Robin was fine when I visited her today. Her deck was blanketed by a foot of old snow, kept cold by a two-inch-thick layer of ice lying on the teak beneath the snow.
John Morrison, who risks his life every time he accompanies me, joined me for the drive to Cambridge, Md., where Robin floats on one side of a dock and his boat, Chautauqua, on the opposite side. He brought with him a red plastic shovel with an aluminum three-piece handle kept together with shock cord.
John began shoveling his deck and I, who was not so well prepared, went to look for something resembling a shovel. Near the marina office, I found a spatula/wire brush hanging from a propane grill. The spatula part seemed close to a shovel, so I brought it back to Robin and began emptying the foot of sloping snow from the cockpit.
In time, I thought of an alternative means of excavating the snow. Inside Robin's cabin, I found a sturdy white plastic dust pan. Soon, the snow was mostly removed. But in the same span, the northwesterly wind, which was in the process of blowing the water out of the Chesapeake Bay, had increased.
I was done with my work before John finished, and I stood on his finger pier, buffeted by the wind as I looked across the dock to Robin, thinking of all the improvements and maintenance she needs. She looked sturdy as she strained at her dock lines. But I knew about the leaking ports, the substandard electrical wiring, the ancient mast in need of painting, the split caprail, damaged by a piling in an earlier storm.
In Robin, I could understand how boats become derelict. Some times it may be a result of carelessness. Other times, it may be a lack of resources. But at some point, a boat -- like an untended garden or a love ignored -- can be beyond restoration.
When the snow melts and my battered shoulder is healing, I will focus my energies on bringing Robin back from however far she has slipped. With all of her history, she deserves it.