Hi...yep, still working away. THe list seems to be getting longer before it gets shorter, but that's no surprise. Here are a few more boatyard excerpts, Plus there are new captioned photos up at www.swellvoyagephotos.smugmug.com.

LOVE AND DIRT UNDER MY FINGERNAILS,
LIZ

SPARE A SQUARE?

There is one bathroom for everyone at the boatyard and it has a B.Y.O.P. (bring your own paper) policy. Once inside, it isn't all THAT bad--in opposing corners a shower and a sink with a toilet in between. It's actually a side nook built into a steel container that's been converted into the yard's office. The drains dont work well, so the floor is always wet and adorned with a mishmash of muddy footprints reminding you that there's probably someone waiting outside for you to finish.

It's annoying enough to descend the ladder and walk across the boatyard every time I need to use the bathroom, but what pains me more than the inconvenience is the blatant indiscreetness: The bathroom door fronts the street, where directly across, a crew of twenty male Tahitians work in an open warehouse building aluminum boats.

The first week I tried desperately to retain some inkling of restroom privacy, but ultimately, I've had to surrender to the situation. In a sleepy haze, I stumble toward the door at 7:30am and wave to the workers across the street with my t.p. roll in hand, fluttering in the breeze like a poop flag.

Despite this unavoidable toilet trauma, I HAVE discovered a solution to the 6 o'clock shower traffic jam:

Everyone finishes working in the yard around the same time. We're all tired, hungry, and filthy--hence the shower line is NOT a fun place to hang out. Plus, waiting in lines has never been one of my strong points. Some days I just jump off the jetty wall and then rinse off with a hose, but there's other days, like after grinding anti-fouling paint and fiberglass, when I badly need soap and fresh water. So when I'm too dirty, the line is long, and the chill of the evening is settling in, I get on my bike and peddle to the end of the next bay and back. By the time I return, the shower's usually free and I'm hot enough to jump under its cold drizzle.

BOATYARD ANGEL

Another angel has appeared. Taputu works here in the boatyard. He's a big, sturdy Marquesan man with a round smiling face and a heart of gold. He and his family came here to work, as it's tough to find a job on his home island. The first week I arrived, he invited me to eat lunch with the crew and welcomed me into the boatyard's 'inner circle'. Now I eat with them everyday, practicing my Tahitian and French and gathering tips about yard work. Some mornings I wake up to find a chocolate croissant waiting for me in the cockpit.

He always delivers a solution for my provisional, only halfway-decent ways of tackling my tasks. When I was grinding the paint off the skeg, he set me up with an extra extension cord and the grinder face that I needed. He'll always discreetly pass by to see if he can offer me some tool or advice to make whatever job I'm doing easier. When something's too heavy, he'll come help me lift it. He's always smiling and works harder than anyone else in the yard. One day I saw him sanding a hull with two sanders at once--one in each hand! Dad.thanks to Taputu, you haven't received that call begging for you to come down and help me this time!

WORKING OUT THE BUGS

Halfway between the marina and the pass and the outboard motor has stopped. I fish a screwdriver out of the emergency bag, pull off the engine cover. I can tell it's a fuel problem. I drain the carburators.she's running again. But after another few minutes it's the same deal. Pull of the cover, drain the carburators, make more headway.I REALLY wanna surf but I know I'm being ridiculous. I should turn back. I don't...

The waves distract my mind from lists and engine enigmas for a while. Eventually, I idle the 5 miles back to the marina, the outboard seems to work as long as I go slowly. Gladly I putt back, captivated by the mountain's morph from orange to pink then purple while the clouds come dancing over the ridge and continue their performance westward.

In the yard the next day, Taputu helps me haul the engine up to the workshop. I empty the fuel tank and check for water. Not too much, but I clean the tank anyway. Next, open heart carburetor surgery commences. The house mechanic eyes me skeptically, but eventually looks over my shoulder and offers some advice.

Both carburetors extracted, now. I open the bowl of the first...looks clean--no water, no dirt. I unscrew the second. What's this? A bug? A little inchworm lies dead in the bottom of the bowl. How it bypassed two filters remains a mystery.but the root of this old expression is clear and my surf commutes are going much smoother now.

DEADENDS IN PROJECTVILLE: BILGE SWAN DIVES AND MILDEWY STORAGE LOCKER HEADSTANDS

Lost in the bilge: It smells of burnt motor oil and stale sea and it's black like the bottomless hole that Alice in Wonderland falls down. The corners of my hips are over the edge of the floorboard and my torso is inverted and completely lost in the bilge. While filling my water tank, I tripped on my big crescent wrench and it slid into the abyss. It's too heavy to grab with my bilge reacher, and too deep too reach with the length of my upper half and my outstretched arm. I guess we lost another soldier for now.
Dropping out the rudder: For the 4th time I have the wrong tool. This socket is the right size, but it's too long to fit into the 2" space between the rudder post and the bulkhead. The elastic on my headlamp is worn out and the damn thing keeps slipping down into my eyes and I fumble to feel the nut I'm attempting to remove. This aft locker reeks of mildew and I'm certain there is one remaining cockroach alive and about to crawl on me while I'm in this contorted sweaty pretzel.
Dismantling the windlass: Who makes bolts with alan heads anyway? What could possibly be the benefit of them? After soaking in penetrating oil I finally got three of them out, but the third wants to take this battle to the next level. After 3 years, I have not once opened and changed the gearbox oil in the windlass, while the manual suggests I do it once every year. I have almost given up three times now, but I just move to the other parts of the project--cleaning the old grease off the other parts, sanding the rusted body, etc while I try to think of a way to get this last corroded and stripped bolt out.
Wandering the yard with the chunk of metal in my hands, someone will inevitably pose the question:
"What are you doing with that?" They'll then get to hear the dilemma, the dead end that I am attempting to find a way through. I continue my wandering until.I hear an idea that might just work.
"Just take a dremel tool and grind out the edges of the bolt head so that you can use a regular flatblade screwdriver, or better yet, an impact driver..." And I return to Swell with determination and new hope until I meet next dead end.