That Sinking Feeling

I have a confession to make. I’m a recovering boatasexual. You don’t know what that is? That’s when your most significant other is a boat. Trust me, folks – this is a toxic relationship!

It is said that the happiest days of a boat owner’s life are the day she buys a boat, and the day she sells it. Truer words were never spoken. It has also been said that owning a boat is like standing in a cold shower tearing up $20 bills. This is not true. You’re tearing up $100 bills, at least.

All my friends were shopping madly, all over town, buying clothes, shoes, furniture. I was at Home Depot melting my Visa card on stuff like stainless steel piano hinge. Wood plugs. Router bits. I do have every power tool known to God and Bob Vila, so Tim Allen, kiss my…keel. I was committed to this relationship. Committed? I was certifiable – I lived on my boat. And what a harsh house-mother she was, too.

As you read this, raise your arms so your hands are close together, right over your head. Keep them there for four hours. Every spring, I was forced to do this for days at a time. Holding a ten pound grinder. Carpal tunnel? I had the entire carpal subway system.

Every task I undertook involved a toxic chemical. My life became an EPA Superfund site. Most of the containers had a warning label that said – “A brain tumor in every can” – now that’s what I call a warning label!

The first summer I had the boat I was determined to practice safe boating – I wore a TyVek suit when I was painting her. Have you ever worn a TyVek suit? When it was 100 degrees? It’s like being locked in a sauna for hours at a time. I did lose 10 pounds that summer, though – in addition to about a billion brain cells from the paint fumes.

The entire relationship was co-dependent. The boat wanted to dissolve like an aspirin, and I had to prevent it from dissolving like an aspirin. Bit by bit, the boat was winning. The teak decks leaked no matter how many times I re-caulked them. The engine developed multiple personality disorder. The lines would fray even if they were coiled up in the rope locker. The fenders deflated. Then she tried to throw me overboard – the lifeline stanchions on the starboard side all broke at the same time.

This was a fight to the finish.

It was that old relationship conundrum – divorce? Never! Murder? Quite possibly. The boat did have reason to wish me harm – I HAD grounded her within fifteen minutes of our first voyage together. And there were the groundings in the Piankatank River, Boston Harbor, Rockaway Bay, and Sandy Hook.

She harbored a grudge.

And after everything I did for her, too.

I gave her a complete makeover from top to bottom – I rewired and painted her mast, I replaced her batteries and rewired the cabin, I completely redid her hull with the BEST isophthalic polyester-resin (say that three times fast) – I gave her all of my spare time and more than all of my spare cash. I even bought her jewelry – new rudder fittings made of silicon bronze that cost over $2,000. I’ve never spent that much on jewelry for myself!

We had wonderful adventures together – trips to Martha’s Vineyard, Nantucket and Cape Cod. We sailed up the Hudson River and down the coast to Cape May.

But it was never enough. She always needed, demanded more.

The end finally came one day in November of 2000 – I’d given all I could give. I’d reached the end of my rope, and my checkbook.

I’d reached the second happiest day of my life – I sold her to a family that fell in love with her at first sight.

The poor slobs.

As I watched her sail away, I felt a twinge of sadness. Then I thought of my checkbook, which now had a positive balance. A VERY positive balance!

I’ve heard that my former significant other is still up to her old tricks – it took her new owners almost a month to get her from Long Island Sound to Gaylesville, Maryland. The engine’s multiple personality disorder kicked in, and the mainsail did its “look at me! I’m shredding!” trick – but her new owners are determined to keep her happy. I hope they have a fat checkbook – she’s a hungry old girl.