Roots of a Voyage
Part Five: After the Hurricane

by Dave and Jaja

After the storm, which we had weathered in our rented house, we drove down to the creek. We piled in the dinghy, and paddled out to DRIVER. I could see that the deck was covered with pine branches, but that was apparently the only abuse she had taken. I looked at the spider's web of lines that I had rigged to various trees to keep DRIVER mid-creek, and remembered the hours of work it had taken to get it all set up. It was worth it.

One of the most logical trees for tying to was on the starboard bow. It was a staunch, 30-year-old field pine with a two foot diameter. It sat 6 feet from the creek's edge, on the property of one of Oriental's more well-to-do families. Before the storm, I had been attempting to tie a line to that tree when the mistress of the house waddled across her lawn wearing slippers and a flowery bathrobe. She stood behind a low brick fence and pointed with her cigarette.

"Get that rope off my tree," she ordered.

"Sorry," I said, not feeling sorry in the least. "With the storm coming I'm in hurry. I guess I should have asked your permission."

"Wouldn't of given it to you anyway." She scowled. "Your boat will pull my tree over."

I laughed outright. "Impossible. I know my boat looks like a battleship, but it weighs considerably less. Look, just to be on the safe side, I'll tie the rope good and low so that..."

"Do I have to call the police?"

During the storm, my secret wish was that the wind would blow the tree over into their yard. (It didn't).

We clamored aboard DRIVER and cleared the branches out of her cockpit. I lifted the door boards out, then we all literally crawled below. I took another good look at Driver's primitive interior; the only thing missing were hanging vines. Like itchy and persistent mosquito bites, her interior flaws had begun to fester. Fundamentally, there was nothing wrong with her layout, and except for a little finessing, there was no reason why we should not be able to move aboard immediately. Jaja stood by the galley with Teiga on her hip, fingering the dirty white formica that covered the useless counter.

Meanwhile, Chris, age six; and Holly, age four; were fighting over the Pygmy seat--the two of them could barely squeeze onto it simultaneously.

"All right," I suggested. "We rip out the galley and improve the Pygmy seat. No problem."

The head was intriguing. When using the toilet the question was whether it was easier to drop everything and waddle backwards while ducking under the cockpit...or whether it was easier to sit first and then work things out. The toilet's holding tank was a six-gallon affair (Pygmies for sure) and it sat in the open with so many valves and hoses attached to it that I was reminded of an oil refinery.

Jaja peered in. "If we re-work the size of the head we could add another quarter berth behind it, under the cockpit."

"No problem."

The dynamics of the dinette were also daunting. We couldn't decide if the flip-up leaves on the solid iroko table were designed for supporting food or for resting our chins. And with the leaves up, the table blocked the clear passage through the main saloon like a felled tree over a jungle path. The table needed work.

There were a few other engineering failures. The iroko floor boards were an inch-and-a-half thick, warped, and as heavy as steel man-hole covers. The solid iroko window frames were permanently glued over the nuts and bolts that held the windows in place, making access impossible. The cabin overhead was also permanently glued up. I'd known all along that I could reengineer the companionway to make it more user-friendly, but the rest of the problems were just idiosyncrasies we could get used to.

Still, Jaja and I visualized what we really wanted. We made a wish list, then added up the estimated hours of work on a scrap of paper.

"Are you sure we can get it all done in less than a year?" Jaja sounded skeptical.

I took a sip of coffee. "We can be living aboard in six months, Jaja. No problem."

"Dave? You keep saying 'no problem'."

Next week: The Refit