the lost month

By tomorrow morning I will have twice this month stepped Spartina's masts, bent on all three sail, put rudder and till in place.  And with fully rigging the boat twice I will not have sailed at all in the month of March.

All the weekends were lost to weather or work, or a combination of both.  Frustrating.  This is usually the month when I get in my first few sails of the year.  Fortunately I had those in January and February, so I can complain too much.  

I had thought there might be a chance for a sail today, but steady rain most of the morning then clearing skies and gusty winds.  Instead I rolled Spartina out of the garage and began the prep work for this year's varnish touch up on the rub rails.  Sanding mostly, and patching with some thickened epoxy.  My remaining epoxy kit is ten years old and the hardener has oxidized, giving the epoxy a nice rich color that matches the varnished douglas fir of the rub rails.  I had hoped to get on seven coats of varnish in one week but with the way the schedule is shaping up it will take me two.  I don't mind, it is easy work and kind of relaxing.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I will have fully rigged Spartina this month.  Once a few weeks ago when the canvas ladies came to measure for the boom tent.  I will rig again tomorrow morning when the ladies return with boom tent in hand.  They may leave it with me, or take it back to the shop for adjustments.  In either case I am looking forward to seeing the new tent in place.  

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There is a fine obit for Jim Harrison, poet and novelist, in the New York Times.  I have not read much of his work, but will add some of his novellas to my reading list.  His life, according to the Times, was lived much the way his novels read.  He was, according to the article, a man of unapologetic immoderation, such as...

"There was the eating.  Mr. Harrison once faced down 144 oysters, just to see if he could finish them.  (He could.)

There was the drinking.  Once fine summer, her personally tested 38 varieties of Cotes du Rhone.  ("It was like a small wine festival.  Just me, really," he told The Washington Post afterward.")

And I'm not even going to mention the women.

An interesting life, to say the least.