Keepin it Easy on Waiheke Island

It only really sank in how long it's been since I've written anything when I finally slowed down after my brother left. He took off from Waiheke two weeks ago and I've been hopping around anchorages here ever since. I'm not going to lie, it feels pretty good to be relatively stationary.

Ardea took us on a glorious tour of Great Barrier Island. We hit at least a dozen anchorages on the whole of the west coast, climbed the highest peak, hiked to the hot springs, which were too hot to touch in some places, much less to engage in any sort of prolonged bathing. One of the highlights was Smokehouse Bay, where a Kiwi fellow left the land and money for some facilities in one small bay. There are several large fish smokers, concrete basins with hand-crank washing fixtures, and a couple of baths, one indoors and one outdoors. The baths could be filled with piping hot water as long as one makes a little fire in the nearby iron stove. On top of it all, there was an excellent cockle beach nearby; cockles are a type of clam that burrow in shallow, sandy areas. We went at low tide with our friend Al and came back with heaps of them.

Mmmmm. Cockles and boxed wine...

A Tuerto mission to the mussel farms...

Was a shame Chuck brought the same Topsiders as I have.
 It was such a tough time figuring out whose were whose.

Ardea in Tryphena Bay at Great Barrier.
Coromandel Penninsula in the background.

Kauri, the famous NZ hardwood, rises
above the falls on GBI.

Hiking to the hot springs.

We spent around two weeks out there. Dianna left from Port Fitzroy and Charlie and I continued South, eventually jumping from Barrier to Colville Harbor on the Coromandel Peninsula, where we met some comical characters enjoying their vacation double-wides on the beach at Otautu Bay. It made for a pretty hilarious night.

We moseyed on down the Penninsula to Coromandel Town, where we met some more fine folk and spent several days. It's a nice town there, like Sausilito or Fairfax except more country, whatever that means to you. We rented a car there and explored the east coast of the Coromandel. We had a few hikes, tried to get a little surf, and ended the day at Hot Water Beach. There are hotsprings at one end of the beach that you can access by digging a hole in the sand at low tide. If you hit the right spot, the hole will backfill with super hot water. It was pretty righteous, sitting with the waves splashing into the sandy hot tubs scattered about. There were lots of people, but it didn't matter.

Finally we sailed over to Waiheke Island and visited Jon and Nia at the winery that they've been employed with for a few months. A day or two later, Chuck took off, and I had no further plans nor excuses for avoiding them. Still, I've had Jon and Nia, Claus and Tim, and new friends to hang out with. Chittick came up for a visit, too, and we reminisced and went kiteboarding and drank plenty of beers. It was a grand old time, but we both agreed we miss America. Still, I'll keep fishing and scallop diving and living it up the sailor way right up until it's time to leave.

On that, after much deliberation, I assure you, I decided to put Ardea on TradeMe, the kiwi sort of eBay deal, and head back to California. I thought about sailing back via the southern route to Tahiti then Hawaii, or heading to Fiji or Australia, but then I'd just as soon go back and start again. And, yeah, I've got three-foot-syndrome, but it's not just about getting a bigger boat in California. I'm getting pretty damned close to ten-thousand miles over ground on this little boat and the most consistent thing I felt about it all was how much I'd like to be studying the sea; will I someday sail myself to remote research locations? Can't know for sure, but I think I'll have a go at making something like that happen. In any case, I'm far from finished sailing and I feel I can start again with all the wisdom I've gained on this trip and have a much easier time of it. Mexico? Well that's pretty damned close by now, isn't it?

In some ways it seems ridiculous to leave Ardea now. After all we've been through and after all the work I've put into her, I'm sort of only just finally settled in. I mean that boat is pretty much dialed in. I know how to run it and I know everything that's good and bad and squirrely and quirky and everything else. I know exactly what I've got and I can fix any of it. So what's my rationale? Shit, it seems like I'm still sort of working on it. This whole thing has been challenging. Even up to now, trying to sell the boat, I'm learning every day. And that's exactly what I wanted. Sailing back to the tropics is very, very tempting, but I feel like I would like something to do once I get there, aside from all of the obvious and, admittedly, enjoyable activities that I've been doing for the entirety of this endless summer. So, anyway, it's back home with this sailor, looking for new challenges, with some new ideas, some new goals and, before too long, I'm sure, a new boat.

I'll be back in the Bay in a month or so, looking for some work and starting to figure out how to get to graduate school. I'm pretty excited for some change, though the thought of parting with this boat that has been so good to me brings me great sadness.

This site will stay up and there's a lot of things I'd like to share up here. I'll post from time to time, especially once I'm back in California and can do some video editing and use high-speed internet. In the meantime, I'd love to hear from whoever is out there and reading about this little adventure. This blog has been around for a little over a year and has 25,000 hits from mainly the U.S., but also several countries in Asia, lots of hits from the Ukraine, Poland, Germany, Australia, India, F.P., NZ, Russia, France, Lithuania... okay, only six hits from Lithuania, but still, it's pretty crazy to me.

At some point I'm sure I'll go back and read all of this blabber, as it will be interesting to see how it evolved. My mental space has probably been more apparent than I may have realized while writing, and it has changed so much throughout the vicissitudes of seafaring. It is still strange for me to think about that knowing that I post this stuff where anybody can read it, and it's probably pretty clear that I've become more comfortable with that over time. In any case, for those who read this or any of my rambles, whether one line or every line, thanks for your patience. For the minority who like the long, wordy stories, I may well have a yarn or two left. For now, though, I'll share a short verse that has always inspired me and leave you with some photos of beautiful New Zealand.

I read this in a National Geographic years ago. It was written by C. Day Lewis.

Those Himalayas of the mind

Are not so easily possessed

There's more than precipice and storm

Between you and your Everest

Threatened brown teals at Great Barrier Island.

Pilot whales breaching just off the bow
 near Whangaparapara Bay, GBI.

Trekking the fjord lands of South Island.

Along the Routeburn Track, South Island

Routeburn Flats Campsite, South Island.

Not a bad view...

Routeburn Track- approaching the Divide.

Lake Howden, Routeburn Track, South Island.

View from Mount Hobson, Great Barrier Island.

Dolphins in Whangaparapara Bay, GBI.

Ardea sails on.

Worth all the while

Only a quick update as the Internet is poor. Ardea is cruising again! Even the fact of lousy overpriced internet is a boon to me as I feel like a free outdoorsman again since leaving the brackish basin of Whangarei. Though the mangrove-lined shores there certainly brought me nostalgia of my swamp-studying days in Panama, little could compare to the majesty of the natural landscapes we've seen in the last three weeks.

First, a trip to the fjord lands of the South Island where Charlie, Dianna and I hiked the Routeburn track and camped among the alpine parrots and massive fruit doves, drank the pure mountain water and soaked in views of high-altitude lakes, snow-capped peaks, and the unique and spectacular flora and fauna of New Zealand.

Then we returned to Ardea, spent a day finishing up projects and provisioning and started a three-days meander to the coast from the long and winding channel that ends at Whangarei Town Basin. We dove for scallops and saw glorious dorid nudibranchs with bright yellow gill-like plumes wafting in the current. I have been no less than mesmerized by the abundance and variety of life in the cold water here. The rocky intertidal and mud flats are the most obvious, but a snorkel and mask reveal the amazing world of kelp forests and the vast plains of the benthos. Molluscs and crustaceans seem to dominate, but much more is there as well. The discarded shells of dead scallops might house dozens of invertebrate species ranging across many phyla. Really, one doesn't have to look too closely to be impressed.

After Dianna set the at-anchor fishing record in pulling up three red snappers at once using a jig rig and some old salted tuna (from a yellow-fin in Mexico... my how the time flies), we headed off to Great Barrier Island, 45 miles offshore. We had a brief stop at Taranga Island for lunch but the holding was poor. We sailed past sundown and anchored in beautiful Katherine Bay.

We spent three or four days there enjoying clear water full of life, fine beaches and views of native scrub and forest along the surrounding hillsides. The weather has been warm amd sunny, the NZ sun still nuclear.

We moved to Port Fitzroy and enjoyed one of my favorite cruiser outings, the waterfall hike. Dianna departed today leaving Chuck and I, and Ardea, of course. We will move to Smokehouse Bay after this foray with the interweb and enjoy an old fish-smoking facility converted to wood-fired bathhouses for the use of passing sailors.  Perhaps there was a consensus at some stage on this Island that we all need a bath (we bathed at the waterfall, though!).

Pictures to come some time.

Cheers,

Connor

Play Time

It has been a pretty solid couple of weeks since I returned to the southern hemisphere. My boat work is complete, or at least to that stage of near-completion that seems never to be surpassed; Xeno's paradox at work. It was as all that boat work is: frustrating, exhausting, invigorating, challenging, rewarding... a roller coaster in many ways. But it went, and Ardea has masts again. The cockpit is strong and supported far better than before. The main mast step has been replaced along with the plank beneath it. I also ended up fabricating an arched piece to support the timbers that hold up the main mast on the interior of the cabin. It is bolted into the bulkhead and, though it eats up a little bit of headroom, it should provide some added support for the deck there where the main mast is stepped.

New support beam. Needs varnish, but it's in.

Main mast step before.

Main step after. Original half-dollar back in. A kiwi
two-dollar coin went under the mizzen, chosen
for it's heron on the tails side.

Re-stepping the masts was a bit more exciting than I would have hoped. As usual, I let it all come down to crunch time. I had the crane coming at 1600 and by 1400 was ready for the masts to go on, except for the wicked mess all over deck and cabin as well as the fact that I couldn't start the engine to move to the crane slip. I had removed the primary fuel filter back when I was demolishing the forward part of the cockpit as it was bolted to the interior. In order to take it off, I had to remove four screws thus detaching the plastic bowl from the upper filter element. I had two hours before the crane was to arrive and thus the big money clock began to tick, but I only could find three of those screws. I tried to jury-rig it but couldn't get a seal. I tried to run the engine with the bleed nut on the secondary filter open to avoid pulling air to the injectors, but no luck after a few minutes eating up whatever fuel was already in the downstream portion of the delivery system. I just couldn't get any fuel pressure. So, with the help of neighboring sailors (more on that later), we pulled Ardea bit by bit to the working slip.

Already in a hectic frame of mind, I was given another stressful curveball when the main mast settled onto its step. The aft lower shrouds wouldn't reach their chainplates. It was such a shame to have that moment of truth fall through. I couldn't believe it, actually. I knew I had increased the thickness of the timber beneath the aluminum mast step, but I had checked the turnbuckle screws and thought I could accommodate it. I realized later that I had replaced Ardea's rigging back in 2011 with the deck compressed, and the new set-up not only had a thicker piece of timber, but had the deck brought back up. Woops.

Cockpit ready for paint. I failed to photograph it
with the step in as things were getting a little hectic
around then.

We shackled the toggles to the chainplates and moved on. The mizzen went in without a hitch. Finally, crane and rigger left, their pockets full, as I sat lamenting my mistake though happy no less to have sticks again. We pulled Ardea back to a normal berth and I set about cleaning and winding down.

The next day, thankfully, I was able to get all of the rigging in without having to use any shackles. Once I tensioned the backstay, the aft lowers reached fine, though there is not a lot of turnbuckle screw left over. I think time helped the problem as well, since the bedding compound wasn't set when the sticks went in, so I gained a little vertical space on having saved bedding the steps until only a few hours before stepping the masts. Now the rig is tuned and looking good. The genoa is back on the furler, the booms are on. And, I've cleaned and cleaned until my space is starting to look liveable again.

I've opted not to sail to Auckland because the weather is bad and it is just too big of a rush and I've been working too much to have the energy to single-hand the coast in the rain. Ardea is back on a pile mooring in Whangarei. I will take the bus down to meet Charlie and Dianna in the morning and we'll crash for a night on Cap's Tres with my Spanish friends before flying to Queenstown for some trekking in the fjord lands. In a week, we'll be back. After a couple of days of finishing up some projects and taking on provisions, we'll take off. On the list are Waiheke Island, Great Barrier Island, Poor Knight's Island, and Doubtless Bay to the North. We'll see how it works out... I'll be back on the cruiser's clock and Chuck and D will soon discover how easy it is to while away the time at a fine anchorage eating fresh snapper and kingfish and scallops. Surely it's those thoughts that keep one motivated on the long days in the yard.

This is the second time on this trip that I have been in a boat yard, the last being in La Paz, BCS, Mexico. Though very different experiences in many ways, they were both wonderful parts of this whole boat-ownership thing. It's tough to be there gutting your vessel and working and bleeding cash, but I have always found wonderful people in the yards, and I owe them a great debt of gratitude. This time around, my endless thanks go to Len, captain of the schooner Mary Harrigan. Len became not only a dear friend, providing a reliable source of moral support, but also lent me a great deal of help. He has a workshop that any tinkering soul would envy just a few minutes up the road from the yard and he saved me countless hours of sanding and hacking by letting me use and teaching me techniques with his planer, router, band-saw, and so on. Len was the founder and owner of a business in the States called Stoney Point Decoys years ago; his skills as a craftsman, which so benefit him as the owner of a classic wooden schooner, were honed first as he hand-carved and painted bird-hunting decoys and later as he designed and built machines for their manufacture. I felt a keen sense of pride as I hand-planed my main-mast support with the very plane with which he built his first wooden duck, in spite of the prevailing opinion that he couldn't possibly succeed with such a business. He saved me a lot of grief and was good company in those tired evenings when beer can't get down the gullet fast enough and sailing stories are all that one wants to hear; when reminiscing is the only seafaring possible as long as the vessel is under the knife.

Len's long-time Kiwi friend, Mark Webbey, is another upstanding character. He is a boat-builder and craftsman by trade and, though he made it clear that he disapproved of plastic boats, it was very nice to have him give my new cockpit design a once-over. Both he and Len gave freely of their off-cuts of hardwood, which is also dearly appreciated by this ever-poorer sailor.

New mizzen support design. I think I'm
the only person that can decipher that.

But there's more. I wallow in the small-worldness and the next-level coincidences that seem to continue to grace the open mind. After a few days in the yard, a boat named Chesapeake pulled in next to me, her port of call none other than Berkeley, California. The first boat from Berkeley I've seen since leaving, and excellent neighbors for my time there. Not long after that, another boat pulled in a few slips over (and this is a small boatyard!). It's name: Chautauqua. I asked, of course, and indeed it is named for the small lake fifty miles or so southwest of Buffalo, New York. The lake that I have visited with my family nearly every year of my life. The place in which my siblings and I, who moved around a fair deal as kids, found a sense of grounding, that continues to be our place of sanctuary. Yes, indeed, these folks were from that small place in the world. They had cruised the oceans on the current Chautauqua, but the first Chautauqua they owned was moored in Bemus Point, the village that my family has called home for generations. It seems so hard to believe...

My short time in Whangarei has been full of positive interactions, of new and wonderful people. I sit now quite happy with the renewed state of my vessel, and though I will continue to work on her, I could not be more excited to be a cruiser again, a vagabond and a wanderer. I am asked often what are my long-term plans and I still don't really know. Cyclone season ends in April along with my visa. I don't know where I'll go, where I'll work, what I'll do. I've got a few leads, though, and I feel quite certain that things will work out just fine.

Just needs a little paint when the sun comes out.

Pretty much done.

Sorted.

I wouldn't say I've got a predisposition toward big projects, but it does seem I'm a bit above average at this stage as compared to the rest of the offshore cohort. That blasted engine business a few months ago is what started it all. Now it's the cockpit decking. The latter is not nearly so bad, though, for a number of reasons. I've had the masts off for ten days now and I am well on my way to finishing. Here's the scoop:

After nearly ten-thousand miles of offshore sailing, the mizzen mast, which sits on the cockpit deck just aft of the cabin-house, compressed the decking substantially. The cockpit well- the rectangular area that makes up the lowest part of the cockpit- had begun to separate from the decking. The deck was angling in toward the mizzen. It is a problem that is rampant on Mariners, as the deck in the cockpit was not supported well enough in the original design. On Ardea, the problem got worse and worse with time. In Tonga, I began to notice that the lower shrouds on the mizzen had lost a great deal of their tension, indicating that the mast was moving, albeit very slowly, toward the point of crashing through the deck and into the engine.

Note the sagging. Also the separation to port.

It worried me a great deal for many miles. I was careful with my sail area and tried to keep the pressure off as much as I could. I knew the problem needed to be addressed, but I wasn't quite sure how bad it would be and how I would go about repairing it until I started ripping out the cockpit decking underneath the mizzen.

Easily breaking through to my galley cubby.

I pulled out teak and rotten plywood and support beams until I ended up with this:

The aft beam, about an inch and a quarter wide,
was all that supported the king plank.

Then came time to build it back up again. I used a couple of borrowed car jacks to bring the cockpit well back up to the original level and put in new runners to support it. I then ran a few new beams to support the deck on port, which had been failing due to rotten wood as well.

All of that was very easy. I used two-part epoxy with silica filler to glue in each new piece before screwing it all together. It was only a matter of replacing what had been there before with new, stronger wood.

Then I had to come up with a way to support the deck under the mizzen. The old design had nothing to support the aft portion of the deck except a single athwartships beam; nothing extended to the hull and there was no bulkhead in place for that purpose. So, I ran a couple of good strong hardwood beams down to the thick epoxied engine mounts. I bolted them to the engine mounts and screwed them into the new forward panel of the cockpit well. That ended up being the most challenging part simply because it was so difficult to drill the holes for lack of space; I borrowed a right-angle drill from Len the schooner captain and then ended up buying several 3/8ths inch bits which I cut to various sizes with my angle grinder. That way, starting with the shortest bit, I could drill in some; I took the bit out and put the next one in the partial-hole, fit the drill chuck around it, tightened, and kept at it. Eventually, I had my bolt-holes. Pain in the neck, but so it goes.

Starboard vertical support bolts into engine mount
runners with two 3/8s in stainless bolts.

Then I ran a beam athwartships on top of the new supports after slotting them at the top to carry it. The latter provided new support for the king board- the large piece of wood that sits directly beneath the mizzen step. Incidentally, the piece I got for the king board is a gorgeous bit of timber called purple heart. Shame to cover it up, but I'm glad to know it's down there.

Got my little galley shelf re-built.

That pretty purple heart. 

From there it was simply a matter of laying new plywood decking. I opted not to put teak back in; it costs about $75 per square foot and, though it looks good when it's new, it just ends up being problematic. It's tendency to leak is what led to all of the aforementioned rot in the first place.

More deck removed to port. Plywood added to create
overlap with new decking (for waterproofing).

Instead, I will lay a layer of fiberglass, paint with liquid polyurethane deck paint and put the mast-step back on. It looks a little funny since much of the cockpit deck is still teak, but eventually that will be removed as it inevitably fails. For now, Ardea's cockpit will be two-tone, though the mast and propane housing hide much of that. In the end, cosmetics comes second to functionality.

Tomorrow, a bit of fiberglass and some sanding,
and we'll call it a done deal.

What seemed an overwhelming project for a few quick seconds was in the end pretty straight-forward. I was lucky to meet a few nice people that lent me some tools and some off-cuts of hardwood, so it was actually quite a cheap project as well. In the end, not a whole lot was needed. The timbers, a sheet of plywood, a hand saw, a sander (I used a manual block and an electric sander), an angle grinder (for making flush those pesky brass screws that are in those beams to stay), epoxy, silica filler (glue powder in Kiwi), some fiberglass cloth, and a lot of fasteners. It took about ten days of not-that-hard-working work, though I accomplished a number of side projects in the mean time (fixed the lazarette cover with some of the harvested teak, fixed the settee table, fixed one of the interior hatch covers, got all the rust stains off the deck, cleaned, cleaned, cleaned). It's been productive.

Before. 

After. Oxalic Acid. It's the stuff.

I've got a week left over. Time to dive into the next project. It never ends, but it's great to be knocking things off the list at a good clip. It won't be long before I can cast off these blasted dock lines and find I'm floating again in tranquility at Great Barrier Island or somewhere- wherever- else.

That escalated quickly.

Scallops and Horse Mussels.

I briefly considered bailing and heading back for another day of indolence in the bay at Urupukapuka, but when I looked astern the island itself, as well as the pass through the rocks at the margin of Bay of Islands, had been engulfed in fog. The same dreary clouds were moving to obscure Cape Brett off my starboard bow as I pummeled forward through a nasty chop against a thirty knots breeze. I stayed at the wheel working the waves and spilling the heavy gusts, wearing all my foulies, trying to keep warm. Saltbreaker fought the same battle just ahead of me.

 Bay of Islands.

Urupukapuka

It was Friday, the seventh of December. I had a flight out of Auckland the coming Monday and a fair bit of coast to cover between Bay of Islands and Whangarei in the mean time. The forecasts had been nasty for days- fifty knots in the Hauraki Gulf, easing slightly to the North. We awoke that morning to a relatively decent forecast, though. As we were weighing anchors, the sun was out in the sheltered bay. It was the first phase in what would be a day of remarkably varied conditions. It would seem the Pacific would send a smorgasbord of her finest as we hauled down the coast.

From Cape Brett, I eased the sheets and shot like a rocket downhill under half jib. The chop was short-period and steep, and Ardea was hitting nine knots regularly. She even kept up with Saltbreaker. For a while at least. The sun departed in clouds, then reappeared. The wind got stronger, then lightened up, then stiffened again. Rain came and went. At one stage, as I careened South in twenty-five knots under full jib and a close-reefed mizzen, I looked astern to see a massive and veritably gnarly squall line. I didn't quite believe it at first, but watched the pace of the clouds for a moment and then quickly doused the mizzen and reefed the jib. It hit me with a freezing rain and thirty-five knots. I got on the radio to warn Saltbreaker, but they were a mile or two ahead of me and never got the squall. It seemed the weather had something different for everyone. We agreed, though, that this was excellent sailing. We were having a phenomenal time.

We continued down toward Bream Head, the point around which lay Whangerei. Saltbreaker saw the passing of the front, the wind suddenly changing from northwest to southwest though losing little of its power. For me, though only a few miles away, the front passed with less excitement. In fact, before long, I was becalmed. I laughed to myself at the irony of seeing such a range, a taste of nearly everything the Pacific had mustered over the last ten months. Soon the wind kicked up again. About twenty miles north of Bream Head, we tuned into the vhf weather broadcast (how convenient!) and heard fifty knots still licked points southward. It was early afternoon. We made the decision to head toward Tutukaka and save the last push to Whangerei for Sunday, when the winds would moderate.

This proved a fortuitous choice with this lovely cove like a head of broccoli, small covelets branching out separated by an incomplete isthmus, a few rocks or a sand spit. We anchored in one of the covelets and raved with excitement about the day. We were wind-licked and salty. It was a familiar and fine feeling. It felt like we'd been out on the Bay. Our response was Pavlovian, for we knew there was no greater cap to such a day as a pint and pub food. We piled into Tuerto and scooted across a few broccoli branches towards a marina and the small town, er, village, of Tutukaka. The water was shallow and the Johnson scraped a few times reminding me of the outgoing tide.

In town we found the restaurant, which was under the hotel, which was also the apartment building, which housed the business and the grocery store. Low and behold we soon found friends among the sole other party at the establishment who piled into Tuerto for a tour of our boats whilst we gathered the necessary items for a night on the town. Whangarei, that is. Still at least a half-day's sail away, the city was nontheless a mere twenty-minute drive. Our detour, though pushing me ever-closer to my deadline, was vindicated by the blessing of some great new friends. We spent the following day hanging out in Tutukaka as the weather eased.

On Sunday, Alex and Nick left Saltbreaker at anchor in Tutukaka and boarded Ardea along with our friends Nikki and Carrie. For the first time in a while, I would head out for a day sail with friends and a couple boxes of beer. We beat into a headwind most of the day but the sun was warm and noone complained. It was a long mixture of sailing and motoring up the channel to Whangarei Town Basin, but we made it at dusk. I tied Ardea up to a pile mooring twenty-two hours before my flight was to take off in Auckland.

Bream Head.

The next morning I sorted everything out and moved Ardea to the mooring at which she would spend the next month. I put my fishing equipment, my outboard and all the other valuable pulpit ornaments down below, packed my bags and caught the bus. Naturally, since I sailed to the land of wind, there were a handful of yachties I happened to know on the bus come South from Bay of Islands. I languished in this last fruit of the glorious lifestyle I had led for almost a year.

California. What a place. In a blink my trip Stateside flew by. It was good, in a word. I ate and drank and laughed and lamented. I met my nephew, Cameron, and carried him proudly in the suspenders of my overalls. I enjoyed the great company of my family and a good many friends. I flew East to New York and was so affected by the cold that I forgot the smell of diesel. It was good to be home, if crazy and overwhelming and intense.

I made it back to Auckland and, after crashing on Only Child with John and Nia and Alex for a few nights, reunited with Ardea in Whangarei. I brought her across the basin to a boatyard and pulled the masts off yesterday. Then things really started to get interesting. It is day two of my time tied to this dock next to a boat at which an altercation led to the incarceration of no less than four souls last night. With hammer and chisel I have progressively dismantled with emotional distress as though I were performing surgery on my own child. I have nearly finished the utter destruction of the forward portion of Ardea's cockpit decking and well.  Tomorrow, perhaps, I will begin to build her back again. That boat yards are places of great character and of great characters holds true in the southern hemisphere thus far.

Uhhhh. Moral support welcome.

With any luck, I'll have Ardea put back together again within two weeks, but, as the affable captain of the gaff-rigged wooden schooner on hard-stand nearby says, “Predictions are difficult. Especially regarding the future.”