Part 1: It all started with a particulate filtering facepiece respirator.

Charlie and I were headed to the beach, which was particularly wonderful for us because we’d been away from Florida beaches for far too long.  Although he’d spent quite a bit more time in New York than I had, I feel that I suffered the most from the lack of emerald-colored salt water.  Why is that?  Because it’s my blog, and I say so.

Denise manning the helm.

You're looking the wrong way, moron.

When we came back home to Florida, we brought with us a fabulous little MORC race boat that had been donated to his school, SUNY Maritime College.  We’d put a lot of work into this thing, most of it during the winter.  Charlie is the one who made us work on it in the snow, by the way.  He made all these promises of hot chocolate and space heaters.  Guess who never got her Swiss Miss.  Even through all of the forced labor, I ended up falling in love with the boat.  To this day we haven’t splashed our little G&S 25, and it’s all because of a new girl who caught Charlie’s eye.

There’s something you should know; Charlie can name a sailboat model from a mile away.  I wish to God this was something that paid.

Back to the supposed beach trip: we had to stop at a boatyard to check on Charlie’s dad’s Mako 21 which had been having some engine troubles.  In the haul-out slip at this boatyard floated a huge wreck of a derelict vessel, which never even caught my eye.  Charlie, on the other hand, recognized it immediately as one of the boats that had been on his dream-boat list for as long as he could remember.  He walked right into the service department and asked the first person he saw, “what’s the deal with that Compass 47 out there?”

“Is that what it is?  It’s yours for five thousand dollars.”

“Sold.”

Compass 47 Lookin' Rough

Compass 47 what? I had no idea, and didn't really care to, at this point.

The gentleman behind the counter then handed over an N95 mask and gave one last warning, “it’s pretty moldy and gross inside.  Oh, and it’s full of wasps.”

You would think Charlie had just been assigned a top secret fact-finding mission by the President himself, while I’d just earned a near guaranteed stab with an Epi-Pen.  Going through this boat was serious business for serious people.  Charlie was enchanted by things that were giving me the creeps.  I wasn’t entirely sure he was seeing the same things I was, and was tempted to administer a field sobriety test.  He insisted, though: this boat could be brought back to life.  He then let me know that he’d just seen one sell on YachtWorld for $120,000.  I must have blinked at him strangely a few times, because I started seeing black spots.  All I could say was, “sold.”

We did eventually make it to the beach.  The entire time we were there, Charlie was sweating the Compass.  We had yet to deal with the broker, and we weren’t satisfied that the verbal agreement with the service technician at the boatyard constituted a deal done.  The broker would end up being hard to hook up with, only because he wasn’t too concerned with this hunk-of-junk he had on his hands.  He didn’t even know what it was, and we weren’t about to tell him.

I think it’s around 25 or 6 to 4, or so.

Does anybody really know what time it is?  Does anybody really care?

Seriously, if I ever asked anybody what time it was and they came back at me with some pseudophilosophical tripe like that, I’d get pretty aggravated, because, yeah, you’d know what damn time it was if you’d look at that watch that you’ve already admitted to wearing.  I’ve got a question for ya’.  Why are you wearing a watch, anyway?  Now, I won’t get violent or anything like that, so fear not hippies, but I won’t be sticking around to hear what the bigger message is supposed to be, so the whole thing ends up being a wasted attempt at getting me to care about whatever deep thought it is you’re having at the moment.

And, after typing that all out, I realize I’m probably the only person in the world who has such a reaction to that song.

Something For His Baby Book

This post is about Charlie annoying me by constantly invoking the title of a miniseries.

You can go ahead and blame me for all those Masterpiece classics Netflix keeps suggesting to you.  Yes, I’m the one that devours episodes of Downton Abbey, and I can’t seem to make those four part BBC miniseries last longer than one night in my instant queue.  I know you probably thought Netflix was screwing with you, but someone really watches that stuff.  I even put up with (the lovely and talented) Shirley Henderson’s voice for several hours because the adaptation of Anthony Trollope’s The Way We Live Now was just so strange-in-a-good-wayThis is not about that.

So, He Knew He Was Right must have sat in my queue for nearly a year before we got around to watching it.  Then we did.

You know how a kid will go around repeating that thing that made you laugh the first time he said it over and over until you find yourself reassured that putting the locks on the outside of his bedroom door was a good idea?  I don’t even have kids, I just remember being that annoying.  Anyway, Charlie is like that kid.

Since watching He Knew He Was Right, Charlie has claimed to have known he was right about everything.

“Charlie, could you hand me the remote?”

This remote?”

“Yes.  Thank you.”

“I knew I was right.”

Spoiler: In case you were wondering, the guy who knew he was right, he dies at the end.

Where I Complain About Wining and Dining My Boat

Everything we do to the boat is hard. I’ll go into details when I get this blog fully refocused, but for now I just want to complain about the boat.  Yes, I’m going to whine about a strong hulled forty-seven foot long sailboat that has three state rooms, two heads and over six feet of standing head room.  I’m going to sit here and boo-hoo over a boat that was sailed to Florida from South Africa and has gone up and down the east coast of the US quite a few times, as well.

We purchased a Compass 47, so we’re pretty much the luckiest kids in town.  The fact that a boat like this was around for the taking, under the circumstances that it was proves the existence of some sort of merciful God.  The boat needs some work, but, structurally, she’s as strong as an ox.  A really big, young, strong ox (or whichever way oxes … -en … are strongest).  She’s got an attitude though.  I’ve begun to think of her like an insecure woman who gets a reputation for being – and I do hate this term – “high maintenance.”  She’s quite the catch, but she needs you to spend time and money on her so that she’ll know she’s worth something.  She knows you love her dearly, but she requires that you show her.  She wants to get taken out to dinner and a movie, and dessert, and get an engagement ring.  Every day.  She wants you to shower her with platitudes, and act like you need her a little bit, too.  A few tears shed on her behalf every now and then may be necessary, and she doesn’t mind if you know that.

She likes it when you spend eight hours straight hunched over, putting painters tape down on her deck.

And we did.