Today.
I'm sitting in the Westport cabin next to a roaring fire while a light summer storm blows on the river outside the windows. We'll be moving on to our next adventure next week, and I'm thinking about the summer we've spent here.
Day 1.
We arrive on a rainy evening to a house on a beautiful river that has no electricity or running water. No, that's not quite true. When we turn on the pump, water gushes out from a severed pipe under the kitchen floor. Which we know because the floorboards aren't attached so we can easily lift one up to reveal the half-drowned crypt beneath -- a graveyard for plastic milk bottles, for reasons I will not spend time attempting to fathom. Oh well. At least we remain hydrated from above as well as below. There's plenty of water coming from the ceiling, fresh from the clouds, with only a tinge of roofing tar.
We look at each other for a while, each reading the other's face for whether we are going to abandon the whole idea of living here and just find a motel that'll take us and the dogs for the next two and a half months. But finally, with a nod, we acknowledge that we won't turn back now. We take stock of the task ahead.
The main room is full of furniture in various states of decomposition, most of which seems to have come with the house when it was purchased decades ago from an even then long-defunct boys' camp. The floor -- which itself is comprised of boards of wood that seem to be in a state of disagreement amongst themselves about which way is horizontal -- is covered in threadbare rugs with a zeal for one-way transmogrification (into dust). And on top of all of this is a pile consisting of the summary of five years of modern living, most of which seems completely pointless now that we've clearly returned to basics.
As Asa goes out onto the porch -- most of the slate tiles of which have been torn out and removed, leaving bumps like concrete roots in the resulting stone jungle -- and takes a maul to the most accessible and least moldy furniture, I start and tend to a fire in the huge stone fireplace that acts as the centerpiece of the room. (In the dark, I can only see the outline of its majestic form. It won't be until later that I notice the yellow expanding insulation that Asa and his brother used to seal up the cracks in the stone twenty years ago.) As I feed pages of a mold-eaten zoological volume from 1880 into the flames, I can't help thinking of two young fugitives in a fairy tale who've stumbled upon what is obviously a witch's house in the woods. Slowly but surely, we begin to revel in the adventure.
Today.
There's a comfortable familiarity now to the sound of raindrops falling into pots in the kitchen and the faint smell of gas that leaks out whenever the hot water is on for too long. A floorboard is leaning up against a wall -- surprisingly, it was the only one that gave up under our weight in all this time and broke to reveal a four-foot drop to the ground below. There's a collection of shells on the porch that we've gathered on our daily walks on the beach. The dogs are sitting by the river and wistfully watching the droplets hit the water. I think they, too, know somehow that our time here is almost up. Maybe they know that if we come back next summer, this house and its decades of do-it-yourself fixer-upper history will probably be gone.
Something about our time here turned this abandoned witch's hut into a home, and we'll be sad to see it go. But it's given me faith that anything can be an adventure worth having, and that's not a bad thing by which to be remembered.
But for now, please excuse me. Our rain pots are overflowing.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Monday, August 5, 2013
Braking Bad
I am keenly self-aware as I set the emergency brake and finally kill the engine. The ringing silence leaves me with a sense of accomplishment diluted by a tinge of accumulated stress. I slam the rusted door of my truck without looking and step over a bubbling stream of iridescent brake fluid running out from under the vehicle. Brakes are entirely optional. Thirty minutes of towing, three dozen stop signs, red lights, and crazy jersey drivers - and I never touched the brake pedal. Wouldn't have accomplished much, anyhow, except making me feel better, maybe.
Some hours ago, back in the age when I was still convinced that I would be driving this truck well into the 22nd century, I arrived at the municipal boat launch and encountered my first challenge of the day. Imagine typical city gridlock during rush hour, and now imagine the same experience without traffic lights or any semblance of rules. Now, add boat trailers and randomly subtract driving skills. Leave excessive common courtesy, at least for the most part, and you have your standard boat deployment wait time.
As it turned out, gridlock extended all the way into the Raritan Bay, and that proved to be the second challenge. As a solo sailboat operator I am faced with a self-imposed dilemma: I need to get the boat off the trailer, park it safely, and then return to move the truck into the parking lot. This procedure might seem simple, but it involves considerable variability for two highly related reasons: this is a racing catamaran with no motor, and the wind is not entirely in my control, regardless of what delusions of grandeur I might entertain. In actuality, launching often involves the following entertaining moments: slamming into other boats, slamming into a pier, getting your lines tangled on the trailer as well as the general inability to dock. The latter is an extreme and rare event during the launching comedy hour, but today was a day of rare opportunity, and I was able to accomplish nearly everything on the list, but not before I kept the boat ramp tied up for a good 20 minutes while waiting for a docking spot to free up. In an attempt to confuse the already puzzled spectators even further, I waited for the docking spot to free up and then chose not to use it - I just went for the beach.
Barely an hour later I was coming back to repeat all of the above in reverse order. The wind was stronger than I expected and the experience is simply not that enjoyable when you realize that you need to gain about 100 pounds in order to be able to properly manage the craft by yourself. Since I am both unwilling and most likely incapable of turning myself into a walking ballast, I decided to surrender at this point and return to base. This time around, I gave up on the idea of proper docking and beached the craft again, leaving it in the care of the wind as it gently but insistently pushed the boat onto the sand.
Usually, when people describe experiencing "that sinking feeling", they are referring to intuition. What I experienced should not be confused with listening to your inner guidance, as it was an entirely physical sensation of my right foot encountering no resistance from the brake pedal. Now, my truck has its share of brake system variability, and I was almost willing to chuck it up to a bit of air in the lines or a defective caliper (again!), when I experienced what I would in fact describe as listening to inner guidance, and so I got out and checked the fluid level. I stared in disbelief at the empty reservoir for at least 10 seconds, which is a long time to spend on gauging fluid level. This is a moment when your mind searches wildly for a straw of sanity to grab onto, for a way to explain the perceived reality away, for a way to deny it and to continue on with life the way you wanted to barely a moment ago.
I looked under the truck and was quickly denied the last grabbable straw - brake fluid was running down both rear wheels, a feat seldom accomplished through even the most severe brake system malfunction. Everything was so thoroughly coated and dripping that I quickly gave up trying to narrow down the location of the rupture. What I was as yet unwilling to give up was the possibility of a makeshift workaround. Did you know that dollar stores sell brake fluid? Three jugs of brake fluid later (and one rather confused cashier, for I was still wearing the hat and sailing gloves) I determined that the brake system is, shall we say, mostly off-line.
One hour later I was off the phone with Good Sam Roadside assistance, now heartily assured that there is no way, under any circumstances, for any amount of money, that they would tow my boat trailer, much less extract the boat from the water. And that's after the "we'll tow whatever you're driving, no matter what" sales pitch. Well, at least I tried. And suddenly I saw it - I saw my future, I saw myself still sitting in the Keyport Municipal Boat Launch parking lot, grey and old and mostly toothless, still waiting to pay an exorbitant fee to multiple tow companies just to get my two vehicles home. And behind it, glimmering with radiance, I saw a different future, a future in which I was home, having raw greenola and a relaxed conversation. And I made a difficult (not!) choice.
This was what I have been training for my entire life. All the perfectionist power shifts, all the coasting, religious downshifting, timing traffic lights and braking distance and the general disdain for the brake pedal - there was a purpose behind it all, a method to my madness. That's what I tell myself, anyway. So I took a deep breath and re-calibrated my brain, my instincts and my reflexes. And then I drove my truck and trailer onto a ramp leading straight into the ocean, having no hydraulic help in keeping my already rusty vehicle from getting a saltwater bath. And I survived. And then I drove it home. And everyone else survived.
There should be a conclusion of some sort in this paragraph, since this is the end. But since "And this is why I drive stick" sounded too evangelistic and "I'm so awesome" was already adequately expressed, I'll have to forego all that in favor of an expression of infinite gratitude for this and all experiences. Thank you, universe, for letting me get away with all sorts of stuff.
Some hours ago, back in the age when I was still convinced that I would be driving this truck well into the 22nd century, I arrived at the municipal boat launch and encountered my first challenge of the day. Imagine typical city gridlock during rush hour, and now imagine the same experience without traffic lights or any semblance of rules. Now, add boat trailers and randomly subtract driving skills. Leave excessive common courtesy, at least for the most part, and you have your standard boat deployment wait time.
As it turned out, gridlock extended all the way into the Raritan Bay, and that proved to be the second challenge. As a solo sailboat operator I am faced with a self-imposed dilemma: I need to get the boat off the trailer, park it safely, and then return to move the truck into the parking lot. This procedure might seem simple, but it involves considerable variability for two highly related reasons: this is a racing catamaran with no motor, and the wind is not entirely in my control, regardless of what delusions of grandeur I might entertain. In actuality, launching often involves the following entertaining moments: slamming into other boats, slamming into a pier, getting your lines tangled on the trailer as well as the general inability to dock. The latter is an extreme and rare event during the launching comedy hour, but today was a day of rare opportunity, and I was able to accomplish nearly everything on the list, but not before I kept the boat ramp tied up for a good 20 minutes while waiting for a docking spot to free up. In an attempt to confuse the already puzzled spectators even further, I waited for the docking spot to free up and then chose not to use it - I just went for the beach.
Barely an hour later I was coming back to repeat all of the above in reverse order. The wind was stronger than I expected and the experience is simply not that enjoyable when you realize that you need to gain about 100 pounds in order to be able to properly manage the craft by yourself. Since I am both unwilling and most likely incapable of turning myself into a walking ballast, I decided to surrender at this point and return to base. This time around, I gave up on the idea of proper docking and beached the craft again, leaving it in the care of the wind as it gently but insistently pushed the boat onto the sand.
Usually, when people describe experiencing "that sinking feeling", they are referring to intuition. What I experienced should not be confused with listening to your inner guidance, as it was an entirely physical sensation of my right foot encountering no resistance from the brake pedal. Now, my truck has its share of brake system variability, and I was almost willing to chuck it up to a bit of air in the lines or a defective caliper (again!), when I experienced what I would in fact describe as listening to inner guidance, and so I got out and checked the fluid level. I stared in disbelief at the empty reservoir for at least 10 seconds, which is a long time to spend on gauging fluid level. This is a moment when your mind searches wildly for a straw of sanity to grab onto, for a way to explain the perceived reality away, for a way to deny it and to continue on with life the way you wanted to barely a moment ago.
I looked under the truck and was quickly denied the last grabbable straw - brake fluid was running down both rear wheels, a feat seldom accomplished through even the most severe brake system malfunction. Everything was so thoroughly coated and dripping that I quickly gave up trying to narrow down the location of the rupture. What I was as yet unwilling to give up was the possibility of a makeshift workaround. Did you know that dollar stores sell brake fluid? Three jugs of brake fluid later (and one rather confused cashier, for I was still wearing the hat and sailing gloves) I determined that the brake system is, shall we say, mostly off-line.
One hour later I was off the phone with Good Sam Roadside assistance, now heartily assured that there is no way, under any circumstances, for any amount of money, that they would tow my boat trailer, much less extract the boat from the water. And that's after the "we'll tow whatever you're driving, no matter what" sales pitch. Well, at least I tried. And suddenly I saw it - I saw my future, I saw myself still sitting in the Keyport Municipal Boat Launch parking lot, grey and old and mostly toothless, still waiting to pay an exorbitant fee to multiple tow companies just to get my two vehicles home. And behind it, glimmering with radiance, I saw a different future, a future in which I was home, having raw greenola and a relaxed conversation. And I made a difficult (not!) choice.
This was what I have been training for my entire life. All the perfectionist power shifts, all the coasting, religious downshifting, timing traffic lights and braking distance and the general disdain for the brake pedal - there was a purpose behind it all, a method to my madness. That's what I tell myself, anyway. So I took a deep breath and re-calibrated my brain, my instincts and my reflexes. And then I drove my truck and trailer onto a ramp leading straight into the ocean, having no hydraulic help in keeping my already rusty vehicle from getting a saltwater bath. And I survived. And then I drove it home. And everyone else survived.
There should be a conclusion of some sort in this paragraph, since this is the end. But since "And this is why I drive stick" sounded too evangelistic and "I'm so awesome" was already adequately expressed, I'll have to forego all that in favor of an expression of infinite gratitude for this and all experiences. Thank you, universe, for letting me get away with all sorts of stuff.
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