After dropping both
Alexander and Ben at the airport for their flights, going out for a fun
evening with Steph, and spending one
last night in our now familiar hostel with its wonderful clean sheets and glorious
hot showers, I repack my backpack and head out, walking, alone, to the boat,
which is currently anchored in an industrial marina on the far side of town.
When I arrive two
of the owners, Olve and Ole, are there, heads bent over a computer, trying to
choose what brand of wind generator to buy and Aitor is down inside the aft
locker painting it. The decks are now covered with all the rope and engine
parts and unpainted wood that was previously on the dock and the boat looks a
disaster. Down below stuff is piled high on every surface, the floor boards
have been taken up so walking about is tricky, and my chosen bunk has 100s of
paint cans stacked on it.
I am ready to work
but the owners don’t really have an appropriate job for me at their fingertips
and so they set me to cleaning out the tool room, taking everything out and
putting it up on deck. (Really, on deck, is there even a square inch of empty
space up there?) I start by reorganizing the stuff on deck to make room and
then carry box after box of unsorted tools and spare engine seals and old hoses
and oil cans and the like up and outside. When I am done I clean the shelves
and drawers I have emptied and then Ole comes to help me sort and box the
stuff, repack it more logically before putting it back into the tool room. This
is not an easy job. There is a lot of humming and hawing, ‘Oooh, look at this,
what could it possibly be?’. We try to make lists of what there is and where it
has been put but many of the items are identified only as ‘filter –?’ since we
can’t figure out if a given filter is for fuel or oil, if it is a replacement
part for the main engine or the gen set, if it is new or used… Ole is not even
sailing with us and he is the only one who will have any idea of what we might
have or not have in the many drawers and cupboards. If we break down who will
know how to fix anything, or even if we have the required spare parts on board
or not, or where they might possibly be? I find myself thinking back to last
year with HS who knew instantly and precisely, without any hesitation, in which
tupperware container or tool box, in which drawer or under-floor compartment,
each of the million spare parts that large boats always come with was stored.
This boat is
rustic. Basic. Disorganized. Chaotic. Different than last year - that’s for
sure. But I wanted different than last year, and, certainly, I have it.
Last year on
Northern Magic, HS, who was older and had sailed her for years, not only knew
the boat intimately but had well established autocratic, almost dictatorial,
routines. This year on Southern Cross the owners, who are much younger, have
only recently bought her and are still, obviously, fixing her up, have not
sailed her before. I will be there for the beginning of their voyage. Routines
are not established at all and, for example, when I ask how they are going to
organize shifts and watches the answer is that they haven’t even started to
think about it and will see what most crew want. I fear that the likely
inefficiencies that will come with trying to figure things like this out through
consensus will drive me nuts. Egad! Last
year I struggled accepting the long-standing almost tyrannical rules and
routines; this year I expect to struggle with the lack of any!
Other things,
however, are exactly the same. As we start to get ready to go the days fly
by and there are lots of jobs that need doing and I, being willing to work hard but
low on any really practical skills - like how to troubleshoot and then fix the very
erratic generator or how to hook up the new satellite phone or how to figure
out why there is no power getting to the overhead lights or why the only (cold
water) shower just doesn’t work – am given what I think of as ‘chop wood carry
water’ jobs. I spend my first mornings taking out the cockpit floorboards and
sanding and varnishing them (they need to 12 coats to be applied one coat per
day!) and my first afternoons helping Olve put on the cove line and washing and
waxing the hull (hours and hours of hard manual labour). I learn to clean easy
locks (a quick job involving WD40 and an air compressor and dry lube) and to
overhaul blocks (each one takes 3 of us working together 3 hours to do, and there are,
I count, 10 of them). If it rains for an hour or two we go inside and tackle
one set of storage shelves after another removing stuff, cleaning the shelves,
and putting things back. Days later Aitor is still wearing a gas mask painting
the interior of the aft lockers (both lockers need 4 coats of paint each @ 12
hours/coat). It is not a fun job down in the cramped interior. I don’t envy
him. I am enjoying the variety of jobs I am being given instead.
Also, since the
Olve, one of the owners and the captain, is leaving for four years and won’t be
back, lots of his friends drop round to say goodbye. Some stop by for an hour
or two bringing with them cases of beer or bottles of champagne and, of course,
we all stop to drink and celebrate and chat. Others come by for one or two days
to help out and we work together during the days and then eat together at
night. It is very social. I am starting, already, to feel like part of the
community.
Despite visits we
work 10 hours each day. I fall into my bunk exhausted, sleep well, and wake up
aching.
I love it!
P.S. Below are Aitor (in his aft locker as usual) and Olve (working on a block).
We are currently rafted up against a wall beside another boat and there is not a good place to take a photo of our boat, but soon, however, we will move to downtown Copenhagen and I hope to get one good shot of her to post before we set out to sea!
