The Boat is on the hard, this means she is sitting on a
metal cradle in the middle of a boat parking lot. We borrow a ladder and put it
against her. I climb up, and, yes, give her a quick kiss before boarding. We
are going to put her in the water at the end of the evening but there are
several chores to be done first.
The first job HS gives me is to sand down that part of her
hull that will be below the waterline once she is in the water. This is done from
the ground with a sanding block and a bucket of water. The paint is flaking off
in some spots and rust shows through in others; all of this needs to be
eliminated. (My second job will be to re-paint this same part of her.) “Sanding
will take you about two hours,” HS says. I dip the sanding block into the water
and scratch tentatively at a small section. He watches critically. “I don’t
want you to be gentle,” he instructs. My imagination goes wild. Nevertheless I
decide that this is an easy job and I am determined to do it well, start off on
the right foot so to speak. I get my sanding block wet and tackle the task more
aggressively. Eventually my arm is tired from merely reaching up above my head
and my wrist is sore from the work it is doing. I look at my watch; exactly two
minutes have passed since I started. I carry on.
Sanding is, I quickly realize, a very messy job. This part
of the boat is covered with old anti-fouling paint, and, for some reason, when
you attack it with a wet sanding block, though it has been there for months,
many of which were spent in the water, the paint immediately dissolves in the
water and everything gets red. The sanding block gets red, the water in the bucket
gets red, rivulets of red run down the edge of the boat below the section you
and working on, and red paint splashes in all directions. I try at first to
avoid being splattered by the old paint but soon realize the futility of this
and accept that to do the job well I will get dirty.
After half an hour I have found a comfortable rhythm
involving dipping my block into the water with my right hand, squeezing it out,
running both my eyes and my left hand over the boats surface to check for
irregularities, and then assertively laying into any sections that are lacking
in perfection. This is not a gentle caressing of my boat’s skin, it is a
forceful full on massage. I can tell she likes it though, can almost hear her
purring her delight. I had wanted to get to know her skin, well, I am getting
to know it. Dip, squeeze, check, scrub, and then scrub harder.
I am sure that red is the colour of love. I glance at down
at my arms now almost completely dyed, almost as red as the bottom of the boat
itself. I have totally red hands, red drips running down from both my wrists to
my elbows, am covered from head to toe in spots of red. I consider the
possibility that we have been in a great battle and I am covered in blood as if
I were a knight in shining armour and she the dragon I have vanquished. But I
have not conquered her, there is no victory, certainly I have not, despite my vigorous
sanding, hurt her, in fact quite the opposite. I consider the traditional
blooding of huntsmen following their first successful kill, this seems more
appropriate, but again, not a perfect metaphor. I wonder if instead of blood
this red is happiness, as in a Chinese bride’s outfit.
Red is the colour of love (think roses) also the colour
associated with sin and sensuality (think red light district), it is the colour
of celebration and ceremony (red letter days and red carpets), it is the colour
too of anger (to see red) and war (Mars) and warnings (red flags). It is the
colour of evil. The devil is red.
But this red she has coated me with symbolizes both blood
and love, of that I am sure. I sand on. Dip, squeeze, check, scrub, and then
scrub harder. It is work but I like it. I like touching her. I like that I can
see clearly my effort resulting in the exfoliation of her skin. I like that we are both changing each other, her
skin is getting softer from the constant sanding but so is mine. I like the colour red, its many connotations. I like that it is our first time together and she is bleeding.
I finish the second side and walk around her slowly looking
for spots I have missed. I get HS to cast his eye again and am embarrassed by the comments he makes. I had thought I was done, but no, I see
that I am not. He is very good at giving constructive criticism without being
critical. I caress her again with my eyes trying to see her through his. I dip,
squeeze, check, scrub, and then scrub harder. Eventually I know that I have finished and
sure enough when I climb the ladder he is stirring a can of paint which he
hands to me. “Painting will take you about two hours,” he says, and I descend
the ladder again holding the open can of paint in on hand and a brush in the
other. I had thought that sanding was a dirty job, little did I know, painting
leaves spots that will not come out, not only on me but on my shirt, and
shorts, and on the only pair of shoes I have brought with me for the four
months I intend to stay. I totally enjoy painting her, having another excuse to
inspect each inch of her bottom, getting a chance to leave my mark on her….
HS is working on the through hulls, installing a new depth
sounder and a hull speed gauge. He is sometimes inside the boat, sometimes down
below with me. Very slowly the mist is burnt off by the sun and the impossibly
steep slope of the rock of Gibraltar appears across the bay. Cruise ships are
visible in the distance and tankers. Africa too. My arms ache, my fingernails
are so dirty I know they will never get clean, I am worried already that the
next job I will be given will be harder, too hard, that very soon HS will
realize I am here under false pretenses and send me home. But I don’t care. For
today I am happy. And that is enough. Red is definitely the colour of love.
