My battle with the underworld

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Cleaning house takes on new meanings on a boat. Especially when you’ve been away. Inside the mold monsters have been creeping, clinging, happy they’ve been left to grow and propagate in dark, damp corners. They even have the nerve to spread openly across ceilings and cupboard doors. Bastards. The cleaning is tedious but not difficult.

The outside however, the underbelly as it were, is a different story altogether. You get back, air out the boat, clean the mold, inhale the slightly clinical smell of soaps and sprays. You restock the deep fridge and you ease back into life. You try to ignore the dark, hidden secret of what hides, mossy and green, growing, encrusting your bottom below.

But then a day arrives where you have drank enough rum, abandoned the boat to shop, walk on the beach and generally avoid the task at hand, and you decide to dive in, literally, to brave the crusty forest below.

What the underbelly looks like when out of water

Sweating is the default state of being, and so it was the other day, I found myself drenched and ready for a swim. And on a whim I decided to take my trusty plastic scraper and attack the barnacles and seaweed that had taken hold of Shiloh.

Only I hadn’t imagined how intense the growth had been. On my third thrust across the hull, underwater, my red scraper crunched on something huge and hard. I tried again to free it but my scraper came up, shredded. The offending barnacle had taken a chunk out of plastic. It was as if the sea and her creatures were laughing, as I realised my only tool was rendered useless. And I vowed to get some stronger ammunition and revisit this battle.

And so, after a visit to the marine shops, and a sturdy, shining, angled metal paint scraper in hand, I resolved on another day, to escape the heat, slip into the sea, and fight my demons.

It started out well. I kicked the water and treaded with one hand, while scraping vigorously with the other. There is a primal satisfaction in the removal of each barnacle, with a determined push, the resistance replaced by a swoosh and the bastards crumble away and sink downward…

But Shiloh had been left in a very fertile environment. There was a hula skirt of long green grass at the water line, various fan shaped coralesque plants and generally a foul smelling brownish green forest that pooled around me as I went, temporarily enveloping me in a swamp at each interval, before floating down and leaving me in the blue blue sea again.

It was satisfying but yet more revolting than I remembered. All this organic matter, in my hair, my face, my body and suit. I soldiered on, up one hull and down it’s other side.

I noticed at the water line as I went, some small beige bits, which at first I took no notice of. Just scraped and swam, scraped and swam. Until I was done. And JW joined me in the water (at that convenient time – the work being done!). And we floated leisurely a bit behind the boat, me proud of my accomplishment for the afternoon, JW just happy to be out of the heat above.

But then I was itching, and to be honest, still a little queasy from the gunk I’d been in for the past hour or so. And the itching continued until I needed to jump out and rinse off. And as I climbed the ladder JW asked,

“What’s all over you?”

“What?!” I responded with rising panic… my fingers passing over what felt like brail on every surface of my skin. And when I tried to brush or roll this stuff off, it wasn’t budging.

I started the water and continued, daring now to look – only to discover I was covered in tiny, writhing, alive and kicking creatures. OMG!

“What is it?! What are they?!” I demanded from JW, but the hysteria in my voice sent JW into a fit of laughter. It’s sea lice or something… relax, just wash it all off.

And then I remembered the beige bits that I’d been scraping off the whole boat. It seemed they had migrated directly onto my body and that was too disgusting to accept. I threw my swim suit off, in broad daylight, with a myriad of boats around. There is no modesty in panic mode.

And that is when I discovered, the inside of my black suit top was literally heaving with motion as the tiny shrimp-like gools climbed each over the other, trying to survive. It was like something from a horror movie, and a second ago it had been nestled tightly under my bosom.

I scrubbed my body in a frantic dance, wasting far too much water, just trying to clean off and help cleanse my mind and wounded psyche.

I survived. I lived to tell the tale. And to discover this is one of the realities of scrubbing boat bottoms. Another one of the hurdles that boat life presents. Now I know why they call it anti-fouling. Foul it is...

In this case I vote JW as the official boat cleaner on the outside forever. I will be grateful and will make chocolate brownies as his reward. I will never ever complain about a cluster of mold again.

(The photo below is not me - even though I haven't shaved in a while, it hasn't gotten this bad - this is another sailor who was calm enough to take a photo of what HE looked like after cleaning his hull and was covered in these shrimpy hooligans. I, on the other hand, had to lie down for a good hour to avoid vomiting from my trauma and was nowhere near thinking of getting photo evidence for my blog!).

 

The slime that moves us

To the landlubber, cleaning your vehicle usually consists of a trip through an automated car wash or on a hot summer day, a bucket and sponge in the driveway.

For cruisers it’s a different story. The environment under a boat (big and small), especially standing relatively still at anchor is the perfect recipe for growth. Ugly growth. 

We do avoid the task for months when possible, but there comes a time in the life of every cruiser when they have to tip their transport over, and scrub the bottom. This is no small feat. It involves facing the growing swamp green beard of slime and  the finger-slicing sharp barnacles with an artillery of scrapers and eye watering vile cleaning fluids. Strong scrub brushes and sand are the second phase.

It’s not pretty, it’s not sexy and it’s not fun. But it has to be done.

So, while others sat in their cubicles this Wednesday afternoon, gazing out their windows if they are lucky enough to have one, awaiting a lunch break to wake them up, we stood on the beach, paradise surrounding us, and we faced our demons.

We disconnected the fuel tank and removed all the junk in the little ‘trunk’ including our fake ‘Crocs’, emergency flashlight, rain ponchos and anchor with it’s rusty chain. We brought out the strongest cleaning implements we had and we threw her over.

And there it was. A gooey, live, smelly mess.

The radio active toxic shade of dinghy bottom slime

Up close with the slime

Luckily for us there was a shallow sandy beach pool close by for frequent dips to cool off. The whole task took about two hours, but by the end, we had her shining.

It felt great to have her all clean. It is just one of the tiny daily accomplishments that keep your heart beating and a spring in your step. These are the things that were so missing in my past life. Expat existence means everything is done for you, and then you complain about how poorly it was done. But there is no motivation to do things for yourself. The house and the car belong to the company and there is a surplus of cheap labour. We lazed around or sat idle and decaying at our desks.

Only here, on our little boat, with it’s daily demands for attention, and constant chores, do I feel alive. Every sinew, muscle, synapse. It’s buzzing.

And we take the rewards for a day’s work as enthusiastically! After our hours sweating over the dinghy, we were treated to a potjie stew, complete with cold beers and warm crusty bread, on the beach with a group of cruisers. Thanks to the organizer Stewart, a South African who also makes boerwors and biltong (a nice treat for JW).

A few cruisers digesting with wine and beers of course!

Our view from the communal lunch table

 We motored back to the boat in our glowing dinghy, tipsy from the beer, full of homemade food and rested our sore arms with a sigh of pure satisfaction.

Cleaning purging and dragging - fun and games at St. Georges anchorage

This week is supposed to be all about planning, organising, cleaning, preparing. We’re hosting a full family of guests on the weekend.

We took a trial run of where we’d sail and what we’d show our visitors, and all went well.

Now we’re back in Grenada, anchored outside the main city, St. Georges. At night you can fool yourself into believing there’s a huge metropolis out there, with all the lights. The truth is that it’s a sleepy little harbor town with a big boat yard and a cute little market behind a bustling bus station. 

St. Georges port city, Grenada

Being here allows us to refuel, fill the water tanks, get cleaning supplies and provision food for the trip next week.

We’ve got to defrost the freezer, clean all cabins and heads (washrooms), get new sheets, floor rugs, service the engines, and finally seal the escape hatch windows.

That last items sounds a bit scary. To explain: Lagoon Cats, along with the clever design of engines under the aft beds, have interior, down-facing window/hatches in the same cabins, that provide a lovely view of the turquoise water below. Their true purpose however, is to open if and when your catamaran has capsized and you need to escape.

Standard older Lagoon escape hatch window in aft cabins

Now you might ask, why would we be sealing those up?! The simple answer is that they leak. Whenever we are out in big seas, salt water leaks in and creates a little annoying pool of water in our bedroom, on the side shelf.

New Lagoons have been designed with this bottom facing window completely sealed. There is an ominous looking hammer beside it, so there is no confusion as to it’s real purpose.

So, once JW agreed to put a hammer down beside these hatches, I agreed we could/should seal them up. I am trying with all my might to keep the visual of requiring these at any time from my mind!

So this morning started off quite productively. JW opened and cleaned the rims of the escape hatch in preparation for sealing with silicone. Then I stripped the bed, in preparation for JW to service the engine.

Minutes later he had lifted the engine cover board and I spun round asking,

“Where’s the sheets?!”

“You took them off just now…?”

“But I can’t find them?!”

We both spun round in the tiny cabin, into the hallway, bumped into each other 5 times, checking every crevice. Then JW joked,

“You didn’t throw them here on the side shelf, where that window is now open…”

“No!”

“Let’s check”

I peered down the hatch, but nothing. It seemed absurd anyway.

Then JW disappeared up the steps and stood out on the back sugar scoop (stoop) and called out,

“Yep. There they are.” He pointed off beyond the boat.

Indeed, wading deep and far behind us, but visible, my lovely turquoise bedsheets, donated to the ocean. I was so furious, frustrated, silly. (I knew we'd be able to laugh about this at some stage but certainly not now). I can’t believe I’d thrown them out the window literally into the sea!

After a slight altercation about who’s fault this was and whether they could be retrieved, JW donned a snorkel mask a mooring hook and jumped in. But they were too far and too deep, and no doubt to heavy to recover. So he hopped out, rinsed off and declared we’d just have to buy more.  We carried on with the chores. JW as before, and me with that deep down, biting my cheeks, stomping up-and-down, tearing things up kind of anger just below the surface …. GRRRRR

But as this lifestyle doesn’t lend itself to long lasting depression or anger, I’d arranged with my cool girl-sailor-buddy that we’d take the dinghy into the beach and go for yummy local doubles (chick pea flat bread with a chick pea curry filling). I could get the new sheets on the same trip.

But then, just as I was organising my backpack, I looked out the window and saw a formidable squall coming hard and fast across the water from the land.

“Wow!” I shouted and within a second, rain and wind had blindsided Shiloh. We ran around closing hatches and then watched as the wind tugged furiously at us and the rain pelted down like opaque sheets.

And we swung wildly on the anchor in every direction, as did the boats around us. But then some of them started to give in to the wind, their anchors had unhooked and were dragging. Some fast, some slow. Our friend’s boat Chaotic Harmony began to move swiftly toward another boat to our left. We called to them repeatedly on the VHF radio but they were not onboard. We weren’t sure what to do, but we couldn’t do nothing.

Then JW, dressed in only his boxers, jumped into the dinghy, wind whipping the waves up around him, I threw him the rope and he headed over to try and push the boat, to prevent it from smashing into the anchored one beside us. Other friends were also in their dinghies, headed fast toward the potential crash.

The family onboard the targeted boat ran up and down their deck with rubber fenders.

And just then, our friend arrived back, having seen the severity of the storm from shore, and he jumped aboard, started the engines and got the boat under control. 

JW up on the bow, the guys rectifying Chaotic Harmony's drag

 At the same time the boat on our right side came sliding by Shiloh, headed out to sea. I called and called the boat name on the VHF radio, but to no avail – the owner was not onboard.

Another friend of ours in a 60ft catamaran was dragging out to sea a bit further away. The rain and wind continued beating the anchorage.

SV-Amarula, dragging out to sea

 I stood, wet and powerless on Shiloh’s back deck, looking at the chaos around me.

Then the boat on our right stopped bobbing away. Their anchor must have caught again (hopefully not on ours!).

I phoned the friends on the 60ft cat, and they had their situation under control.

JW and a couple other friends were onboard Chaotic Harmony and were attempting to re-anchor in a safer place.

And finally the rain softened to a patter. I checked our GPS over and over to confirm – we hadn’t dragged. Not this time.

So, the fun and games were over for the morning. JW arrived back, like a little wet rat. Dripping, drained.

My dream of doubles will have to wait til tomorrow. The sun will have to shine. I have to get up on the canvas bimini with a roller and apply some waterproofing. And I need a dry sunny day.

But there’s got to be an excuse to wait until tomorrow to clean the other cabins as well.

I think it’s time to call a Scrabble tournament with my yachtie-gurlz.