It is seven o'clock on a Wednesday evening and all is quiet aboard Robin. She rocks gently, and the laundry hung in the saloon sways, but there are few sounds. The refrigeration, which cycles every few minutes, just stopped running. The thunder storms that drenched Cambridge an hour ago have passed. My dinner of Dinty Moore stew escaped from the sauce pan and into my mouth. Now it's time to work on the book.
Today there was significant progress aboard Robin. I removed, cleaned and replaced two heavy bronze portlights, replacing the quarter-inch plywood liner surrounding each which had rotted due to leaks in the portlight caulking. (I'm using the word portlight because But Taplin, the Westsail guru, does. I really don't know if that's the only thing they are called, but I'm a conformist when I have no better information.)
I have not finished any of the three portlight replacements because I haven't taken the time to install new moulding around the edges of the wooden liner and to paint the raw wood. Rather, my emphasis has been on stopping leaks. I make no claims as to the effectiveness of the repairs, even though we just had rain. I'll wait and see.
Yesterday, while I did not get much done on the boat, I got something done for the boat. I contacted a man who makes "tong shafts" for oyster tongs -- long poles attached to a wire mesh scoop that "tongers" use to harvest oysters from shallow, muddy oyster beds. This has to be some of the hardest work there is. Makes your rotator cuff scream in terror. You stand on a boat all day with the tong shafts -- maybe twelve or sixteen feet tall -- one shaft in each hand and you plunge the scoop into the mud. Then you bring the shafts together and lift -- at least that's my concept of how it's done. It would have to be done over and over. The more oysters -- their shells like baseball-sized rocks -- you scoop, the heavier the tongs.
Anyway, I called Wilbur Messick, who had a sign advertising his tong shafts taped up in the dockmaster's office. I asked if he could make a replacement handle for our beautiful boathook. The eight foot long wooden handle got snapped when it got caught on a piling while we were docking last year.
He said he lived in a remote eastern shore village about an hour south of Cambridge. He asked if I could come down.
I brought my splintered old boat hook with me and followed his directions to a really beautiful part of the country I'd never visited, along the Nanticoke River.
Messick Bros. has been making oyster tong shafts since 1859, according to a sign in their shop, an unadorned barn-like structure. Inside was the aroma of pitch, a sweet fragrance oozing from stacks and stacks of long leaf yellow pine, a nearly extinct species.
When Mr. Messick began cutting a plank to craft my new boat hook handle, in the very instant the saw teeth cut into a piece of pine, the resins burst into the air and made my sinus sting. That's potent pitch, my friend.
It took him an hour and a half to create a handle that fit perfectly into the old bronze boat hook head. All the while, we talked about lumber and oystering, about his service on a Coast Guard icebreaker in the late 1960s and about the tools of his trade. Messick Bros. has some antique machinery, cast iron with big electric motors, that are used for one purpose -- shaping tong shafts.
The only other product that may come out of the shed -- a flat bottom skiff that Mr. Messick is in the process of building. He might finish it, and he might use it or, if someone wants it, he might sell it.

It felt good to get back aboard Robin for a few days and to dig into some of the work that was waiting.
I arrived in Cambridge shortly after noon on Monday with a plan. My priority was to find the leak or leaks that had caused the headliner in the V-berth to rot. Then I wanted to begin removing and resealing all of the nine leaking bronze portlights that I still hadn't touched in two years.
Equally important, I wanted to keep writing on the youth novel, which my plans had me completing (first draft) next week.
As soon as I had my stuff unloaded from the car, I climbed into the V-berth and, on my back, began prying the plywood overhead with a flat bar. It was easy work removing it, but messy. I used a circular saw to slice the large slabs of 1/4 inch plywood into pieces narrow enough to pass up to the deck through the forward hatch.
The job involved removing a wooden cover that had been fabricated to hide the wiring for the windlass. When the cover and the plywood were gone, the four bolts anchoring the windlass were exposed, as well as the heavy wiring.
Next, I brought a garden hose forward on deck, tied it to the sampson post and turned on the water. I expected to see water weeping around the windlass bolts, but it didn't. That shot my quick theory of the root of the problem and made me begin to rethink the source of the water.
Some times, thinking is the problem.
I went topside and moved the hose forward about four inches. Down below, a stream began flowing through what apparently was a bolt hole for an earlier windlass. The hole was plugged somewhat, but the water came in relentlessly.
Back on deck, I discovered why. The caulking in the teak deck was missing beside that old, plugged hole. The water was running between the teak planks and across the fiberglass deck beneath the wood until it reached the old hole.
I have applied fresh caulk to the problem spot and will check it again next week to see if the leak has been plugged, or if there are more villains.
Interspersed with that work, I began removing the portlight above the galley range. (It's the one seen in the top photo in the prior blog.)
The bronze portlight came out easily to my surprise. Using a circular wire brush in an electric drill, I got all the old caulk off so that the bronze shone like new. I used a Dremmel tool with a tiny wire brush to get the debris out of the gasket channel.
Yesterday, I completed rebedding the port over a new section of wooden liner in the galley that replaced the rotten one we'd been staring at for five years. It still needs to be painted, and I'm in the process of ordering new gasket material, so the job is incomplete.
As for the writing, I almost entirely failed. I wrote one chapter instead of the five or six I had planned.
S0 today, at home, it's back to the book.

Robin has a new bonnet. Skip Lippincott got to her and left before I arrived in Cambridge. He did a wonderful job. Finally, we can see forward while standing in the cockpit.

But I foresee a problem. There is so much glass and so little canvas, there is no place to hide from the sight of an appraoching monster wave!

Another beautiful day on the river -- or, more precisely, beside the river. The wind has been blowing strong for three days at least, but every time we get within view, the wind and the current on the river are going in the same direction and so, no plowed-up whitecaps, no endless foam and spindrift.
Tomorrow I meet Skip Lippincott in Cambridge, where he will do the final installation of the new dodger on Robin. It will not be an overnighter since it will be Friday.
But next week and the week after, I plan to be on board three days and to get some serious work accomplished on Robin.
At the same time, I'll be working on the youth novel, adding 1,500 words a day -- my goal -- to the 20,000 words already written. The book is about 2/3 complete. The working title is Rooster, which happens to be the name of the Westsail 32 that co-stars in the narrative.
The first draft should be done before the two weeks is over. At that point, I will do some serious rewriting, hoping to vastly improve the chances of publication.
After all, I'm unemployed and some income -- any income -- would help!

I've been deep in writing but not on the blog. This is the second attempt at a youth novel in which I try to apply the criticisms my first effort earned.
Once again, I'm going with something I know well. A grandfather invites his grandson to sail with him on his Westsail 32 on the return leg from Bermuda. Since I'm personally familiar with some of the adventures such a voyage could offer, and since I'm a grandfather eight times over, I should be able to handle the factual part. The writing? We'll see.
Once in a while, I glance out the window. Today it is partly cloudy, but the clouds are large and sooty gray and take up most of the sky as they race to the east. The sun has an easy time of it today.
The leaves on the walnut and the cherry, the black locust and the holly and the red maple are excited as a mob of twelve-year-old girls, giddy with the swaying and tossing of the individual limbs on which they ride.
Thelma and I didn't make it to the river on our first walk at 6:30. The wind in the 44-degree air drove us back. Now it's over 50 degrees, and when we get to the river bank, I expect we'll find the water stirred to a a froth.
I'm writing this now and thinking about the scene outside because, after getting through the drama yesterday of the scenes when the boat capsizes and "Grandpa" gets seriously hurt, I'm struggling with "Michael" to find a way to deal with all the carnage he and I have created.
A few minutes ago, I was reading a description of the French countryside by Jack Kerouac and I was moved and thought perhaps I could do the same for the banks of the Delaware. Something is lacking, though, so I'll just take Thelma for a walk and then get back to work.

Yesterday, the members of the boat club set the moorings in the Delaware River -- those moorings that had not been left in the water over the winter. Our mooring for Bluebird was on the bank and ready to be launched, but at this point I don't know whether it made it.
There were some rules standing in its path.
The Red Dragon Canoe Club is an organization that relies on the labor of its members. If you have a boat, you are required to invest 10 hours a year at the club. Normally, Monica and I put in our hours cleaning up the lawn and helping out at various club social functions. There always have seemed to be enough boys eager to play on the water that my efforts can best be expended elsewhere.
Yesterday morning, I made an exception and went to the boathouse at 8:30 a.m. to be available for the mooring launch. But I already knew that Bluebird -- not yet ready herself for the water -- might have to wait a bit for a mooring.
The rules in the way were two: One, that you had to have all your club fees paid before your mushroom anchor, 75 feet of chain and a mooring ball could be hauled offshore and dropped in the current. Two, that you had to have proof of liability insurance.
We were current on our fees. I actually checked with Pat, the lady who accepts money, to make certain.
But since Wednesday, I'd been trying to locate the home owner's insurance policy that said that our boat was covered. I'd had no luck.
I found packets of papers that proved that we had home owner's insurance from 2007 until February, 2010. I couldn't find the packet that said we were covered since February, though.
More important, none of the packets actually spelled out the risks for which we were covered. They referred to the policy in general and noted any changes.
Lacking a document that proved a 19-foot, two-inch boat had liability insurance, I was pretty sure our mooring was in trouble.
I admit, we should have been on top of the issue of insurance documents. They are a pretty vital piece of one's paperwork.
The problem, as I've realized the last few hours, is that there is so much paperwork.
It is unimaginable that a postal service that delivers two catalogues from the same retailer in the same day is facing the need to cut costs. Indeed, there are some retailers that are so supportive of the United States Postal Service that they send us catalogues almost daily.
Then there are the insurance companies themselves. We certainly get more than one piece of mail daily from the medical insurance firms. Usually, they are stating they need more information before they can pay a bill. I have come to believe these pieces of mail are a way for the insurance companies to play the float. How many millions do they make investing our premiums while they delay paying legitimate bills.
Not only does all this mail seem adequate to fund the mail delivery system. Inundated with all these envelopes, we, as humble recipients, are hard pressed to keep up with it all.
And this is probably the explanation for why we can't find the insurance documents.
I called the insurance company last week and talked with three representatives, two of whom said I needed a new insurance policy for Bluebird, before one said that, indeed, our home owner's policy was adequate. They told me I could get a copy of the policy online.
But when I checked our online account, there was no home owner's document.
So tomorrow, I call the 800 number and hope to get through to someone able to send a copy of the required document.
Only then will Bluebird be set to sail.

The shoulder is yielding to therapy, so all the boating plans and dreams, now more than ever a practical possibility in the coming months, are flooding in.
A chartplotter is finally in our sights. The prices have come down enough and the need, if we are to sail along and through the coast of Maine and its fog and rocks, is imminent.
Soon, I'll be going to Robin's side (at the request of Skip Lippincott, the canvass man) to oversee the fitting of the new dodger and Robin's resurrection.
Next Tuesday -- only seven days from now -- I visit the orthopedist and hope that he approves removal of the sling. Then serious boat -- and, yes, garden -- work can begin.
For now, I'm left with pawing through the charts for the summer cruise to Maine. Having already succeeded in posting photos on this blog, I'll attempt to present the charts in question, shot at home with the digital camera.

The photo at the top is the overall chart that gets you from Atlantic City, NJ, to Cape Cod, MA. Atlantic city is, roughly, along the coast to the lower left side of the chart. Nantucket is the yellow island amid the swirls of blue in the upper right corner of the photo.

The second chart shows the perils of going too close to Nantucket. Notice below the blue areas -- which indicates shoal water -- the warning: "Area to be avoided."

The third chart shows the waters between Nantucket and Penobscot Bay, which appears as the largest dent in the coastline of Maine, approximately at the center of the upper end of the chart.

Our goal will be to sail from Cape May to Penobscot Bay without running aground. We're still seeking local knowledge, if anyone would be so kind.

Inasmuch as I couldn't place the photos in this blog where I wanted to, I'm seeking some local knowledge for blogspot.com, too.