On The Hard

Bit of a glum day, today.

I drove down to the boat which is now “on the hard” as they say. Earlier I had been listening to the CBC and there was a brief article on Robert De Niro who had started an award for first-time artists in honour of his father, Robert De Niro, Sr., who was a painter before he died. He died of Prostate cancer.

Two things strike you when you hear something like this in my condition. 1) Shit, that’s what I’ve got!  And then… 2) hey, if he died of it maybe, statistically speaking, that makes it more likely that I won’t. Stupid probably, and I’m pretty sure that a real life statistician would point out the flaw in that logic pretty quickly. Anyhow, it stayed with me the rest of the morning.

One of the main problems in all of this is the thinking. It never stops. You wake up with it, stumble over it all day, and then go to bed with it. And that’s even with no pain at present. It must be totally inescapable for the pained ones.

On the hard… (its a boating expression for when your boat is up on blocks on land) … today that expression seems even more appropriate as I get to the boat (our Grand Banks trawler, Mary Mary) that is now laid up for the winter months and fumble with the combination lock that holds the mounting ladder to the shaft underneath the stern. It’s cold and the stupid lock won’t open for several tries and the aluminum ladder is frigid to the touch.

I get the thing undone, finally, and prop the ladder up against the swim platform and clamber aboard. Another lock and I’m in the main salon. The air is stiff and chilled and the boat feels dead under me. Everything is hard and I can see my breath.

The first thing I notice is that the floor and helm are covered in dead flies, dozens of them. I guess a couple must have got in the last time we were here and somehow managed to lay eggs. Persistent little fuckers… literally… Now they lie about in piles. I reach under the sink and grab the dustpan to gather them up and give them the heave-ho out the door. As I do so, I notice that some of them are still alive, weak and struggling and crawling up the pan; alive after at least three weeks of no water or sustenance. Amazing…

I am here to do one last bit of winter maintenance. I forgot to slacken off the fan belt on the generator. Down in the engine room things are even colder and more desolate. The engines, now idle and useless, are brittle and hard… there’s that word again… and as I attach the wrench to the nut holding the belt I am struck with melancholy and almost sob.

When I’m done, I seal up the generator and climb out of the space and re-locate the heavy, teak hatch cover. Usually, at this point in the boating season, even though I am somewhat sad that the boat is out and we have to wait at least five months to get back in the water, there is a sense of continuity about it all. This time it’s different. I wonder if I will ever see her again. I hold my hands on the smooth helm wheel. I think back to times at this wheel when we were against heavy water and how it was both frightening and extremely exciting at the same time. I wonder whether I will be allowed to feel those things again. And if not me, who will be on her? For, surely, the boat must go on?

I was going to stay a while, look about, but I’m feeling more and more weighed down by the cold and stillness and a sense of aloneness that is beginning to seem like it has its own life.

The wind is whipping through the rails. Nearby boats moan and complain against the strain. The yard is empty except for me and all the temporarily abandoned ships. I lock up and leave, stopping for a moment to run my hands along the hull at the bow. The paint needs touching up and scuff marks should be removed before launching in the spring. Will I be around and capable of doing it? Well, it’s a cold day. I can be excused a little doubt, I think.

I love this boat.