out the arrangements with Kaiser while at work and when things fell into place, it was Kaylen who got himself up out of his sick-bed and hauled me back to the hospital. He, without complaining, spent the day there with me until Kathy got off work and finally relieved him.

They examined me and determined that I was grossly dehydrated and dangerously Potassium deficient. I spent 12 hours between my doctor’s office and the ER while they pumped 4 liters of fluids back in and replaced the missing Potassium. That was last Thursday, the 20TH. We got home about midnight and I have been feeling pretty good since. I still struggle feeling no “want” to eat and drink but manage to do OK. I can feel my systems slowly beginning to normalize. My wound itches and I count that to be a good sign as well.

I’m grateful to be healing and I try not to become disappointed when I think about all the time lost from working on the boat. There is already a month gone and I expect to probably spend another month recovering until I’ll be healthy and strong enough to manhandle the sander again. I had dearly hoped to have the boat painted by this fall and I now see the probability of that not happening. This puts me behind yet another season. The irony is that this is so “par for the course.” This whole boating dream has been nothing but a comedy of failures… one step forward two steps backward. One more failure and I’ll probably give up. I wish my boating brother would take compassion and show up one day willing to lend a helping hand. Knowing that somebody who loves you really cares brings such strength. I truly do not understand why he prefers to be left alone. I need him… I miss him. But he probably has his own burdens to deal with. As do I! First burden; get better!

Three Times the Charm - chapter one

Shortly after we moved to Canby, we became good friends with a family who lived on the outskirts of town. They had children about the same age as ours and we found various other interests in common. Their subdivision was one street long in the middle of a field, which was comprised of 10 or 15, one or two acre parcels. I remember the first time we went to their house. It was a meeting of some kind, a fireside with a guest speaker or maybe a business venture like Amway. They were into those kinds of things and we were willing to tolerate a sells pitch if it might solidify a friendship.

My wife and I turned the corner into their subdivision and as we drove along, I was checking out the neighborhood. About five houses in, I remember hitting the brakes and backing the car about 50 yards or so. I had to have another look to see if I had actually seen what I thought I saw.

Kathy rolled her eyes but had learned by now that this was typical behavior of her husband. I have always kept one eye on the road and one eye trained on the passing countryside and she learned early in our marriage to expect and tolerate sudden, un-forewarned U-turns so that I could check out potential vintage car restoration projects or really cool sailboats. I have even been known to discover homemade airplane projects being built in garages. Sometimes, the garage doors were even closed! That has been one of the perks from being disabled. They took away my driver’s license because they think I can’t see well enough to drive, which frees up both of my eyes to keep watch on the passing countryside. My visual impairment has so far not affected my capacity to spot reasons to turn around but, since I’m no longer the driver, I’ve surrendered not only my license but the authority to find value in U-turning. It turns out that she apparently didn’t enjoy all those little excursions as much as I did!

But, I digress! (If you aren’t familiar with the details of my disability, be patient. That story is chronologically still somewhere off in the future.)

It turned out to be a mobile home… a bit rundown with overgrown landscaping making it difficult to see past the front of the house. There didn’t appear to be anything unusual that was likely to catch my appeal. Yet, as we resumed our way on down the block there was something about it that stuck with me… a nagging itch that needed pacification.

On our way home after the meeting, I was determined to have another closer look and, despite my wife’s objections, I slowed substantially as we neared the mobile home. I’m sure, if someone was looking, we would have appeared somewhat conspicuous… strangers creeping down the road while pryingly gawking at everyone’s home. I found an opening between the jungle-ish landscaping that gave me visual access to the property behind, but it was so dark by now all I could make out was the dim outline of a small barn. Again, nothing that was likely to catch my appeal. Puzzled at why I should be drawn toward a scene that appeared so ordinary, I reluctantly dismissed the “itch” by concluding that I had only thought I had seen something.

It was a week or two later that I had my second opportunity to drive down that street. I had been assigned chauffeur duty for our oldest son who wanted another taste of country living. We lived in town in those days and playing in the wide open spaces of country life had an irresistible appeal to our children.

I had dismissed the itch so effectively that it didn’t occur to me until we were well past the mobile home. After dropping Loren off and I was driving back out, I again was determined to have one more look. I passed slowly so as not to miss anything and eventually arrived once again at the break in the shrubbery. I let the car creep along and again saw the barn beginning to come into view.

And… then… there she was. *Cue: orchestra, resolute romantic melody!*

THIS IS A SIMILARITY OF MY FIRST ENCOUNTER. THE ACTUAL BOAT WAS INDESCRIBABLY MORE BEAUTIFUL EVEN IN ITS NEGLECTFUL CIRCUMSTANCES!

There were trees close by benevolently trying their best to throw shade over her but through their limbs and leaves I could make out the shape of something very, very appealing. She was nestled in shoulder deep grass, the trailer was barely visible and blackberries were beginning to send their shoots across her foredeck. I stopped. I froze. I stared.

She had no mast but there was no question that she was for sailing. I quickly drank in as much of the scene that my hyped, adrenaline soaked hormones would allow my brain to absorb. Hormones? Yes… It was love at first sight! Definitely, hormones were involved.

To avoid being found suspected of invasion of privacy, I forced myself to continue on down the road. But by the time I reached the corner I had devised so many questions about what I had seen that I u-turned and went back for another look. I was headed in a direction that was more to my advantage this time and by slowing without stopping I was able to draw conclusions. Yes, there were scratches in her port quarter and yes, something was amiss with the rudder, the flow of its shape was distorted… broken perhaps. From this distance, it was difficult to know for sure. I also noticed that one of the legs of the bowsprit pulpit was sprung loose and hanging in mid-air.

Despite those several painful distractions, I could feel my heart amorously going thumpity-thump. This boat had obviously been neglected for a considerable time (judging from the mature overgrowth) and apparently had a traumatic history of some sort. As I drove back to town, my mind raced around several possible scenarios. Maybe the boat had been involved in a collision and the captain had been knocked overboard and lost at sea… or maybe murdered by pirates and his distraught, mourning widow didn’t have the heart to maintain the boat. Surely, she would eagerly welcome the opportunity to sell it for pennies on the dollar just to get rid of the ill memories and especially considering it was going to a romantic like me who had the skills and the yearning to return the boat to its luster.

What was I thinking? Even if that bereaved widow GAVE me that boat I couldn’t afford it. And by “affording it” I’m not necessarily talking only in monetary terms. I wasn’t sure I could afford to make room in my already too busy schedule for such a big project whose order of priority would tempt me to push it to the top of the list. I knew my mate would have something negative to say about that and, could I afford THAT?

It’s interesting how the realities of life turn out to be so distinctive from what you thought as a teenager it would be like. It’s not like I wasn’t happy with the choices I had made. It’s just that I discovered that the choices I made were conflicting with the dreams I had nurtured and I found a disparaging and ever widening gap growing between reality and my aspirations. I realized the possibility that my dreams might not come true, and to keep ahead of depression, I had to concede to the actuality that they weren’t dreams at all, but only fantasies.

Note to reader: I know, I know. I can see you now… pounding your fist on the table and screaming, “You idiot! That’s not how it goes! You NEVER let go of your dreams or you’re doomed to spend your life lamenting all the ‘what-ifs’ that never were.”

Well, for what it’s worth, that’s one of the reasons I’m writing all of this. I have learned that the process of surviving reality requires concession. You see, I didn’t let go of my dream and I’m now beginning to see how much it’s going to cost me (again not in monetary terms). I’m not really sure that the dream is worth the cost and I can see the real possibility that even the realization of my dream could cause me to lament a few “what-ifs” that might have helped avoid failure.

What is the equation that determines success or failure in life anyway? Who really knows? Of the estimated 6.8 billion inhabitants on earth, I would venture there are approximately 6.8 billion theories on what it takes to live a successful, fulfilling life. I guess the only way to validate all the diversity is to settle on the notion that it’s an individual thing. Everybody’s theory is right in its own way.

Another note to reader: Of you reading this who are religiously “zealoted” and caught up in the belief of absolute truth, I can see you now… pounding your fist on the table and screaming, “You idiot! I know you know that the ‘what-ifs’ aren’t important. Real success doesn’t come until the hereafter. In the meantime, all you need is faith, obedience, and service mixed with a yearning for food storage and genealogy to find fulfillment and happiness!”

Well, for what it’s worth, to that assertion I would add just this one more argument… … But, I digress!

I could hardly wait for the appointed hour to pick Loren up at his friend’s. I left 20 minutes early hoping to discretely spend a bit of time looking for more evidence of this boat’s history. When I got there I pulled off to the right at the view’s strategic location then pretended to be occupied by looking for something in the car. I spent the majority of time gazing intently at the boat in the distance while occasionally bending over and shuffling through the glove box. Just to be this close to her offered solace and peace as I memorized each detail of her seaworthiness and dreamed about the adventure she could provide.

Besides the times when we had occasion to visit our friend’s home, there were other times while traveling that I had the chance to see her again. From the road between Canby to Molalla, it was only about 2 miles out of my way to secretly slip down the street where she lived and enjoy another few intimate minutes of blissful pleasure together. Of course, typical of most married men looking for extramarital intrigue, I only took advantage of these little “side trips” when I traveled alone. I knew it was a lost cause to expect my wife to be indulgent of this diversion with another female, no matter how inanimate. My purpose in going there was to make sure she was still there and to see if she had been disturbed or changed in any way. With the exception of being occasionally relocated to various parts of the property, (I assume to facilitate pasture management) nothing ever changed.

To my children’s chagrin I confess… this illicit affair went on for years. I think that it all started in the early to mid 80’s and she and I didn’t come out of our closet until August of 1994. There were times when I was consumed with the need to visit her and times when years went by without any opportunities presenting themselves. Eventually, she hardly ever even crossed my mind. The pressures of earning an always-too-meager income to meet the needs of 7 children made it easy to neglect her. Besides, similar to the habits of those blessed few who have experienced true love, we had developed an understanding and confidence in each other. She knew where my devotions lay and that I would be back eventually. I knew she was patiently waiting for me and I had a deep-rooted, sixth-sense assurance that she wouldn’t be going anywhere soon.

Part 9

I sat toward the back of the class. It was a 9th grade U.S. history class at Pioneer Junior High… affectionately referred to as Pi. Hi. In those days, 9th grade was still part of Junior High. It was the first period after lunch and I was satiated, comfortable, and fighting off the urge to nap. The teacher was droning on in a boring monotone that was soothingly dull and guaranteed to make me lose the battle against sleep. I wished I knew which brilliant administrator it was who came up with the great idea of offering a U.S. History class right after lunch.

As my eyelids drooped and my head began to nod, my ears thought they heard the word “boat” and I was instantly awake again. He was saying something about Washington Crossing the Delaware, which was a rude let-down bringing me back to the cruel reality of a history subject, not a boating subject. At least with boats on my mind I might be able to avoid dozing while giving the appearance of paying attention and possibly steer myself clear of trouble.

I blocked him out and mentally reviewed my most recent conclusions regarding my next boat’s design criteria and performance expectations. They had been bumped up a notch due to my past experiences. A size increase would be necessary so that it could accommodate at least 2 crew members thereby eliminating the need to wait for a turn. The ability to keep water out was also high on my list. In my mind, to haul the weight of 2 boys equated to increased beam, freeboard, and draft. Esthetics seemed to have importance as well. I didn’t want to have to take responsibility for having created a monstrosity.

In the background of my daydream, I heard him tell us to get out a piece of paper and write down a few important dates that would for sure be on the next test. I reached for my spiral-bound and began thumbing through in search of a blank page. On my way there I got distracted by some of my more recent boat sketches. Some of them were beauties but far beyond my skill level. While he assumed that I was diligently taking notes, I penciled in weak places and accented important details on some of the unfinished drawings.

Because it was so readily available and affordable, I felt restricted to the dimensions of a 4X8 sheet of plywood. That meant that it needed to be as wide as 4 feet but could only be 8 feet long. This presented a problem designing something within those limitations that still had the pleasing visual characteristics of a boat. When drawn to scale, I found its appearance totally unacceptable because it tapered from 4 feet wide to a pointed bow within the confines of an 8 foot sheet of plywood. It looked stubby and awkward. I liked the feel of the three foot beam but wasn’t sure it would ride high enough to be comfortable for 2 people. A square bow lent decent proportions to the four foot beam but it almost caused me to break into a cold sweat because it reminded me of past experiences.

By now, I considered myself to be an experienced shipwright; one well versed in the use of plywood as a construction technique. Canvas and tar were definitely out! Despite my affinity for wood, I couldn’t help but notice the appearance and growing popularity of Fiberglass Reinforced Plastic (FRP) in boat construction. It was a relatively new medium of the day and only barely taken seriously for offshore work. For my purposes, it was the natural cure to all of my painful agonizing about how to keep the insides of my next boat dry. My early morning 30 minute library research sessions headed off in a new direction. It seemed fairly simple to do… easy enough for even a 14 year old. Take a half cup of resin, thoroughly mix in 12 drops of hardener and spread it on quickly before it had the chance to “kick” and turn into a solid block of plastic. It wasn’t long until I felt confident that I knew enough to give it a try. I was mentally ready to go. All I needed was to decide on the design I was going to build.

“Take out your textbooks,” the teacher droned. I raised the desktop and there sitting on top of my textbook was my recently checked-out library book, “Boat Building with Fiberglass” and temptation took an even deeper grip. I felt foolishly confident that if I managed to get it open on the desk in front of me perhaps he wouldn’t notice. It was slightly smaller than the textbook… about the size of a hymnbook and so I further disguised it by setting my notebook slightly over the top of it while I began to browse.

Speaking of hymnbooks…

Over the course of that school year, I became acquainted with Donna. She was my older sister’s age and enjoyed singing. She had a pretty soprano voice as I recall. My sister and I liked to sing and, sitting together in church, Jessie taught me all about harmony while singing hymns. In the years previous to puberty before my voice began to change, (I was probably about 9 or 10) we developed a pattern of singing together. If Jessie sang the melody, I would sing alto. If Jessie took the alto line, that afforded me the choice of melody or tenor. As my voice eventually began to drop, I discovered the thrill of being able to sing way down low on the bass line. It was probably my favorite because it was the foundation of the harmony and provided a solid sense of rhythm and confidence. However, over the years I learned that really good basses are hard to find but regular basses are a “dime-a-dozen”. Anybody can sing bass so I decided to be a tenor and fortunately, my “voice change” was kind to me and accommodated my resolve. I can’t remember mother ever involving herself in our harmonizing. I knew she sang even well enough to be in the church choir. I think when she heard us break into parts, she must have stopped singing just to listen.

One morning, when we began singing the opening hymn, we heard the sweetest soprano sounds coming from the pew behind us. Jessie immediately switched to alto, which forced me down to tenor and, golly, it was pretty! I didn’t dare turn around to see who that sweet sounding soprano was but it was obvious that she was tuned-in to the sounds of our trio as well.

After the meeting concluded, we discovered that it was Donna and the three of us got together and agreed that it would be fun to try something besides hymns. There was a talent show coming up, numerous school opportunities and, of course, the music chairman was always excited to learn about new sources for special musical performances in church. And thus began a life-long career and love of music and singing.

I suppose that because it was close enough for me to walk there after school, we decided to do our practicing at Donnas’ house. It was at one of these practices that I became acquainted with Don, Donnas’ dad and namesake. I knew who he was but until then I didn’t really know him. He had a calm way of imparting wisdom that taught me so many important, timelessly valuable lessons about life. He was a gentle, loving man and as a result of the friendship that evolved, I will be eternally grateful and forever in his debt for his selfless kindnesses and personable interest in me. I only wish that I had one more chance to talk to him. I’d spell out the depth of my appreciation with a big ol’ bear hug.

As you can imagine, practicing with Jessie and Donna involved tolerating considerable girlish chit-chat, which occasionally caused us to (in my opinion) waste a lot of time. While patiently waiting one day for their gossip sessions to wind down so we could head for home, Donnas’ dad noticed my boredom and sympathetically invited me out to his garage.

When we entered, I immediately could tell that he hadn’t parked his car in there for a long time. There was sawdust everywhere. It was a large garage and directly in the middle I recognized a table saw. Lining the walls and set up in various spots throughout the area were numerous other tools most of which I had no idea what task they performed. I saw blades and bits and switches and cords running everywhere. There was a strong, sweet smell of a mixture of oak, fir, and glue and off to the side was a project in progress that had shelves and lots of clamps. I felt like I had just crossed the veil and this must be what heaven smelled like.

“So, what do you think?” he asked.
“I think this is really neat!” I responded. “What does that one do?”
“Oh, it lines up the blogenphlap with the forthfernaught then trims them flush.”

I had no idea what he was talking about but he sure sounded authoritative like he knew everything there was to know. Then I noticed that his right hand was missing a finger.

“What happened?” I pried, gesturing toward his hand.

He then took the opportunity to spend 20 minutes instilling in me a healthy fear and a cautious respect for the destructive powers of the spinning blade of a table saw. He made me swear that I would tirelessly and devotedly pay homage to its supreme authority.

“When that blade is turning, IT is in charge, not you!” he boisterously ordered.” Never close your eyes or turn your back on that tool when the motor is on,” he emphatically demanded with a drill sergeant’s tact. “You’ll never win a battle against THAT blade, I promise you! When YOU’RE not paying attention, IT will be.”

Clearly he loved the tool but hated it at the same time. As I resisted the urge to vomit, I was almost sorry I brought it up!

Note to reader:
Although I’ve had my share of close calls over the years and have even on several occasions lost skin and blood as a result of that blade’s gruesome, deadly, and unyielding vengeance, I feel blessed to be able to announce that I still have all of my fingers. His graphically dreadful admonitions that day must have sunk in and scaring the bajeebas out of me paid off. (Knock on wood because I’m not done with the table saw yet!)

Reflections

Chronologically out of order. Maybe a better word would be chrono-illogically. I wrote this sometime last winter (2008). It had been raining for days and I was in one of those “moods”… tired of all the cold rain and antsy for spring and to be out working on the boat. I think that my conscience was working on me. I must have been suffering some guilt for ignoring her for so many years.


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Three Times the Charm

I look out past the back deck at my baby... lonely, cold and neglected... half under the shop roof, half under a tarp. Granted, these meager accommodations are much nicer than she has been accustomed to, but still... I can almost hear her whispering curses at me for ignoring her for so long. I'm reluctant and almost embarrassed to go to the shop for a tool because I have to walk so closely past her and I don't even stop to visit. I glance up at her and I can feel the communication... the mutual, kindred desire for each other tugging us together much akin to the experience of locking eyes with a beautiful stranger in a public place. The attraction, the titillation, and the twinkle in her eye that says she likes what she sees... the coy smile that you return in concurrence... then, you force yourself to pass her by. She was excited with anticipation then bitterly disappointed, to be jilted once more... to feel the rug of a potentially intimate rendezvous crassly jerked out from under her.

As I pass by her on my return trip to the house to resume my remodeling chores, I can almost hear her stifle a tearful shudder and a deep, remorseful sigh... or was it just the wind in the trees? Puzzled, I can't resist stopping and turning to look back at her one more time before passing through the back door into the house. Even when she's sad I don't think that in my nearly 60 years I've ever seen anything compare with her poise, beauty, and graceful elegance. She catches my glance and quickly hides her tears and, with almost canine devotion, she smiles back hopefully, in a sentimental display of understanding, tenderness, and forgiveness.

To some, she is just a boat. To others, she is a hugely frivolous nuisance… a distraction that sucks the life out of priorities and makes a mockery of worthwhile time invested. In church when they talk about boats, it’s in scornful reference to covetousness and the evils of breaking the Sabbath day… or squandering money that could be better spent on sacred things. Never mind that it was an Ark that preserved humanity… and a ship that carried an ancient prophet’s family to settle Central America. In Sunday school, it’s conveniently overlooked that both of those voyages had to have caused a compromise of latter-day definitions about what constitutes acceptable Sabbath day activities. By contrast, they knowingly and approvingly smile at the testimonials of those who twiddle away the Sabbath day in appeasement of their genealogical hobbies.

Despite all the contemptuous notoriety, to me, she is an empathetic companion who cures idleness and discouragement… a therapeutic ointment for a broken heart. She bolsters me up and gives me youthful vigor. She fills my life’s need to have goals, dreams, hope and reason to keep going. She is a work of art in progress… the dollop of clay in the artist’s hand prepared to be molded into something beautiful… a rough sketch on canvas awaiting the joinery of wooden brush strokes to give her color, definition, and personality.

She is 26 feet of shapely bends, swoops and curves that sit atop a strong, full and heavy keel all of which proclaim ‘seaworthy.’ Her sheer line is filled with utter magic that causes the eye of the passerby to stop and stare almost in disbelief. “Did I really see that?” he asks himself as he rubs his eyes to sharpen his view. “Are my eyes deceiving me? How is it possible that a designer could capture that much character and charm in the simple twist of her sheer?”

Thomas Gilmer obviously knew what he was doing. There is a natural attraction exuding from her lines that causes even the most lubberish of landlubbers to stop and ponder and yearn to know more about this boat. What’s her name? Where did she come from? Who designed her? But, even knowing those facts never seems enough. They want to talk about how she handles in this or that condition and where she’s been and where she’s off to. They can tell just by looking at her that she is destined to voyage and that she must have a unique story that they thirst to hear.

She does. And I feel an irresistible compulsion to share it with them. It’s not an easy story to tell. It’s already full of a complex mixture of pleasure and trauma. She’s a two time survivor before she’s even been completely finished and seaworthy. Her first catastrophe was falling victim to an icy winter storm’s attempt to drown her but she managed to keep enough above water to stay alive. The second was an attempt to burn her down but a compassionate fireman heard her cries for help and saved her first. This is her third chance and most likely my last chance. This time around, for her it will be… “Three times the charm.”

Interlude

In the previous posting I confessed that I don’t believe in luck. This confession might deserve an explanation. While writing about that experience I encountered, by timely coincidence, an author whom I am growing to respect and who explains it better than I. Tommy Cook (a sailor, naturally!) has a sixth sense with which he reads my heart and pens my feelings on the subject: “You see, ‘luck’ is merely a word contrived to sell me lotto tickets and get me to the casino or to allow me to explain away another’s hard work, ‘he’s sure lucky’”. To see the entire explanation in its eloquence, click on
http://www.arcticsolosail.com/blog/
Find the entry of May 14, 2009 titled “Luck”. It’s a worthwhile and enjoyable read.

part 8

Until this point in time, I felt heavily the weight of our predicament but had managed to stay collected; confident that survival was still within our reach. I could see the shore only another 200 feet or so away but, as the boat quickly filled with water and began its decent, doubts and questions about my swimming abilities arose in my mind and I felt my confidence in survival begin to wane. I became particularly anxious when I heard Joe frantically call out that he didn’t know how to swim. “Why, I asked myself, did he wait until now to bring that up?”

The facts of what rapidly transpired in the next minute or two are not really clear in my mind. I’m sure that, at the moment, my mental processes were preoccupied by fear. What is clear today is that what happened was nothing short of a miracle.

I’m pretty sure that Joe’s announcement caused me to finally give in to panic because I believed that it was very likely that Joe was going to perish that day. I felt like my swimming skills were probably good enough for me to save myself but I knew that I didn’t have the training or stamina to save myself and Joe. I also feared that my valiant lifesaving attempt would most likely cause the loss of my own life. I was faced with making a quick and dreadfully mature and consequential decision.

In those fleeting few seconds of terror, my life began to pass before my eyes (as folklore testifies) and I reflected on the opportunities I had had to learn better swimming skills. Most recently; just that past summer at Boy Scout camp on Wallowa Lake, I had declined to sign up for any waterfront instruction. The water was so cold it was all I could do to pass the qualifying swim test. There was no way that I could persuade myself to want to return and willingly get in that frigid water again. If someone had told me then that it might have made the difference between my best friend’s life and death, I would have done it. At least, in those fleeting few seconds of terror, I wished that I had done it.

I suppose that I could turn this into an incredibly believable Hollywood epic screenplay (as believable as all of their screenplays are) by elaborating on how a porpoise miraculously came out of nowhere and scooped Joe up and towed him to shore. Or, maybe a fisherman’s boat suddenly appeared at the last moment. Or, Joe’s dad had coincidentally installed floats on his airplane and swooped out of the sky to save his son. But, what really happened, though equally miraculous, wasn’t nearly so dramatic.

As the boat went under I felt a natural inclination to take a stroke or two in an effort to escape the area and avoid becoming entangled in loose canvas. I looked for Joe and saw him a ways off, thrashing his arms and pleading for help. I stopped and treaded water in a vertical position while I pondered what I was going to have to do. Joe was, by now, choking and gasping for breath. I can only imagine the depth of helpless despair and the breadth of fear that he must have been suffering in those moments as he fought with the realization that these were his last. I know that I agonized at the prospect of watching him drown and knew that I didn’t have a strong enough character to cold-heartedly abandon him in his need. I felt my decision process leaning toward dying together rather than having to live with myself knowing that I didn’t even try.

It was while I was floating there that it happened. I expected to see him, at any second, go under for the last time. I kicked my legs such as to put myself into a swimming posture that would take me to Joe’s aid and I thought that I felt something beneath my feet. I extended my legs out straight and, to my surprise, (and huge relief) I found myself standing in water, chin deep! With only seconds to spare I propelled myself to Joe’s side and felt his trembling arms wrap around me in a death grip. Had the water been as deep as we assumed that it was, there would have been no way to have freed myself from his grasp and he would have taken me down with him.

I had to yell at him to penetrate his hysteria and get him to comprehend that all was well and that we weren’t going to die after all. With both of us now standing, we made our way together toward shore. I say together because Joe refused to let go of me until we arrived into knee deep water.

We sat together on the shore waiting for our composure to return. Words weren’t necessary. Tearful gratitude and indebtedness were thick in the air between us as we savored the sweet fragrance of each life sustaining breath we inhaled. Besides, expressions of gratitude weren’t applicable. I didn’t really save Joe’s life. One… I was there and, two… Joe was there, but it was the third element that saved us both. We were either lucky or blessed, depending on your definition and based on your source of faith. As for me, I don’t accept that it was luck because I don’t believe in it.

Finally, I heard Joe mutter, “We gotta get the canvas off that boat or my stepdad will make me wish I had drowned today!”

In all of these years, the ramifications and humbling significance of this experience has never occurred to me until writing this story. I now have a better understanding of my empathetic nature… … Life is just too short and too precious to waste it caught up in ourselves.

Interlude

Author’s note…
It has come to my attention that there may be some discrepancies or inaccuracies in the facts of these recollections. After some 45 plus years since their occurrences, I’ll admit that my memory has a tendency to let me down a bit. I know that these events happened and that most of them involved other people. The shortcomings of my mental diary may have caused a mix-up concerning the locations of which events that involved what person. Add to that the fact that these were adolescent experiences now recounted through an adult’s perspective with a more mature interpretation and, the others who were there might be left wondering why their recollection is different than mine. In other words; I may not have precisely told my friend “not to dawdle too long lest he sink and be lost at sea” but, had I been 59 years old on that day, I surely would have.

Anyway… back to the story!

Part 7

Fortunately, the day started out relatively calm and, with the lack of much wave action on the water, the absence of reserve buoyancy was not brought to our attention as an issue of concern. Despite our youthful vigor, it was slow going. We were getting a practical lesson on why boats tend to have a pointy front end! As a result of the arduous trek to the reservoir combined with the boat’s enthusiastic reluctance to move forward through the water, we tired of paddling and took a break about midway across.

Amazingly enough, the canvas appeared to be doing its job as the boat’s floorboards were still, for the most part, dry. We did notice that the action of the water against the hull had begun to loosen the folds and the canvas was now starting to bulge inward through the spaces between the boards. We amused ourselves for a considerable time by playing “squishy toes” with the numerous canvas protuberances that were forming. This distraction caused us to lose our attention to the environment around us until we noticed that waves were beginning to wash over the sides. The wind had begun to pick up and the calm, serene lake had taken on a new, menacing look.

It wasn’t difficult even for 14 year old boys to conclude that we might be in trouble if a storm was brewing in which case standing on shore had a much greater appeal to our vulnerabilities. A quick survey revealed that we were as far away as we could get from each and every shore-side haven of safety so instinct told us that the prudent thing to do was to return to where we had departed… and to get there as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, our departure spot was precisely the direction from where the wind was originating, putting it right on our nose. After 5 minutes of hard paddling we could tell that we were not making much progress and compounding our problem was the fact that paddling into the wind caused the waves to splash against the square bow, which offered just the boost they needed to facilitate invading the boat.

I looked Joe in the eye as he looked in mine and I could discern genuine fear as I’m sure he saw in mine. In those few seconds, self-chastisement passed through my mind as I realized that again I had failed to secure my mother’s approval and again I was in trouble. Even worse, she didn’t know where I was and if I never came home they wouldn’t know where to start looking. Determination to survive displaced my natural yearning to panic and knowing that somebody needed to take charge and since I was the experienced sailor I ordered, “Let’s go the other direction!” Rather than turn the whole boat we simply swung ourselves around on the thwart and started paddling downwind. I guess that was the genius of that design… interchangeable bows.

We paddled for a few minutes and could detect good progress albeit in the wrong direction and then it occurred to me out-loud, “Why are we working so hard when the wind is blowing? Take off your shirt, Joe!”

In a flash, I had mine off and demonstrated what I had in mind. We threaded the body of our T-shirts over the paddles with one handle running out through each sleeve, one shirt above the other. We each held our spar vertically presenting the shirts unfurled against the wind like a square rigger and we soon found ourselves clipping along at a good pace.

At some point still a ways from shore a particularly big gust of wind threatened to topple our masts so to counteract the increased forward pressure and to take advantage of the extra speed it might contribute, we instinctively put our feet up against the forward bow to gain leverage. This, we quickly discovered, was the wrong thing to do as it created a suicide fulcrum that forced the bow to nose down which scooped even more liquid ballast into our keel. I’m sure by now that at least one of the two of us was wishing he had thought to bring a bucket. I guess that sometimes it’s possible to incite a jinx by not installing a bilge pump.

Having precious little room for any additional weight onboard and the presence of a quickly rising internal water level threw a scare into Joe that caused him to jump to his knees and begin frantically scooping water over the side with his hands. The problem was that the location of the thwart forced Joe to kneel ahead of the fulcrum and the added weight forward again dipped the bow and all the internal water came rushing to the lowest point. The combined consequences of those two actions and their obedience to the principles of gravity began an irreversible and unrecoverable chain reaction.

We were going down!

(Continued... be patient Charisa, the next one is the harrowing conclusion!)

Part 6

As the summer came to a close, preparations began for the start of a new school year. Being industriously preoccupied with my flourishing paper route business and the purchase of school clothes and supplies, the summer got away from me and I knew that my next boat-building venture would probably have to wait until the following spring. That’s not to say that I would stop thinking about it. With the beginning of school came a happy reunion with the library and frequent trips there continued to nurture my dreams and fortify my knowledge. I rarely wasted much time doing actual school studies in study hall. Instead, I doodled and sketched various angles and views of an assortment of potential hull shapes that I thought might be seaworthy.

With this new school year came a new friendship. Joe had moved into town at the close of summer and lived only a few blocks from my home. He was an adventurous boy who often shared stories about his “real” dad who lived in Montpelier, Idaho. His dad owned an airplane and when Joe went to live with him for the summer, they would spend many hours together exploring Bear Lake and the Utah Rockies by air. Joe bragged that his dad often let him fly the plane, even landing it once. As all boys seem to have to do, I established my own credibility by equally stretching the truth about the infinite success of my boatbuilding and sailing adventures on the mighty Snake River. Through Joe, I developed an intrigue for flight, which has never left me. Through me, Joe developed an intrigue for boating and soon embarked on his own boatbuilding project.

He invited me over after school one evening to inspect the product of his boat shop. It had a rectangular shape with square corners… about 3 feet wide by about 5 feet long. The sides were straight, up and down and fore and aft and approximately 14 inches high. The bottom of the hull was flat until it approached the bow and stern wherein it took off upward at a 45 degree angle to intersect with the deck. My first impression was that it resembled a cement mixing box. It reminded me of the boat pictured in this posting’s leading graphic portraying Pogo’s preferred water transport. Pogo was a newspaper cartoon strip that older readers might recall.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pogo_(comics)
Maybe that’s where Joe got his inspiration. At any rate, it was a boat and as such it deserved respect and nobility and I was careful to neither criticize nor joke about its appearance. It was built of 1X6 material and it appeared that his lumber supply was insufficient and to stretch the number of boards to complete the project, he had left huge gaps between each board. I felt a reminiscent cringe begin to creep up my spine as I reflected on water’s vindictive need to invade displaced areas.

When I tactfully pointed out that it was likely to leak somewhat, he informed me that that was the reason he had invited me over. Given my vast experience and knowledgeable background in the boating field, he was hoping I might have some suggestions. “How much are you willing to spend,” I asked? “How much are you willing to lend me,” he countered?

Having established that this project had a budget of $0.00, we began snooping around in his stepfather’s garage for any possible solution. I spotted what appeared to be a folded tarp on a shelf beneath some boxes of storage. After wrestling it down, we opened it up and found it to be, for the most part, of good integrity, lacking holes or tears, however a bit large for our needs. To avoid getting into trouble with his stepfather, instead of cutting it to fit, we set the hull atop the tarp and carefully folded it up and over the gunwales (pronounced “gunnels” to rhyme with “tunnels”) and stuffed the excess inside the boat. By making tidy darts in the folds, we managed to keep an overall tight and neat appearance... sort of like wrapping a Christmas gift.

I should point out that this tarp was not like what you might be imagining. This time in history preceded the invention of the lightweight “blue” plastic tarps that are so abundantly available to this generation. This was back in the old days when tarps were “real”… a manly style of heavy-duty woven canvas that was heavily reinforced along the edges and in the corners. It was surrounded by huge industrial strength bronze grommets and, as was customary in those days, it had been thickly saturated in an oily water-proofing solution to make it repel paints or water or any other moisture which it might be guarding against. What I’m trying to say is; this tarp was heavy! It probably weighed as much or more than the lumber used in the construction of the boat. The fact that there was probably twice as much as we needed was no help in economizing the weight.

With a minimum number of shingle nails, we tacked the boat skin in place along the top edge of the gunwales (did you pronounce it right?) until we were satisfied that it would stay in place. We parted company after finalizing the time and itinerary of the test launch.

Bright and early on the following Saturday, we met at Joe’s house. The plan was to carry the boat by hand over a 3 mile trek to the reservoir on the outskirts of town. We had traversed this trail numerous times by bike and were confident that it wouldn’t be impossible to do… at least, until we tried to pick the boat up. An alternate plan was necessary and easily accomplished. Joe borrowed his little brother’s wagon and we loaded it on and headed down the road. We traded off the job of pulling, while the other steadied and pushed.

Hiking those 3 miles that day was further and steeper than it had ever been before. Frequent stops for rejuvenation prolonged the hike to cover the space of 3 hours but eventually water was in sight. Exhausted, we rested on the bank and surveyed the expanse before us.

In writing this, I revisited the reservoir via Google Earth for the purpose of determining exactly how much area the lake was comprised of. As we sat there that day contemplating crossing to the other side, to our youthful eyes the far shore seemed to be a distant ocean away. In reality and to my memory’s surprise, it is considerably less than a mile at its widest point… but a healthy crossing nonetheless.

Eventually, our strength returned and we busied ourselves unloading and preparing the boat for the voyage. Joe produced two paddles from inside the boat that I hadn’t noticed before… probably on account of the heaps of canvas hiding their presence. The handles were made of 2X2 lumber and the blades were small pieces of plywood nailed at the bottom. He had also installed a thwart amidships by nailing a 2X4 atop the gunwales that spanned the width of the boat. This would allow us to sit side by side and propel ourselves through the water. It appeared that he had thought of everything except a bucket for bailing… undoubtedly our juvenile optimism prevented thoughts of its eventual need from occurring. After all… who wants to jinx a boat by installing a bilge pump? As it turned out, a leaky hull was the least of our problems!

We pushed, pulled, and prodded with all our might to drag the boat from the wagon to the water’s edge. As it entered the shallow depths, we expected the load to become easier but instead, the mud seemed to grab and hold the boat to the bottom. Undaunted, we continued on while I remember thinking, “How much more water is it going to take to make this thing float?”

Finally, we felt the boat moving freely from the clutches of the lakebed but Joe pointed out that there were only about 7 inches of freeboard left and we hadn’t even boarded yet. I took the opportunity to expound eloquently on the principles of how the center of balance needed to be low in the keel, which makes the boat more stable. Weight equates to depth, which in turn must equate to stability. By the time that we had boarded, it was obvious that our keel had plenty of depth but I’m not sure that our center of balance was located in the area that the theories of my eloquently expounded principles were recommending.

With a mere 4 inches of freeboard, we paddled into deeper water. I’m almost embarrassed to admit this but, in my defense I’ll again use my age as my excuse by pointing out that I had only barely turned 14 and how youthful vigor and enthusiasm has a propensity to interfere with sound reasoning. This prevented us from donning appropriate safety gear such as lifejackets. Of course in those days, I don’t believe that there were any lifejacket laws on the books yet. I suppose that the authorities assumed that such laws shouldn’t be necessary since anybody with an ounce of brains would never even consider going out on the water without appropriate floatation or other rescue devises close at hand. Now that I think about it, throughout all of my teenage boating escapades, with the exception of the few times that I water skied, I never owned or wore a lifejacket until I was married with children and finally recognized the fragility and profundity of life. I suppose that I owe a Hail Mary or two since the only way that I could have possibly survived my teenage years was through the good graces of Deity alone.

But, I digress…

With a mere 4 inches of freeboard, we paddled into deeper water.