Fast forward to now sitting there looking at the pictures with goo goo eyes. Here was a living embodiment of my fantasies...
So a quick email to the owners netted me a phone call. I soon was on my way to North Carolina to survey this "ready to sail" beauty.
I knew at once when I stepped aboard that ready to sail was a relative term. Ranging from not likely to sink at the dock to step aboard and raise the sails.
First of all she needed a complete paint job. Boards were in need of caulk and the appearance was of a tired lady needing some serious rehab. Perhaps my standards are higher, but one needs to do now what can only be worse if one waits until later.
After a firm email to the owners declaring my top dollar (thinking that it would be a no-go), I received, not 10 minutes later a reply with an acceptance of my offer. Whew that was easy, too easy. I kinda took a hard-ass approach and was pretty blunt about what I saw. I reminded them of the monthly storage fee eating away at the bottom line, etc. But that was just too easy. Well, I took it.
And the rest they say is history (in the making),
Not to mention daily sweat and hard work in the broiling North Carolina coastal sun.
I've been here a week. I have stripped off all the stuff in the way and sanded every square inch. I've caulked and primed twice. I have one coat of Polyurethane paint on the decks, doghouse and massive end wells. Believe me, this is "blue collar" work if I ever saw it. No offense. I came from blue collar, then I College and had a career. Now to end up with this? The things we do to "entertain ourselves" in retirement.
Now I have to "scuff," read hand sand the entire deck and repaint. This time I have to put anti-skid sand on as well. Ditto to the sides minus the scratchy stuff. I hope to be done this Saturday. I go home Sunday...to start work on Belle's deck. I have to get her ready to sell.
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I'm killing me! Why do I do these things.
I'll keep you posted. Her new name avoids the ponderous themes evoked by Wagnerian Teutonic fantasy and sticks with the mission statement. She's a gunkholer. She's made for the shallows. She's new to me, you see. I therefore have a right to rename her, don't I? I think it's actually good luck. She'll know just what I expect of her. Wish me luck.