Skeg Replacement

Some boatyards are better than others for living aboard. Our experience in Spain was better than Tunisia’s, and our Panama situation has been the most comfortable so far. It’s like this: Gerty is hauled out of the water to repair or maintain whatever is ailing her.

Then, she is left suspended in mid-air, precariously placed on eight jack stands. A ladder is strapped to her stern hull, enabling us to climb in and out of our home.

Inevitably, over the course of a week, we track mud and gravel along her topsides and into the cockpit. Dust blows in through the windows. Tools litter every square inch of usable space, except for the galley counter that I insist on clearing off to cook; a loose term for preparing food with no refrigeration and an extremely limited water supply. 

Typically, I hate boatyards. Gerty feels unnaturally still on land, so I can’t sleep. It’s lonely, and sailors like us tend to feel terribly stuck. This time around, I arrived with a gruesome eye infection, adding to the overall yuck. However, we will splash tomorrow, and I must admit, it wasn’t so bad. 

Probably because Michael did most of the work! He expertly replaced Gerty’s starboard skeg; all I had to do was cut the fiberglass.

This is undoubtedly the most simplified account of hours of labor (Michael gluing, sanding, sweating, barrier coating, sanding, sweating, copper-coating, and me cleaning up after him), but who cares? It’s done, and we’re happy!

Last Remarks

• Thanks to the howler monkeys and birds for their soundtrack, the Pineapple Lady for supplying us with fresh fruit every morning, the creator of the $8 pizza night at the marina restaurant across the street, the genius who insisted on an airconditioned lounge, and the inventor of the hose because there’s nothing like a good rinse to wash life’s grime away.