But raw enthusiasm gets tempered quickly by the exhausting and expensive reality of making a boat ready for passage. By day three it dawns on me that GYPSY, as well built and maintained as she is, needs some work. Port lights are corroded, seacocks seized, the hull scratched, lines frayed... I start lists—detailing projects and prioritizing ‘launch critical’ versus cosmetic. Above all I want to get her in the water, where she belongs.

My first endeavor is painting the bottom. I’m actually looking forward to it— working outside, fixing up the splotchy appearance, getting my fingers dirty—but the enthusiasm doesn’t last. Of course the work sucks. Sanding the entire bottom, much of it on my back, wearing full jumpsuit and respirator (trust me--you do NOT want to get that toxic dust on your skin) under the sweltering Caribbean sun didn’t match my romantic notion of comfort work. But the biggest hassle is logistics—my first exposure to the arcane and inflexible rules of maritime engagement.

PAST REPORTS
GR #1	April 23	A New Beginning

You see, the paint on GYPSY is Seahawk Islands 44, an excellent paint for keeping algae, barnacles, and other critters off the bottom (which is the primary purpose of bottom paint). When I go to the marine supplies shop in the yard to get Seahawk paint I’m told they no longer carry it. Fair enough, what paint will work? The woman at the counter thumbs through a thick notebook. I can use whatever paint I want, as long as I sand the boat down to bare fiberglass. Bare fiberglass!?! I’ve already sanded a layer, six hours of torture, and by our estimation there are seven or eight more to go. There is no way I’m going to sand it to bare fiberglass.

Where can I buy Seahawk Islands 44 bottom paint? We look into it. She calls another marine supply store, and they send us to others. Disco! We find three gallons. The only hitch—they are in Tortola, the British Virgin Islands, a one-hour ferry ride (with immigration clearance on both ends). In the end I get my paint and avoid bottom-sanding hell, but it takes the better part of the next day to accomplish it. Painting three coats on GYPSY takes another two days after that.

And so goes life in the boat yard. Nothing comes easy. Every day requires multiple trips to the marine supply store, every project presents unforeseen obstacles. When I decide to disassemble three seized seacocks and grease them, the last one just won’t come apart. Eventually, it takes three hours to fix the valve (and fix the damage done fixing it). It’s frustrating work, but ultimately satisfying. I’ve never imagined such pride in a well-lubed seacock.

Of course I can’t do all the work alone, and familiarizing myself with the archaic division of labor at Independent Boat Yard occupies a good portion of my first week. The yard is an amalgamation of specialized tradespeople. Artisans with specific skills, unwilling to moonlight. This means I have to identify the person who can help me accomplish a project on my list, set up a time to meet them, and then negotiate a price and schedule the work. There’s Johnny, who does gel coat, and Tim, who sprays awl grip. Bruce is the diesel mechanic, TJ works on outboards, Neil the electrician, Dan the inflatable man, Carl the carpenter, and Mace, the stern painter. I haven’t met the refrigeration guy or the rigging expert, but apparently he’ll stop by next Tuesday.

Most introductions are made by Joan, secretary at the Independent office, who I quickly identify as the most influential person in the entire yard. She’s the power broker. The godfather of nautical favors. If you stay on Joan’s good side, people show up when scheduled, if you don’t, you risk subtle sabotage of all efforts.

With all these variables at work, progress on GYPSY is slow and tedious. There’s a significant gap between what I plan to achieve my first week and what actually gets done. Yard politics and unforeseen obstacles play their part, but the bottom line is that boat work can’t be rushed. If you want things done right, it takes attention to detail and a willingness to spend some money. I’ve been told, more than once, that ‘boat’ stands for ‘bring out another thousand,’ and I’ve already witnessed this truism first hand.

But GYPSY looks better each day, and making her look good makes me feel good. The honeymoon is over, and now we’re working out the particulars for a long and meaningful relationship. It’s hard work. I’m exhausted, but happy. Up at dawn and collapsed in my berth by ten each night, visions of coastal passages dancing in my head. We’re still not in the water, but getting closer every day.