Category: Life on board

1981. The year my boat the Katahdin was built must have been a banner year for the carpet industry. The mottled blue, burgundy and gray nylon product was bank lobby ugly, totally indestructible, and used just about everywhere. Vee berth sidewalls, the painted gray 1” plywood flooring in the main salon, galley and aft berth, and tiny odd shaped premolded cream colored plastic floors of the two head (bathroom) kits.

I don’t know if you remember the 80’s. But… some addled boat designer dictated carpet for galley, salon and head floors. For those of you with imagination, you can guess what happened. To the carpet. Over the past thirty-nine years. Food spills in the galley-red sauce, spaghetti, milk, orange juice, salad dressing, ketchup, mustard, olive oil, bacon grease, jelly and jam, coke, diet sodas, left overs of dubious age, and in the head- shampoo, conditioner, lotion, make-up, lipstick, patch em up medical products, blood, soap, seasick, and toothpaste. Based on first hand evidence, add black coffee, coffee with fake creamer, buckets of red wine, knocked over beers, and the detritus of meal accidents served on board a boat in rough weather.

Removal. The original install had been super simple. Cut and fit. The carpet was so heavy no glue needed. Engine room access was under the main salon floor, and I think the plan was to roll up the carpet when engine work needed. But, like everything else on the boat, time had aged the carpet to rigor mortis level stiff. It took a heavy duty box cutter and a pile of blades to cut the rigored nylon into manageable size pieces I could lift and toss out the door. By contrast, carpet in the tiny odd shaped head sections were a piece of cake. Big surprise was discovering a second, virgin, sparky clean carpet hidden under the dirty top layer. I guess the previous owners never found that clean layer either….

Most difficult removal project: carpet glued to the Vee berth sidewalls. Industrial grade glue-designed to withstand a nuclear explosion-held that stuff in place. I lift weights and work out, but at 73 could not budge even one tiny corner, and ended up bringing in David Lyon, who is young, cute and super strong to pull it off the walls. It was sort of amazing. He walked in, grabbed a loose corner and slowly peeled the carpet away from the sidewalls. Brute strength won. Once gone and out the door, a vacuum removed an army of dust mites and old glue. The surface was ready for the next stage.

Three years ago, May 31, 2017, to be exact, I purchased the Katahdin, a 1981 California Marshall trawler plus the 35 foot slip where she was moored in Marina 1, Santa Barbara, CA. Total cost of boat and slip-rounded up, including transfer fees-@$118,000.00. Immediately after that date, the “cost” associated with actually owning the Katahdin started to go up. First expense was a misbehaving head (think toilet), and after that first surprise, the collective cost that long term benign neglect adds to any project.

When I worked as housing consultant and colorist I would sometimes advise a client not to buy a home because it would “nickel and dime them to death”. Meaning the house would eat you up financially, in itty, bitty bites. Relentless, ongoing, continual expensive little bites. I have to laugh, because the Katahdin has been a “nickel and dimer” from the very beginning. Fix one part and another goes kaput. Without fail. Now I am now amused, but early days… not so much. First big problem. The head. It worked fine until I bought the boat, and then it didn’t. I am older and use the toilet three times a night. On average. Running a block to use the toilets in our marina. At 2:00 in the morning? Nope. That first head problem took almost three weeks to solve. Biggest challenge was actually figuring out what was wrong with head. Which… was a complete mystery. Followed by… getting replacement parts for a boat built in 1981. $1,000.00 later, the head worked, sort of. But it wasn’t until two years later-for another $1,110.00-was the problem actually solved. And by then every stinky part, from pump to valves, had been replaced. I have come to realize this process-the gradual solution- is normal. And takes a team of knowledgeable people to solve problems on older boats. A team of experts. My team consists of Jim Wulff, who is 80 and has been a mechanic since the Napoleonic Wars. He probably knows more than any five young mechanics put together. Jim, combined with David Lyon, younger and very knowledgeable, strong and eye candy cute, are my go to problem solving staff.

Issue number two. Benign neglect. Everywhere. Most of the trim on the Katahdin was either peeling, or had been sloppily recoated with a glossy finish. With no prep work to ready the surface, the new product was destined for failure. Probably one the most significant projects on the boat has been restoring the wood trim. West coast weather- relentless sun and wicked UV levels, salt air, pooing pigeons, chafing lines, and Noah’s Ark level rain storms- had taken a toll on every inch of wood. My original intent was to personally scrape, sand and redo the trim, but I quickly realized that task took skills and time I did not have. I hired local talent: Mike Lura, who spent months stripping, sanding and coating the exterior trim with Cetol Marine finish. Cost, around $6,000.00. Cash. For four coats of finish on all the windows, and most of the exterior trim. Worth. Every penny. Though not totally finished, enough has been done so my boat looks loved. No longer a wreck. And I love it when men-always men-walk by and sniff the newly finished trim. And smile. Is this sniff and smile for fresh marine finishes built into the gene pool?

Small scale storm has hit the coast, part of a wet patch slamming southern Cali. Longed for and much needed rain. Not quite biblical proportions, but large enough to beach boats tethered outside the protection of the harbor, and wreak havoc on an escaped jib three boats away.

Rain. We needed. Badly. But… at this moment in time all the wet stuff- coupled with the coronavirus- is a lot to take in. All events: musical; social; fundraising; and academic have been cancelled. Over age 65- we have been asked to self isolate. Restaurants can stay open, but patrons are to engage in “deep social distancing”. Most stores-with no buyers-closed up shop. Schools are shuttered, though plans are developing to arrange for food for needy students. How this will unfold is a WIP. Patience matters, and I encourage you to be kind. Reaction to this pandemic seems extreme, but…looking at the statistics coming out of China, and the fatalities in Italy. I think wise. Better to overreact, than not. This fatality chart gave me the willies. NOTE: The chart maybe a bit boring, so jump to age/death rates-figures. That’s where the excitement lies…. and why shutting down society as we know it-the right thing to do.

Age, Sex, Existing Conditions of COVID-19 Cases and Deaths. Last updated: February 29, 4:40 GMT. There are two sources that provide age, sex, and comorbidity statistics:

The Report of the WHO-China Joint Mission published on Feb. 28 by WHO, [2] which is based on 55,924 laboratory confirmed cases. The report notes that “The Joint Mission acknowledges the known challenges and biases of reporting crude CFR early in an epidemic” (see also our discussion on: How to calculate the mortality rate during an outbreak)
A paper by the Chinese CCDC released on Feb. 17, which is based on 72,314 confirmed, suspected, and asymptomatic cases of COVID-19 in China as of Feb. 11, and was published in the Chinese Journal of Epidemiology [1]
We will list data from both, labeling them as “confirmed cases” and “all cases” respectively in the tables.

Age of Coronavirus Deaths
COVID-19 Fatality Rate by AGE:

*Death Rate = (number of deaths / number of cases) = probability of dying if infected by the virus (%). This probability differs depending on the age group. The percentages shown below do not have to add up to 100%, as they do NOT represent share of deaths by age group. Rather, it represents, for a person in a given age group, the risk of dying if infected with COVID-19.

AGE
DEATH RATE
confirmed cases
DEATH RATE
all cases
80+ years old
21.9%
14.8%
70-79 years old
8.0%
60-69 years old
3.6%
50-59 years old
1.3%
40-49 years old
0.4%
30-39 years old
0.2%
20-29 years old
0.2%
10-19 years old
0.2%
0-9 years old
no fatalities

*Death Rate = (number of deaths / number of cases) = probability of dying if infected by the virus (%). The percentages do not have to add up to 100%, as they do NOT represent share of deaths by age group.

In general, relatively few cases are seen among children.

I said this chart gave me the willies, but… not because I am in the 8% mortality group. For other reasons. For friends and family. For my nephew who just lost his job yesterday. He was a restaurant cook in a large business. The business closed its doors to prevent the spread of the virus and fired him. The companies staff can work remotely, but not William. True, he will be able to collect unemployment-but only half the dollars of his take home pay. And he is the tip of the human iceberg. Homeless folks caught in this cold rain-I saw 36 degrees tonight on weather chart-will be at high risk. My thoughts leap to at risk populations: immigrant children in crowded detention centers; our packed prison population, to students who receive meals-maybe their only dependable meal-in schools now shuttering doors. I realize there is so much to take in. And how not to feel discouraged?

I am by nature an optimist. I see the glass half full. And also know… that glass is half empty. I like some of the changes I’ve seen in just the past 24 hours. Time is no longer a precious commodity. Rush. Rush, rush. Nope. The clock hands have slowed. And with slower time comes the realization that thinking is important-to decide what really matters. And I see friends reaching out. A man I have not see since we graduated from college- 53 years ago-sent a lovely video of his amazing grandchildren this morning. Other friends have called to just “check in”. We all have a pile of books to read. I recommend: The Lost Children Archive by Valeria Luiselli; Thomas Jefferson, The Art of Power by John Mecham; The Cult of Trump by Steven Hassan; and Wounded Shepard (Pope Francis) by Austen Ivereigh. Plus lots of trashy romances and light stuff to balance out that first serious reading pile of books….

I hope this crisis moves the discussion of universal health care forward. I hope it encourages us as a nation to look at income inequality. To see we need each other, and to care for one another. By the time the crisis ends I hope we will have made the choice to elect a new President, and new leadership in Congress. Someone/s-the additional “s” is deliberate- inspirational. Someone who can lead us to a safe harbor in a big fat storm.

My boat, a 1981 Marshall Californian, was designed for families, for trips up and down the coast and extended travel. Her dual fuel tanks hold 400 gallons of fuel, with a cruising range of 800 miles. The owner’s manual says she was designed to sleep seven. Two persons in the tiny aft berth, two on a bed made from seven very firm cushions in the main salon L shaped seating area, and three in the V-berth. All sleeping areas were tested by me. Personally. And the results. Vary. A lot.

When I first bought the boat, I slept in the aft berth. It was-at that point-the cleanest snoozing spot. The aft berth is located in the back of the boat. Aft berth size: 9’ wide and 7’ feet deep. That’s tinnier than a typical small–very small-bedroom, and this one has a lot jammed into those 63 square feet. Contents:  one narrow, non-standard size mattress wrapped in very noisy plastic (I learned why it was wrapped in plastic during the first rain storm) on an odd platform that contains the boat’s never used water filtration system; a bathroom-or in boat speak -“ head”- which contains a tiny shallow metal sink on a tiny cabinet base, a “step on a lever” style vacuum toilet, and one “we cannot use in the harbor” shower; for clothing storage: one wood bureau with 6 cigar size, hard to open drawers and a small shirt cabinet that stank of diesel fuel. Moldy lined, blue and white striped cotton curtains covered all windows. The bed. Let’s start with the mattress size: 46” wide by 80” long-custom-which means it cost significantly more than its standard counterpart. Neither twin or queen size mattress covers, sheets or blankets fit quite right. The first too small, the second too big. Plus, the bed was jammed in the corner. And I do  mean jammed in a corner. See photo. I am 74, swiftly heading toward 75, and getting up to pee at 2:00 was a royal pain. Contortionist skills were needed to get out-and back in- bed, and that particular location-for the first year-was cold and damp due to two leaky windows.

This  berth is now totally different, and feels like a comfy bedroom. And only one window still weeps during stormy days, so I do not have to sleep covered with large trash bags to stay dry. But… compared to early days, a dream.

Sleeping area number 2. Almost every trawler has some kind of convertible seating in the main salon. Mine was the L-shaped seating area on the starboard side of the boat. Remember the fairy tale of the Princess and the Pea? I discovered I am a Princess. With a Capitol P.  And I know the cushions-each and every- have at least one boulder stashed under them.  Every single one. I think perhaps very tired children might manage a night or two in that spot,  but not sober adults. In retrospect, this space was really meant for eating and chart reading, not sleeping. But I don’t need a single use kind of space, so opted to remove the seating and useless and hard to access storage underneath. The whole L is gone. Completely. And I am debating how to manage guest seating so…stay tuned.

Sleeping area number three. The Vee berth. I like this location a lot, especially  in summer. Lots of light- two tiny windows on each side, and an overhead hatch make for generous early morning sunshine.

The room is shaped like a crooked upside down heart, or V. The tiniest space -about 14 inches wide-is in the front of the boat, right below the anchor locker.  Think of it as the the bottom of the V,   and the top of the V is – at its widest-around  9 feet from one leg of the V to the other. I think of it as a “cattywampus” heart shape, and have come to associate the berth with love and affection from the loving couples and sassy female friends who have stayed there.

So far the V-berth has comfortably accommodated a wide range of adventurous friends- from the very tall to the super short,  but all…pretty much average size.  Four couples and four single women have stayed anywhere from five nights to several weeks. The general consensus is the space is comfy, fun,  and sufficiently private. Stays:  four or five nights tops for couples, longer for single folks. Must be some magic to the V-berth, because I always hear whispers, wiggling and giggles, a few dramatic sentences, then silence. Oh, couples tend to sleep crossways, taking advantage of the width, but singles -sleep like children-which means they are bed hogs, and can roll around like happy hamsters and use every inch.

I didn’t do a lot to this space. No, that’s not true. The wall carpet-yes, wall carpet, was disgusting-old, stained and dirty, so that came off the wall in a fierce tug of war. Old adhesive and ancient carpet were replaced with a new gray poly from Home Depot, and the flesh colored vinyl ceiling was primed and painted with Sherwin Williams paint in an bright white, matte finish. The single upper berth was cut back 18”, and the original trim reused, so it looks as if it’s always been this way.  This change gives sleepers more foot room, and the upper bunk now holds the boats mini library. The original rock hard cushions stayed, but were covered with very clean sheets.  A 4” pad infused with lavender went on top of the old toughies, and then-everyone’s favorite- a huge gray sheepskin (from Costco). Super soft sheets cover the sheepskin. The whole set up is topped with a cozy flannel covered down blanket. For super chilly nights, a Fat hamster size electric heater is available.
Big plus to this space. The Vee berth actually has a head right outside the door, making midnight potty runs convenient. Privacy. Both the aft and Vee berths have doors, the Vee door even comes with a DO NOT DISTURB sign pilfered from a posh hotel stay in Costa Rica.   Our berths are separated by the main salon, and what used to be the galley, which makes for 15’ plus feet between our staterooms. So… privacy is not an issue.  I have also observed that folks who live in small homes tend to be very respectful of each other’s “space”, and my boat is that tiny space personified.

Privacy in Vee berth

The last couple who stayed were great guests. And friends. When they left Barb and Dave packed all the dirty laundry form both rooms in bags so I could take to my daughters to wash.  Together we cleaned, vacuumed the main salon, washed dishes, and generally organized the boat for the next guest…due in three days. Perfect. And left me feeling pleased we had successfully navigated four days together. Well done. By all.

I love to cook. For people I like, love, or hope to love. Cooking is a way to spend time together. Sharing ideas, thoughts and feelings. Long meals where absorbing conversations make the meal- almost unimportant. Two bottles of wine-plonk or good-last the whole evening. With eight adults at the table. And who needs to diet when talking is more important than eating? Intelligent thought, dialog, interaction  and connection -replace consumption.

Based on observation, and the excessive number of take out cartons in the trash each morning, it looks like most other “live-a-boards” eat out.  One reason: prep  space on a boat is tiny. Almost microscopic. Refrigeration dicey. Our stoves ancient. And who ever likes washing dishes? So… the locals  tend to frequent harbor eateries: The Yacht Club; Sushi Go-Go; On the Alley; Brophy’s ; Endless Summer, and Waterfront Grill. Food is good, but that kind of eating style has no appeal for me. Because of the missing people piece.

I wanted to cook on my boat. But… and this is a big fat but, each boat only gets 30 amp service. By comparison,  most homes these days have 200 amp. Do you get the drift of this concept? The deep canyon between 30 and 200 amps? I will try to explain those missing 170 amps. 30 amps is my childhood. And I am 74. Think dark ages. The time before TV, computers, iPads, iPhones or other kinds of androids, microwaves, warming ovens, ice makers, wine coolers, cell phones, air fryers, and high powered convection ovens. Gizmos that consume electricity the way a Golden Retriever devours treats.

So I have to learn how to cook on 30 amps. Only It’s more than cook. It is cook plus manage your life- on those 30 itty bitty little amps. I had some early training in the small amp camp. The best three years of my childhood were spent living in 136 year old farmhouse in southern Chester County Pennsylvania. No plumbing, heating and just a tiny bit of Thomas Edison style electric in an ugly addition slapped on in the 1920’s. I think we were lucky to have 50 amp service for the whole house (13 rooms, four fireplaces, three stories), so in some way I was prepared for 30 amp boat life. But not totally…. Pretty quickly I realized the wiring system on my boat was persnickety.  Sort of like a teenager, an unhappy teenager where anything can set him or her off. Like one cannot make a cup of tea and have the tiny West Marine sleeping kitty sized heater running at the same time. No, no. Darkness is not your friend when trying to find the flashlight you put down. Somewhere. And to actually get everything clicking along nicely again  involves a trip to the dock box, pulling the big fat yellow plug, flipping the reset switch, then replugging the yellow bugger, running back to the boat, leaping over the side and hoping that last reset move worked. And that nothing had been left plugged in to blow the whole system again. This is my life now. And I have to say the minute number of amps allocated to me-and every other plugged in boat owner in the harbor-has become my friend. Life is slower, I have to be conscious of what I do, plan ahead, think about what I want or need, and in what order should tasks be done.  The limit I am given encourages thoughtful choices. This kind of life is making me slow down,  be more awake, aware, and grateful.

 

Big question. Why spend $10,000. 00 on the aft cabin when my  budget was $3,000.00? The original plan was simple.  Update the look-from dated 1981 design and style- to clean and contemporary and- in the process- solve several really annoying  problems. Problem number one.  My bunk was crammed in the port side, so only the bottom of the bed was reachable. Climbing  out of bed to pee at 2:00 am- OMG- a gymnasts delight. At age 73- beyond annoying. And changing sheets. A pain in tukus. And I like clean sheets. Second problem. Clothing storage. Six tiny, tiny hard to open and close drawers-in the dresser at the door of my bed, and one shirt cabinet. Note: both cabinets reeked of diesel fuel- and when I’d wear clothing from a drawer I smelled like a grease monkey. These two totally inadequate cabinets were the sum total of my clothing storage in the aft cabin. No,  not satisfactory. At all.

Pascal’s original tasks were to remove the dresser and cabinet, build a simple frame so the mattress could move from starboard to port-adding almost 3’ of storage to the end of the bed- and create space for two full extension roll out drawers under the new bed location. I’d planned to prime and paint the discolored original vinyl ceiling, and battered walls, and install new interlocking carpet squares over the painted plywood floor.  Last year I had installed interlocking carpet  tiles in dark gray from Flooring Inc (https://www.flooringinc.com). Replacement tiles were inexpensive, easy to install and would be needed to cover the new cabin configuration. My skill set was such I knew I could paint, install carpet tiles, and order and install full extension drawers. The last item I’d never done, but I can read, so the task felt within my grasp.

Next: Why did I  give up my perfectly satisfactory life in Minneaota to spend three years on a old boat in Southern California?

 

 

 

 

 

Okay. You know about the diesel fuel leak. What you don’t know is the leak was super complicated.  It was both an old leak and a new/more recent leak. The story of the newer leak.

Pascal-the man who tore out the aft berth cabinets and discovered the wood was impregnated  with diesel fuel-was extremely concerned about the puddle of fuel that dribbled from the cabinets from their overnight stay on the concrete dock.  That puddle of fuel was unnerving. Unnerving to him, and that unnervedness transferred to me.

True the aft cabin stank of diesel fuel, but as a newbie to the harbor I assumed the odor originated with the row of old fishing boats parked twenty feet away. I had no reason to suspect anything untoward, and the previous owners had said nothing about a leak. Plus, no one knowledgeable had said “…the aft cabin reeks of diesel fuel and it should not smell this bad.” And a lot of folks had been on my boat-experts and non-experts. So why the fuss? Now?

Where did that leak come from? Was the leak ongoing? Was the leak polluting the harbor? Serious questions for an old boat anchored in the Santa Barbara Harbor. So… Pascal called Mike Pyzel-a local expert and highly respected boat surveyor-to look at the problem.   So these two guys-both slim and wiry-one young and curious, one older and experienced, climbed into the aft bilge. The aft bilge is a large storage bin on the back of the boat. Mine held two heavy anchors, two blue plastic crates filled with 1” sisal anchor rope and @20’ plus feet of heavy metal anchor chain, 4 gray molded dingy paddles,  a sorry broom, a black fish net, and miscellaneous gear left by the previous owner. The area has two levels, separated by a 3/4”  removable plywood floor. Crates, rope, anchors, brooms, paddle and chains on level one. Level two: access to the two diesel fuel tanks that wrap around the sides of the Katahdin and provide fuel for the two Perkins diesel engines. Port side, well hidden from view. The culprit. A leaky valve. Best guess, a leak, a very slow and tiny drip. No timeline available, but probably not new. Way to handle until a permanent repair could be made? Seal that leaky valve! And… watch carefully. Baby diapers under the leak will indicate any activity with purple or red spots.  Thus far… no drips in the past four months, and I intend to watch carefully. Check often.

NEXT: Why chose temp repair  vs another course of action?