The moments we never forget

Woke up this morning warmed by the sun and lulled by the waves below us. Wasn't in any hurry to wake. But the morning morphed along into eggs and beans and cleaning and then the computer called to me. I opened my old blog and felt the pull. It was that happy melancholy of motherhood. The empty nest. Missing my boy. And I read this old blog post. And shed a few bitter sweet tears.

Had to share:

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Moments like this

Blurry, the park across the street melts in my view and slips down in huge heavy tears onto my t-shirt. Five minutes before, I was posing for photos, thumbs up, with my boy. Our last breakfast at a cheesy local diner, I sipped a giant diet Coke and looked around at what would be his new neighborhood. I was bursting with joy and pride. I poked and tickled him and felt the vicariousness of his new exciting life.



Soft, now my knees like marshmallows, the sidewalk so hard below me, I know I will drop, crashing like the 23 story building looming behind me. I sway in the earthquake of emotion.

Strong, the bond as he holds me, his mom, towering over my weakness. Child becomes parent, small becomes big, life shifts irrevocably. I give in to the abyss of sadness that bubbles up. I’m really losing my baby.

Common, this rituals plays itself out in dorm rooms and concrete school hallways across the continent today. But mine is different, I convince myself, mine is special, mine is my whole life that has led up to this moment! No one can possibly understand. No mother has felt this crushing pride of loss.

Buried, deep in the smell of his cotton t-shirt, I cannot face the world or the truth. I have grown up with this man, this boy, this child of mine.

Floating above myself now, I see us in the airport in Ghana, 1998. My little guy and I, after a year of volunteering, are headed home to Canada for Christmas. He is 6 years old. We are so excited and anxious to get home to the family, it’s palpable. Only, as we stand at the immigration desk, there is hesitation and the officer is upset. Something is wrong. He calls a superior and ushers us aside. My boy looks up at me with those huge innocent eyes. He whispers,

“Mom? What’s wrong?”

I shrug and squeeze his hand as they lead us into a small windowless room. We have apparently overstayed our visa and there is a massive fine to pay. We are in trouble. I don’t have the money, I am at a loss as to how this happened, as our passports are held with the NGO I am working for. We are not going to make our plane. As the minutes tick by and we sit alone and silent in the pitiful room, my heart sinks. Tears stream down my face. My boy jumps up from the chair and leaps forward. He touches my cheeks gently, wiping my tears

“Mom, don’t cry. Everything is going to be ok. It will work out. We’ll be ok. Ok?”

And it was. I squeezed him so close. My heart nearly burst.
Something was arranged and we made our plane, running, hand in hand down the runway, out of breath, we boarded the plane. Everyone was annoyed at the delay. We looked at each other with a knowing… it is the bond. We’d been through another of life’s experiences together.

Spinning, I’m jolted back to now - the world around us circles, and the moment threatens to pass. Time taps my shoulder, we will have to leave. My tears will have to be dammed.

He pulls away,

“C’mon Mom, you’re gonna make me cry.”

Which only make my tears come harder. And I’ve done it. He breaks. His strong face, cracks and our bond is exposed. Emotion all over his face. It’s sealed forever.



Our song plays in my head, the guitar he strums to me in the kitchen on Saturday afternoons back home, Bon Iver:

“I am my mother's only one,

It's enough…

I wear my garment so it shows.

Now you know.

Only love is all maroon,

Gluey feathers on a flume

Sky is womb and she's the moon.

I am my mother on the wall, with us all

I move in water, shore to shore;

Nothing's more.

Only love is all maroon

Gluey feathers on a flume

Sky is womb and she's the moon…

Gazing, incredulous, from behind he grows smaller as he skips away into the huge building that eats him up. The car carries me limp, further and further way. In the distance, the song still serenades me. My boy has grown up and the world has him now.

I like sailing.

The moon above me is playing hide and seek with the opaque clouds. When it appears, the shadows like a sun in a grey planet glisten on the deck.  I’ve got my harness on, tethered securely to a metal cleat, watching it rock back and forth as the wind and waves lift Shiloh and I over and over. It’s 3am and I’m on watch. Below, JW and Dev snore softly in a sea lulled coma.

The music serenades me. I sing along. Joy and sleepiness hold me firmly on the helm seat as my eyes scan robotically – from the wind instruments to the sails to the horizon and back. I’m alone in a way that makes me tingle. I believe it’s freedom or the illusion of it, tinged with fear and quite possibly some sea sickness. But I like it. I’m buzzing. My feet swing below me, my arms grasp the back of the chair. I feel the gusts lunging at the boat, pulling and tugging and moving us swiftly forward. Shiloh and I are sailing and it’s bliss.

___________________

We’ve been doing a lot of sailing lately. That’s good I suppose, after all we live on a sail boat!

In the past 3 weeks, we’ve bounced from Grenada to the Grenadines, past St Vincent and St Lucia, past Martinique and Dominica… We stopped at Guadeloupe and then popped in to Antigua. And now we sit in fancy cafés, downloading apps and catching up on the highly developed dual nationality island of St Maarten.

It’s a bit of a whirlwind, a blur if you will. I’ll be remembering an event or a hike or a restaurant and realise I have no idea which country we were in at the time.

This is how I like life. On the move. The move is what it’s all about. I’m learning more about sailing now, despite the fact that we have a junior captain on board. JW and son have been organising each sail, lifting anchor as a team, plotting the course, hoisting the mainsail and the jib and adjusting constantly. I just do my watches with pleasure and calm. When the swells are slight I make sandwiches for the crew. Just a few bruises on the hips from being jostled around in the galley. It’s all good.

I love the interludes. I love coffee in a café, happy hour at the yacht club, snorkeling with sting rays. But I have come to realise I like the sailing – and not just as a means to an end. I’m looking forward to the next passages as much as the next destinations.

Captain obvious might say “Well I hope so!”

But let me take a step back. Back to my christening on Shiloh. It was my first time ever on a boat of any description. I mean I’d never been on a hobie cat or even a boogie board. Nothing. Nada. No sailing courses, safety courses, lessons of any description. And my captain, though a natural, is NOT a teacher by nature...

The more cruisers I meet, the more I realise they have a lot in common. They’ve been sailing or around boats for a long time. Since childhood in many cases. They know they love life at sea. The knew when they bought a boat and sold everything and jumped aboard, what they were ‘in for’ more or less.

And then there’s me. At first everything terrified me. I had no benchmark, no yard stick for what was safe, what was dangerous. And the sea was just so big, so ominous. I remember in the first few months, sitting in the anchorage at Hog Island, Grenada, watching boats heading off for Trinidad and thinking how brave they were. A 12 to 18 hour sail lay ahead of them and I just couldn’t imagine doing it.

Now we’ve done many of those and many longer passages and all I can think is how I’d like a longer one. A chance to get out there and watch land disappear. Watch the sun set over charcoal foam lined waves.

On the omnipotent universe and other deep thoughts

It’s been ages since I’ve written – hell, it’s a new year even! I’ve always found writing cathartic but then I procrastinate. I’m sure there’s some psychological significance there, but then who has time to analyse when the wind is blowing 38 knots and our anchor needs all the support it can get.

Spent the night cringing at the gusts that pushed and shoved Shiloh back with such strength and bravado, and left our stomachs a few feet back. Amusement park ride all night. I was not amused.

Shiloh in the bay - taken by John Aldworth

We’re heading north. Very. Slowly.

The original plan, concocted over rums at various beaches and bars near the end of 2013, was to get to the Virgin Islands by Christmas. Then it was pushed to after new year. Now it looks like February. But alas, we’re in no rush. The only deadline is reaching Bahamas in enough time to enjoy it for long enough, before needing to head further north for the hurricane season.

In the meantime, parties, hikes, island hop sailing...

On the windward side of Carriacou - pic by John Aldworth

And so, it’s a new year and a lot more of the same and yet every day is so new.

We got out of Trinidad alive. The bimini is complete and it catches a helluva lot of rain. I’m so excited! When the skies open I sit watching and running out to feel how full the jerry cans are getting… small wonders. And rain water as drinking water is blissful. It just is.

Was it worth the extra thousands and months in a grimy boatyard? Um, since it’s already fading into memory, I’d say yes. We love it. And my boat is feeling so homey lately. It’s got my imprint. It’s comfy.

Comfort is up there on the imaginary list of important things. But it’s all relative what we define as comfort.

Some need hair dryers, washing machines and microwaves onboard. Some of us find that warm water for showering is pretty important.

We met a family of cruisers on a big wooden cat in Carriacou who have redefined it all. They've just crossed the ocean on this huge unprotected catamaran - 8 people who used only 200 litres of fresh water total for the crossing...

Dreadlocked, tanned and tattoed, lithe and sinewy, sailing around the bay without a dinghy motor. They reject all the ideals and modern amentities of society. To those in my parents generation, they’d be dismissed as hippies in a heartbeat.

‘Everyone who works is a slave.’

‘The universe provides.’

Eat only fruits and vegetables. Never eat an animal. Wheat is evil, and as addictive as heroin.

Bathe in salt water.

Simple.

My skeptical captain had a field day with questions. Turns out that even the most simple, freedom embracing philosophies can be dissected and broken down, leaving some gaping holes and glaring hypocrisies.

Though their children are following the French curriculum by correspondence, the parents don’t believe in helping with school work or forcing any schedule for learning. It’s all up to the kids. Hmmm.

And they require Internet access to complete assignments and exams. But the use of internet surely falls within the ‘society of slaves’ and necessitates a dependence on modern technology that they despise and eschew.

So, though it turns out their 63’ Wharram catamaran cost over 200,000 Euro – and the money came from a house they sold, and the fact they must pay for the fruits and veggies and immigration fees at each island they visit, they do not believe in money. It’s all in the way you view the world and where your faith lies.

Something to think about. We would never have embarked on this lifestyle if we believed in a conformist reality where we needed jobs, a mortgage, car payments, and most of all the ‘false’ security of a retirement fund.

I think all cruisers fall somewhere outside ‘the box’, along the scale of trusting in something outside the norm. Our new friends on the wooden cat just took this concept a whole lot further.

The universe does provide. Help at a critical moment. An old friend in an unexpected place. Challenges that help you learn. What you need, even if it’s not what you want.

But we do still need money. I guess it’s more about how you view that, and what you’re willing to risk. If we need to work, then we will. If not, we will keep sailing. Simple.

In a sense we look to the universe with a blind faith that things will work out.

Every time we head out of a bay, the ocean beckoning with an unknown strength, both terrifying and enticing, we are trusting in the universe.

Renovations in and out

Today’s post was supposed to be about renovations, about befores and afters. About the realization of a plan. Work completed. The light at the end of the tunnel.

And it is. Or it was, at least it will be. But for now I’m thinking of a different kind of renovation. A reshuffle, cobweb cleaning of the mind. The kind that comes over you on the morning of a birthday. The culmination of all the years and days and minutes that have lead up to this very moment.

I sit in my rocking bed, noises of my captain, best friend and one true love upstairs in the galley, fumbling around trying to make me a cup of coffee. I am deep in thought. Feeling warm beyond the sweat of my brow, feeling lucky and blessed and so grateful for all the experiences my life has crossed path with. For the love and love lost, for my children, travels, jobs, struggles, joys… and he pops his head down into the passage, interrupting my thoughts with two bottles of instant coffee – “this one or this one? Sugar?”

I am grateful for the day to day of life. I vow at this moment to make a life renovation to appreciate it all. The salt water splash on my bum in the dinghy rides to shore, the constant rain storms that won’t allow our towels to dry on the line for days at a time. These are part of what is offered, along with the beautiful moments.

I will always notice the way JW’s eyes change colour by mood and lighting and his wardrobe. This morning the green has separated and there is a glowing yellow radiating from his pupils, giving way to a deep soulful grey. I love him. This morning I can see his soul. Like a child, like me. We are two naughty children, dared to run away with our back packs and not much more, opting for adventure and insecurity, and there are times we cling to each other with a fear so powerful it knocks us over. But we get back up and scamper around, learning how to sail, to live island to island, one mishap to another, broken boat part to the next, creak in the mast, leak in the hatch.

We have recently completed some long discussed changes to make this boat our home. It has taken a lot out of us, spiritually and financially. But it feels like progress.

It feels like a home that could take us places. Far away places, both spiritually and geographically. And as long as I have his warm strong hand in mine, I’m up for the challenge and the ride.

Below, some pics of the renos:

Making due - trying to make the purple velveteen cordouroy sofa look ok...

Life during renovations

Life during renos 2

When they cut out the wall of one of our heads

All the innards are gone, right down to the hull - OMG, it's so thin! There are holes!!!

The completed top cupboard! My new pantry and linen closet!

The completed bottom cupboard - to be used for tools and captain stuff

Finally collecting Shiloh from her unnatural home - heading back to the water!

En route through the boatyard - good riddance!

The renovated saloon - new chair, upholstery, table, and cut off nav seat (on the left - now a cupboard)

A view from further back - including new suede stools for foot rests, storage and seating!

And a view to the right....

And here's Shiloh - back in the water, new graphics proudly displayed, and a happy crew onboard

A little list of what to consider before buying your dream boat

Being ‘on the hard’ for boat works makes a person introspective when it comes to what’s important and what matters in a cruiser’s life.

Why are we going through these painful weeks of camping in an industrial yard with shared toilets and showers and enough dust to rival a north African desert?

Do we really need a washroom converted to cupboards or a hard top bimini to replace our old canvas one? At the risk of sounding like a cruising princess, I'd like to think, YES.

The simple answer is that there is no simple answer. We should have bought a boat with these things in mind. We should have waited until we knew more about what we would find important in a boat. We shoulda, we coulda, but then we might still be sitting behind desks, looking out the window and wishing we’d taken the plunge – literally.

Back in the day of boat research for us, we knew absolutely nothing about a life at sea. The captain took me aboard a few monohulls, from which I emerged utterly claustrophobic, suffocated by the dark wood walls and submarine feeling inside, and convinced, having never sailed on one, that they were not for me. So it was narrowed down pretty quick to catamarans. Captain looked at a lot of forums discussing the common problems with certain catamaran brands and it was narrowed down further. We eventually chose a charter boat, since we knew that we’d still have to work a few more years, and she would have to do some work herself in a charter fleet. Hence here we are with a Lagoon 410S2, 4 cabins, 4 heads (washrooms), making quite a few not-so-insignificant changes.

And here I am, ready to indulge in a list – in the hopes that future boat buyers will benefit from what we’ve learned in our humble corner of the floating world so far…

What to consider when choosing a boat to live in and on and love as a home:

1.     Storage space/cupboards – From the first time we stepped aboard the boat that became ours, I wondered where we would put things. We don’t have much of anything really, yet the storage still seemed an issue. This Lagoon has tons of empty cavities, but they are in the most inaccessible, un-user-friendly places. Both front cabins as well as the original crew bunks in the bow of the boat are 6ft deep holes. You either have to lift mattresses and huge wood planks, or climb down a small hatch on a treacherous ladder to get anything in or out. I’m sweating and I’ve got cuts on my shins just thinking about it.

2.     Beds – considering we spend half our lives lying in these, the level of comfort makes a big difference to feeling ‘at home’. This model Lagoon does NOT come with standard size mattress spaces, with cut corners and tapering sides, and so we CANNOT even think of buying a sprung mattress that all landlubbers take for granted. And so, it’s foam. There is foam and then there is foam. And we’ve tried all of them. And nothing compares to a bed with springs. Ah, what I’d give for a good old posturepedic… When we got to Trinidad I sought out a good foam factory and ordered the best. We were so excited. It had 5 inches of reformed industrial foam with a 3 inch layer of soft foam glued on top. I had it covered and delivered and voila! We now have an 8 inch high block of rock hard bedding. Sigh…

3.     Helm seat – if you are going to do any passages at all (which really, you must), then have a good feel for the helm seat’s comfort. Ours came without cushions either under or at the back. And having a shiny fibrelass finish means that any cushion you try to slip under you will just slide right on out. Also, this thing was obviously made for a man of about 6’ tall. My feet won’t reach the platform below, so the seat cuts off my circulation at the thigh and I basically cannot sit there for more than a few minutes at a time. So I have to sit night watches by standing or leaning, or popping up from the cockpit table below to look out by the helm and then back again, continuously. These things make a big difference to a peaceful passage.

The full extent of the galley

4.     Counter space – the galley in any boat smaller than 50ft is small to begin with, but the layout of our Lagoon is such that there is no more than a couple feet of counter space. When trying to cook – especially for more than 2 of us – it is highly frustrating to say the least. When you step aboard a potential boat to buy, imagine yourself in there, cooking up a dinner for you and some guests. Possible? If not, think hard. The cruising life involves a lot of time in anchorages and aboard. You need to feel that you are not camping, but in your home. Small doesn’t have to mean cramped.

5.     Galley/pantry layout, storage – this is sort of like points 1 and 4 above, but specific to the galley is where to store food. I was recently on a friend’s boat and happened to be watching as she got some items out of the cupboard for cooking. I was awestruck. “OMG!, You have eye-level cupboards! You don’t have to spend 30 minutes with your butt in the air, blood rushing to your head, sifting through cans to find what you’re looking for! So lucky!”  Simple things make such a difference to life on a boat. Have I already said that?

6.     Veneer/finishing – imagine you weren’t a big fan of wood veneer, and even less of a fan of a garish orange, fake cherry look. Then imagine your ‘home’ is completely kitted out on every surface in every room with it. Walls, cupboards, fake flooring… you get the picture. I’ve seen quite a few South African built catamarans, completely white, glossy finish gelcoat. Modern, simple, easy to clean. I love it. Some don’t. You need to know what you like as you will look at it every day.

The orangey, fake cherry look that I'm not the greatest fan of...

7.     Hard top bimini – In my humble opinion, its best to try to get a boat with a hard top awning/bimini. Ours came with a navy canvas one. It’s hot hot hot under her shade and the canvas loses the waterproofing every couple of months. As I balance precariously on top, roller in hand, reapplying the waterproofing chemical I think, ‘Sunbrella is great stuff but it’s not invincible’. This is the ocean and the conditions are harsh. Sun all the time, salt, wind, rain… And the fabric rattles against the stainless steel frame in anything above 10kts.

A nice, sturdy hard top bimini, retro-fitted on a Lagoon here in Chaguaramas

8.     The dangers of production charter boats – Charter boats are made with that purpose in mind. They are slapped together in a production line – seems kinda obvious. But this means they lack the finishing, the panache of boats built for the sole purpose of cruising. They squish in lots of seating – for those 4 couples who’ve paid their USD $2000 each for the week with their friends onboard. Same thing with cabin and head space. Lots of toilets, not lots of cupboards. Fridge that fits lots of beer, deep freezer that chows electricity. All thoughts of the one-week-long stay. Not the forever sail. 

The Lagoon 410 layout

In retrospect, we’d never have bought a Lagoon, nor a Fountaine Pajot for that matter. The good old, strong Privileges, Mantas, Catanas, seem to hold their value and their popularity as great cruising boats.

Here I am at the end of my rant, I mean list. And here we are in Trinidad, finally addressing most of the issues above. If you throw money at a boat, you can make her just the way you want. The more money you throw, the more you get.

But for those of you who haven’t bought your boat yet, maybe you could just choose the boat that you like as is. That fits your needs. That can take you around the world, safely and as comfortably as possible. Just a thought.

Before and During - transformation at Trini pace

This post should be about new beginnings. It should be full of before and after photos of all the work done. This post should be a high five to Trinidad and the services available here. It should be praise and perfection and a boat transformed.

But then it shouldn’t really at all. If we had hauled the boat out and set tasks and jobs and saw them all completed within the timeframe both allocated by us and promised by contractors, then there would be something wrong in the universe. A proverbial flying pig alert. It never happens. Ever. Not even for us, even though I spoke local slang and smiled a lot but was firm in my position on dates. And pricing.

Nothing ever happens for the price you originally agreed on either. There are extras. More hours needed.

I could blame the weather. Ah, Trinidad in the fall. Every day it is still and baking hot. Oppressive in it’s radiation. And then the skies open and it pours. But not before huge ominous clouds take over and blacken any chance of work being completed.

We listen to the weather forcast. They say there is a tropical wave coming through. Its hot, then it’s dark and then it pours. A lot. They say “today will be a beautiful day!” Its hot, then it’s dark and then it pours. A lot. They say it will be partly cloudy with thunder showers in the evening. Guess what? Its hot, then it’s dark and then it pours. A lot.

I could blame culture. The easy going, laid back, soon comeishness of the place. First thing tomorrow is 11am or the following day altogether. Lunchtime is at noon – but if it’s 11:30, its almost lunchtime, so…. (even if you showed up at 11?!) Don’t now expect anyone back on duty before 2. They might come before, but then that is because they are “really trying for you”.

I could blame us – that would be a novel idea – we had a few jobs in mind. They have mushroomed, bloomed, and grown into a chaotic knotted mess of idea porn. My mind swims. We could do this?! Add this?! Well if we do this, then that opens up this to do something new…. And so on.

What I could do is drop blame and settle in. Difficult though it is, living in a construction zone where its as likely to find sawdust as sugar in your tea, where there is never a surface to sit or a spot of countertop to set a bowl or plate. Nevermind though – no fridge, so not much cooking going on.

I have become reacquainted with the dangers of fast food. It is dangerous as you will get to like it briefly, indulge and then within a couple of weeks, the thought of it will make you cringe. And you will barf just a bit in your throat. Ewwww. I don’t think I will ever look at a KFC the same again. There must be more of them per square mile here than any other single business. Day and night, the town is literally painted red, (with the face of an old bespeckled white haired, white goatee'd American guy).

All of the above ranting aside though, there is something I like about Trinidad. The people are vibrant, bold, confident. There are stores and services and resources unheard of anywhere between here and St Martin. Our little quaint Leeward and Windward islands have nothing on this place for modern amenities.

But alas, we are worlds away from the ocean that laps insistently at the boatyard concrete wall, some metres away. We don’t smell that unmistakable scent of the sea or feel the fresh salty breeze. We are cut off, segregated, kept from the place we love, with all it’s promises of new horizons.

Our boat work is at the 'before and during' stages. We are land-locked for now and our sense of freedom is bruised. I feel wounded. Beat lightly around the ears with a heavy but blunt object. It is the feeling of being trapped. Like cotton wool, like the mud that supports us on our clunky stilts. It’s all stagnant and still.

And so we will plod along, and the before and after shots will definitely follow, on their own time. We will look at photos of the turquoise waters that lie just outside our grasp for now, and smile. Wipe the fiberglass from the corners of our eyes, we will look forward to Shiloh transformed and ready to roll once more.

For now, I need to find some fast food.

Between a dock and a hard place

I’m sat on the cool dusty floor of the cyber café, along with the 10 or so others who got here too late to get a seat at the tables. All around me, at eye level or the lucky ones above us, are cruisers. I can tell by the practical and well used shoes – mostly Tevas and heavy duty industrial tread sandals. Plonked beside us all are backpacks of various sizes and colours. If we all weren’t so wrinkled and tanned, someone might mistake us for students. No one has a hand bag. No one has heels or wedges or even closed-toed loafers. There are lots of hats and caps to keep the vicious sun at bay though. We live on boats in the Caribbean. We need Internet. Here we are.

As the door swings open and closed beside me - cruisers peeking in at the masses of us and leaving, despondent - I inhale the dust and relish the gusts of crushing heat from outside. This is Trinidad in October. It’s HOT.

I am in a boatyard and most of those around me know what it’s like. Our homes, hoisted up on flimsy looking stilts, stuffed in like sardines, like fish out of water we are… can’t use the toilets or the water really. Mosquitos ravage us, the dirt and dust and cables and wires and grinding tools they beat us down, try to kill our spirits, depress us with the lack of beauty and the reality of what is a boat yard. 

Somewhere in these boatyards is our temporary home...

Hoisting Shiloh into her land berth

The cyber café is a retreat. Air-conditioning pumps out at us, subduing the heavy scent of sweating bodies and muddy wet t-shirts.

Most people are all here for one reason. To fix their boat. When they are not sitting in this chilly box of a café, they are busy grinding, polishing, scraping, painting, huffing, puffing and generally getting stuck in to boat maintenance, repairs, upgrades, refits, etc etc etc… that is until 5pm when I’m sure the rum and the beers are cracked open. Reward for the job well done. Only the jobs are long and difficult and when you are using local contractors, the jobs happen slowly. Very slowly. When it’s not baking hot, it’s pouring rain, and no work can happen in the rain. Some workers get stuck at home during flooding from the rain. The boatyard becomes a stagnant pool of mosquito breeding mud baths after the rain… and we all sit in this cyber café to escape. That was yesterday. Today it’s too hot. And about that work that needs doing on the boat? Well it’s Friday. We’ll continue Monday.

And so it happens, that when you sail down to Trinidad (or motor in zero wind in our case), you wade through the thick brown, oil slicked water, dodging coke bottles, used diapers, submerged plastic bags and various cuts of timber, and you vow to get your work done FAST and get out.

But the days turn to weeks turn to months... And Trinidad isn’t all that bad anyway. There are modern movie theaters and fast food restaurants and wholesale super stores and yummy local foods to try…We've had a 6.4 earthquake, we've visited the largest (one of only three) pitch lake in the world. We've been to malls and had some great barbeques, met new friends...

The boys, playing in the strange tarry, sulphur smelling pitch

For Shiloh, there is a make over underway. She is getting a fresh bottom paint (to supposedly keep the barnacles at bay), a new clean, polish and graphics (courtesy my talented son), and a lot of interior changes that she’s been in need of – or maybe that I’ve been convinced of, for quite a while.

We’re raising the water line by heaving out clunky bolted in furniture and adding storage by converting one of our superfluous heads (bathrooms) to a massive storage cabinet with access from three sides.

Ah, the joy that will overtake me when I go to pull out a can of food from an eye level  pantry shelf instead of bending over to rummage through a mess of a locker at floor level. These are the things we come to fixate on in a boat. The access to the stuff. It’s never easy given the small space we have, and it depends on the designer of the boat, whether they did it well or not. In our case, I have to say ‘Lagoon, you failed. Miserably’. But we can change that! And we will. And we are.

Evidenced by the thin white film of fiberglass and wood dust that now covers every surface in Shiloh. Evidenced by the chaos that is currently our saloon and the freaky half-done view of the head we currently have – they’ve cut out a big hole in the wall so you can see the toilet from the galley! 

The massive cabinet that dominated all living space... out!

And now we have all this floor space - got a nice big rug and moveable chair!

Sawing off the silly fibreglass seat/storage

And voila! Oh, well they are now closing it up again with a cute little access door

It’s not ideal living conditions. It’s hectic with two to three contractors in the limited space each day and the continuous mess. And did I mention we cannot use our fridge either? It’s water-cooled and must be turned off when ‘on the hard’.

So it’s a challenge. But there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

And when we ‘splash’ next – whether it happens this month or next, Shiloh will be a better version of herself and we will have all this tediousness behind us and we can sail off, to the Virgin Islands, to the Bahamas and beyond!

But for now, I need to get off this floor and find the Laundromat.