Cranky

We found Carrie Rose resting peaceably in slip 119. Our next slip neighbor, Tom on Parrotdise, welcomed us with an, “I was wondering when you were going to show up.” The first thing I notice about Tom was the Spanish doubloon hanging around his neck, but that is another story.

Cranky might be the operative word since neither of us had slept much the last couple of nights. And then there is the anxiety of not knowing what we are going to find. Let’s just say it is a process to prepare the boat to be sea worthy. There are always surprises and this trip is no different.

At this point in my career the process of approaching Carrie Rose is intuitive but for that no less rigorous. As I walk towards her I looked to make sure she is lying on her lines. For CR this means a list to the port (left). That is where the uncompensated weight of the generator is reflected. I make sure the dock lines are appropriately tied, and the power core is duly supported and not hanging in the water.

When I step on board I feel her give way under my feet and if I am not careful I get a bit unbalanced especially if I am carrying anything with weight. This will pass in time; it is called getting your sea legs. I have noticed that when one is no longer able to get them is when the boat goes on the market. Once inside the cabin after a cursory look my olfactory sense kicks in big time: mold, mildew, sewage, diesel — my nose searches for any untoward smell.

Next concern is the state of the batteries. There is science and myth to batteries. It is chemistry and physics after all, and though I have taken inorganic, organic, biochemistry and physics I am on the myth side when it comes to batteries. I have tried to cross over to science but in this pursuit I am frustrated. I comfort myself with the notion that I probably know more than 90% of the boaters out on the water. As a justification for ignorance it is not a bad one.

There is other stuff. The screens we had made sight unseen by the canvas maker in Chicago were an inch too short. By the time I finished filling our two fifty gallon fresh water tanks I realize I had the hose connected to the river water spigot. And when, after I finally drained and refilled the tanks (and dosed them with a generous dollop of bleach), I turned the Water Pressure switch on Charlotte screamed as a pencil-sized stream of high-pressure water flooded the space under the sink. It seemed in my glee at being finished I had neglected to attach the body of the water filter.

I could go on but when it came time to hit the sack, under a down comforter mind you, we both fell fitfully to sleep in our little quiet gentle swaying cocoon, and when awakening both said it was the best sleep we had since leaving Carrie Rose last August. It seems that all the preparation had washed away the crankiness.