*Gasp!* Me, making a public appearance, doing some of that non-writing writer stuff.
So, what have I been up to lately?
Writing. Lots and lots of writing, though obviously, very little of it here. Yes, Evacation Route WILL be completed — soon. That’s the most I’ll say at this point. Soon. I’ve learned not to project completions, as inevitably that sets some guy named Murphy into giggling fits, at which point a part can’t be found/someone gets sick/computers crash/I find a large tree in the middle of my little kitchen. But this Murphy dude, he’s a got one thing going for him — he’s one hell of a teacher, whether you want to learn or not. And the lesson of the last year (+)? Don’t waste a second.
Time is a sneaky thing. Ignore the seconds slipping by, and they start to group together, form minutes, then hours, days, years…you get the idea. It’s like an avalanche — it all starts with one pretty, delicate, innocent little flake. So fragile and fleeting, barely worth the notice. But let them start building up, and gradually they begin to blanket every surface, silently growing in weight and force. Eventually you have something massive enough to scour a mountainside of every tree or structure in its way.
In my life, there’s plenty of dust, but it rarely settles for long, and the minute it does, the minute I sweep it up, I’m right back to making more. The boat is a perfect example. But at some point in the dust-loop (at least that’s what I’m calling it,) it occurred to me that I don’t get this time back. I suppose that comes along with my odometer creeping up on the half-century mark. And I started to realize many of my seconds were evaporating, with little to show for them.
Not anymore. Now, I have plenty to show for my time. I just haven’t shown anyone yet. (That day is approaching, and I’ll be putting a call out for a few beta readers to give me their feedback.) Yes, there’s all the good, bad stuff. Plenty of murder and mayhem, plenty of twisted humor and twisted plot twists. My top priority for every free minute is WRITING. These days, I have more on a page by ten in the morning than a full day’s worth in the past. A story far stronger than anything I’d ever written is taking shape by the day. And even when I’m not writing I’m still writing, jotting down notes even as I make dinner or walk the dogs.
In the past I posted here more. I’d like to hope in the future I will again, but for the time being, I’m staying right where I am, in my self-imposed interweb exile. There are only so many hours in the day, and the majority of those hours are going into chapters of writing, with occasional breaks for working on the boat, walking the dogs, eating, and sleeping. Don’t get me wrong, we all need some downtime, and I’m giving myself that as well, catching up on some long overdue reading. And occasionally I even sleep…in moderation. Everything is good in moderation.
Except writing. And caffeine.
Caffeine is my friend.
I’ve been promising these pictures, so at long last I bring you (drum roll please) COMPLETELY re-cored (and very solid, but pre-glassed) decks!
This photo was taken before the final lapped ‘plank’ of 1/2 marine ply was lagged into place. Every thru-deck (cleats, fuel, water, waste lines) have been set with reinforcements that will keep water from reaching the new core. Next, two layers of biaxial from bow to stern, and all deck leaks will have been banished!
2/13/14 – It snowed. A lot. Again. The above photo was taken sometime after breakfast yesterday morning. Rex seems to be enjoying this winter, and if I had a coat like his I’m sure I wouldn’t mind half as much. My other dog, Loki, on the other hand, is not built for this weather and had little interest in being outdoors. Can’t say that I blame him. And this photo was taken a few hours later, during a lull in the storm. Note the patio table and the railing from one photo to the next. One day’s snow, and the day, and the snow, are far from over. We’re expecting another 6 inches before dawn, then another round of 4-6″ from Friday night to Saturday morning.
And me? I just spent the last two hours clearing the latest layer from the driveway and walk. Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I’m curling up in my favorite arm chair with a nice glass of brandy while I watch the Olympics. Which, ironically, was held in Russia rather than New York City, in part because, well, you know. It’s the Winter Olympics, and for that you need a whole lot of top quality snow and ice. Maybe we could ship some of this white stuff to balmy Sochi — I’m sure they could put it to good use, and I for one, would be happy to see it go.
2/14/14 – It snowed/sleeted/rained/thundered/sleeted/snowed most of the night. The snow is saturated through and through, and heavy enough that it’s caved in rooftops on some buildings. It’s clearing out now, for a few hours at least, but should return tonight for another round. Meanwhile, my table continues to disappear.
It’s funny how certain memories can slip to the back of your brain for years, filed away so deeply that they’re all but forgotten, yet the strangest triggers can retrieve them instantly in perfect detail. In that moment of catching a few notes of a song I haven’t heard since high school, drifting from the open window of a passing car, suddenly I recall the precise lyrics as well as friends I was with one rainy afternoon so many years ago, friends I hadn’t thought about in decades. It’s something I’d all but forgotten, yet it all comes back to me in with such vivid clarity, as though it had only been yesterday.
Scents are even more powerful. One whiff of mothballs and I’m eight years old, rummaging through the trunks in the attic for hidden treasures. The right combination of a bus passing outside Starbuck’s, and my brain remembers a backdraft of diesel over the transom mingling with the aroma of fresh-ground coffee as we passed the massive neon Maxwell House cup, perpetually dripping that last drop of coffee, glowing like a beacon along the Hoboken shoreline as we motored down river. The scents of sawdust and varnish don’t have any specific moments attached to them, or perhaps it’s that there are so many years of moments that they’ve all blended together, but whatever the case, it’s not so much a single memory so much as an emotion. I smell that smell and my brain switches to ‘happy’.
So what is it about removing old 3M 5200 from Annabel Lee’s rudder components, a task I’ve been attacking with a pick, thread by thread in endless sessions and feel as though I’ll never complete, that brings to mind my late friend Butch, and leaves me with a smile? It’s not a sound or a scent. It’s a riddle Butch once said that my brain retained as surely as if he’d set it there with that very adhesive. “What’s the difference between 5200 and true love?” he’d joke. “5200 is forever.”
For years I’ve moved at displacement speed, at first under sail and most recently chugging along at six to seven knots in my stocky little trawler. Displacement speed teaches patience. The horizon hangs off in the distance with oil-painting like permanency and the shoreline changes in incremental fractions. Other boats come into view, radioing their location to friends (“I’m coming up on some slow trawler,”) as though you’re a fixed aid to navigation and then continue on to disappear into that still unchanged horizon. You have plenty of time to think, plenty of time to remind yourself you’re in no rush, after all getting there is half the fun and all those speed demons are just racing from fuel dock to fuel dock, wallets in hand. But sometimes… sometimes the ‘GETTING there’ part gets a bit old. There’s still that other half, BEING there, especially when the weather turns ugly and ‘there’ is somewhere comfortable and secure, with a hot shower, dry clothes and a warm meal.
Back when I was working in a boatyard we had a hand-full of customers with insanely high-speed performance boats stop by from time to time. And on one particular occasion a fellow had launched his rocket toy and asked if anyone wanted to join him as he tested some of the latest performance tweaks he’d made to the engines. It was a slow day, none of us were doing much of anything, and my story had some chapters with a similar boat, so I said, “Sure, I’ll go.”
The river was glassy smooth as we set out, with the faintest hint of a breeze stirring along the Saturday morning sailors. As we cleared the mooring field my friend pushed the throttle forward, the engines roared, and I was forced backwards into my seat. The world around us seemed to freeze; at that velocity we were the only thing moving as we shot between the now motionless sailboats, and for a moment I recalled that scene in Return of the Jedi, where the speeder bikes threaded between the giant trees in the forests of Endor. Time and relativity had been turned upside down; I’m certain if I’d checked, the hands on my watch had stopped. The water beneath us had gone from a gently rolling fluid to rock hard solid, the hull banging across it like a runaway bobsled on ice as we shot beneath the Tappan Zee Bridge and past the astonished faces aboard the sloop Clearwater. Within minutes we’d covered water that would have taken me half a day’s sail to navigate. I couldn’t move, I don’t think I even blinked, but my tearing eyes shifted to the GPS and it felt as though my heart stopped. We were travelling at 92 mph. At last we had gone full circle and I was returned to the dock, dazed and stunned as I tried to process the wild ride. It was a hell of an experience, and one I came away from a bit bruised and a lot wiser, with plenty of material for those chapters I was writing and a new-found appreciation for displacement speed.