The Demise of Luxury

I knew there would be changes when I moved to the Coast, to take up a more prominent position as "wife".  A lower income (and matching lower expenses).  A refocus on boats as living, breathing entities as opposed to hypothetical steel parts of a barge.  And I knew, that much like always, my life, and therefore my belongings, would be subject to the demands of local floating vessels.  It's part of the job, should you choose to take it.  I get it.  Crap happens.  Sometimes literally.  Like, when someone else drops the sanitation hose before putting it in the thoughtfully provided trash bag, before actually making it out of the salon of the boat.

In the past, it's taken it's toll on clothing, jewelry, and other accessories.  I've had garish epoxy spots on a blue dress that was then re-named "The Monica Lewinsky Dress."  I've had emergency duct tape repairs on my trusty comfy old JCrew chinos when a Katrina-damaged boat's hull-to-deck joint decided to take exception to my boarding.  I've lost numerous cheap pairs (and a few not-as-cheap pairs) of jeans in battle with fiberglass.  You get used to trying not to get too close, too bonded, too in love.  You get used to carrying spare sets of clothes, to ward off incidents.  You poke things with a stick if there's a possibility it might leave a streak on your carefully guarded Levi's.

I've had pearls pop out of settings around acetone.  Ping!  I've had tote bags and purses (I only buy sturdy ones) dumped over and taken up to the top of masts as bo's'un's bags, full of DeWalt this and hardware that.  And usually that was without my consent.

So like I said, I try to guard against it.  But, I can't help picking up the odd piece of luxury now and then.  Periodically, a beautiful piece of leather strikes my fancy.  Something classic of line, practical of use, sturdy of structure.  Something, you know, like a Coach.  Or, at least, Foach.  If I won't know the difference, I don't know so many people around me who would, or who wouldn't wink and smile and shrug.  Imitation being the sincerest form of flattery, and all.  Girl's gotta pay bills.

But I knew that new-used-possibly-fake Coach purses would come to an end when I moved out here, so I cherished my last real black leather acquisition with its brass closure as the last hurrah of saving for a rainy day purchase and then saving it for a really bad day to use it for the first time.  My last one I'd used for 42 months straight, and it has it's battle scars.  And this one, this one I'd obtained for the express purpose of putting it away to find when I moved to the coast, whenever that would be, grr.  The next day, I was jobless, moving to the coast, and needed a stellar interview bag.

6 weeks later... a bag which apparently had 5200 on it met up with my Coach.

Half an hour of scrubbing with solvents later, I would say it looks 95% better, in terms of how much white you can see.  But I'm unsure how much I've damaged that buttery beautiful leather; the white stitching nearby has turned black from my scrubbing (I wish it was black stitching to begin with, frankly).  This vision of 5200 all over the flap will forever be burned into my memory.  I'll always see the damage.

And truthfully, while I'm fairly annoyed, I'd still rather be here with 5200 on my Coach, than back there in Town in a permanent holding pattern.  There isn't much if anything in the way of boaty glue you could add to my Coach that would make me feel otherwise.

Relationships and Crap

I can't say we've mastered the art of long distance relationships, but we seem to be mostly settled into our situation. Communication is key, of course, such a cliche, but there it is. And much of our communication is mundane, but by unspoken agreement, we're in the habit of trying to provide the simple things for eachother. A goodnight call. An I'm-thinking-of-you text. Making note of something funny to tell the other person. I try not to weight down our few moments on the phone with nagging demands, bad news, additions to his to-do list; but focus on how his day is going, his mood, what he's concerned about, and try to mention something for him to look forward to.

I tend to call R after work on my way home--a phone call that lasts 30 seconds at most and lists my intended schedule for the evening, and reminds him of my ardor. Since I'm on my own usually, if I ever happen to disappear off the face of the earth, he'll know where to look (uh, once he's noticed I'm missing... which might be awhile). He doesn't always pick up on that phone call, but at least it serves as a time stamp of when I'm leaving work. Since he knows what I need to say, it's actually not necessary he picks up.

In fact, if he doesn't pick up, I usually don't call again. Not even in 5 or 10 minutes. If I call twice, it means I have something important to discuss with him. If I call three times, it means I must speak to him right now.

Often one of us tries to touch base with the other on the phone around lunch time--especially if someone finds themselves in a vehicle. R is often done with his round of e-mails, phone calls, and parts runs, and he has in his head his plan for the day. He's not an early bird, more of a night owl, so having the morning hours to organize himself allows means he can work late into the night, but it means that his arrival at whatever boat he's focused on often coincides with my lunchtime.

Today's conversation is par for the course. He tells me where/on which boat he's planning to work for the day, and what he hopes to accomplish. Today it's a project on a commercial vessel, adding a head, including the requisite sanitation tankage, associated piping, thru-hulls, deck plates, and relevant accessories.

Trying to be an involved listener, I cheerfully ask which head he has spec'd out. A Tecma (same brand as we chose for our boat, using some of the wedding present cash we were given--what else would we have spent it on!). He tells me specifically which model as the head compartment is constrained (they always are...). I note that a significant positive effect of this choice is not fussing with rebuild kits, and he explains that yes, instead of the usual impeller like many heads have, this is more of a centrifugal pump type system. I've met enough heads and used enough of them to know what I like in a head, so it's a good topic.

I note a recent article in a known sailing magazine which did some research on sanitation hose. He explains which hose he chose for this particular project application and why. I am imagining thru-hulls and the installation as a whole, from the brackets holding the tank to the hoses leading to the deck plates. From there, the discussion turns to the destructive nature of... well, Shit, and it's longterm effects on steel, specifically stainless, including 304 stainless tanks.

At this point, the phone conversation comes to an abrupt end as a vendor calls him. "Okayloveyoubye." "Yep."

But I hang up feeling both Cherished and decidedly Normal: doesn't every couple talk on the phone about random shit?

Stolen Crab, Stolen Seconds

Sorry I've been quiet. Christmas came up too quickly, and left too quickly. I think I came out of it with a cold or some other condition that makes me feel a bit like I've been keel-hauled. Rough.

I was a bit late getting gifts together. My mom got an Aquamarine show-stopper of a necklace. R's Mom is getting an opera length strand of onyx with matching bracelet and earrings (still working on the necklace and bracelet). R's Auntie S got a sterling bracelet. Gram, Auntie's D and C, and Cousin C each got a pearl (with random crystal) necklace, bracelet, and earring set--varying colors. Sister M got a necklace and earrings (I owe her a bracelet--I botched the one I was working on and launched it across the shop--then had to go dig for it, but it's going to have to get recycled.). Brother C's GF got a sterling bracelet. R received a special dispensation of boatbux for a project, yet to be determined, and I spliced him up the lower races of lifelines on 3/8" 3-strand twist, and the upper and lower boarding gates. My hands are RAW and aching. I sliced into one finger with a tape measure (when I saw it well up with blood I screamed, "REALLY?"), smashed another finger between two steel blocks while forging a bracelet and ended up with a big blood blister. And my errant right pinky is ever-more errant. I had an X-Ray a few weeks ago, but it showed nothing for all the pain and aggravation it's putting out.

Things are still in a hurry for work. Burning started early on one project. We're hoping to hear about a few other things soon. McBarge could use some projects. Although this current little one has given me fits.

The crab fleet seems to be doing ok. The weather had been far nicer (if colder than usual) for them for a few weeks, but now we're into a typical weather pattern. A few minor issues on some of the boats that R is still massaging out. Come end of January, beginning February there might be a solid project. The last few years we've been taking a night or two at the local Fort's campgrounds in a yurt come mid March, and I did ask him if I should sign up for it. He hesitated and then said yes.

The crab is reportedly not so plentiful as one might hope this year. I guess last winter was odd, this summer was odd, and this fall was odd, weather-wise. However, the price per pound is up, highest they've seen. If you can bring it in pre-chilled, the canneries pay even more because they can air-freight them live, but it means the added complexity of an RSW system. The price has meant that every last son of a gun with pots and a license has been out, much to the chagrin, I'd bet, of the Coasties on Cape D, watching over them. Little gillnetters and the like even. Makes me ill to think of, the water being what it is, this time of year most especially.

R has commented more and more in the past few weeks about stolen crab. Apparently there are unkind souls out there who pick others' pots. Which, when you're onto some crab, and you have two good 100 pot strings, and the string in between them comes up both empty of crab and empty of bait, you get around to suspecting you've been robbed. Since it's a small community that takes care of itself, I suspect that things might just a special way of sorting themselves out. From what I understand, there's also now a program for deckhands to testify in court on boats they saw picking pots not of their ownership. You have to identify the buoys and the boat, but that's no problem for a decent deckhand. And the reward is significant, some 5k per deckhand. (I told Russ he should be out there doodling in the Hans.) Seems like karma is an especially dangerous thing to screw with when you're dependant on the sea for both your living and your well-being, but there's always someone vying for a Darwin Award, isn't there?

Snapshots of the Holidays

The past few weeks have been such a blur that snapshots of the moments are all I think of.

• Knotting pearls and crystals till my hands were raw, riding as passenger in my car while R drove us to a family shindig. The pearls and crystals are (mostly) now necklaces, bracelets, and earrings for relatives.
• Horror and aggravation at the box-mailing store. S***, is shipping expensive or what. One million dollars, indeed. Some key gifts will simply not arrive on time. I'm annoyed with myself--it's not like I didn't know when Christmas was, same day every year. I think instead of knowing when Christmas is, I need to know when the LAST SHIPPING DAY before christmas is.
• R's voice. Suddenly, with the crabbers out on the water (mostly... they come ashore from time to time), he seems a bit momentarily lost. I hear from him far more often than usual. I think he's so used to being around a gaggle of people he's maybe missing the jibberjabber and calling me more often to make up for it. He's back on some recreational boat work, and will find his stride soon. The calls are lovely. Except, I wish I had more things of interest to say. It's been so many months of trying to edit what I could say, want to say, need to say, wish he could hear, down to only the very absolute most pertinent things, with a few random bits of jibberish to add some spice or entice a laugh out of him. Now I'm making lists of things to tell him about.
• Ice. And Freezing Fog. And the clear crisp nights with thousands of stars. It's colder than usual, this winter. It means less rain. But the driving is more difficult. Snow hasn't really made any serious appearances, knock on wood.
• Swearing like a sailor. The vessel I'm working on at work has been problematic in the latest software. Information on it was slow to come in from the NavArch, and there's been a lot of rework, which tends to get the software's panties in a wad. In the realm of Plate-That-Ain't-Flat, where I often work, I'm kinda the only de-wadder. In the realm of Plate-That-Is-Flat, someone else takes turns with de-wadding.
• Hot Pink Sequin Purses and Peacock Feather Earrings. My sense of humor as far as gag gifts are concerned seems to involve picking out gifts that I would have loved when I was 5 years old. More strange: the number of people in my life in their adult years to whom I could give these items, as regular gifts, and be spot-on.
• Random Acts of Kindness. In casual conversation, I told a person (co-worker) about an issue I was having with a personal tool I use on a regular basis at home. Mere hours later, he laid a solution on my desk. I am just a co-worker, perhaps a friend. But how nice to be thought of.
• Laughter from the Englund Marine guy. I had called to make an order, and asked to get our company's price, while keeping it off the company's tab (all of the invoices are e-mailed to R). Guy realized I was ordering parts on the sly for Christmas. Sneaky Wife Christmas Shopping. I do it a few times a year for various occasions, and they are always amused. Which makes me wonder, where else would a boatbuilders' wife shop? Where do other boat-widows shop?
• Elf-ery. The fiberglass table became the present wrapping station. A Friend with a Young Buddy in tow happened to visit last weekend, and Young Buddy was pressed into exuberant gift wrapping and detailing service. It was extremely productive--in fact, a lifesaver. Better, in a happy turn of events, Young Buddy was able to take care of his Christmas Shopping for his mom from my collection of hand-made baubles.
• Nesting and hope. A quietly proud of himself R took me upstairs to see the section of apartment he's been working on, here and there. In fact, I don't know if he had planned to show me, originally, except I had to go upstairs and get some boxes for jewelry gifts out of my stash, and lo and behold, there was a Wall, where there hadn't been one before. With a Door. I apologized for going up there and asked if I was supposed to stay away, or if he'd be giving Grand Tours? I don't think there will be more than a bedroom and bathroom, for now. And it will be some time before just that is all done. It's hard to see it come together and not get excited, although I'm so afraid of getting excited. I suppose I mean that if I get attached to an idea, and then it doesn't happen, it's depressing. Sometimes the feeling of Anticipation is the best part tho, so there are moments where things happen afterall and I find out I've cheated myself out of Anticipation.
• The Power of Suggestion. The Boatbuilder's Wife has a boat of her own, a nameless catboat. And she wants to see it float--in fact, promises were made to the previous owner. And while it appears I am bumped (FOREVER, it seems) from the paint room this winter (where there is heat, and therefore curing epoxy) I am trying to devise ways to forge ahead, however slowly, without being a burden, or adding stress. "So, I was thinking... maybe, I could get my new rudder prepped for epoxy, and then... if you happen to be glassing something else..." Suggestion is a powerful thing. He later mentioned a similar engine that was modified from raw to freshwater cooling, and threw the idea out that perhaps we could effect a similar modification. So... she's coming up in conversation. That's not so much a baby step as a wiggling of toes, but there it is.