Friday, August 31, 2007

Pittstown Point, Crooked Island, Bahamas

0 nm
Wind: SW 5 knots, large swell from SW in anchorage

Another month’s gone by, and now were in the legendary month of September, famous for its hurricanes. I’m not worried, exactly, as much as concerned. As the months of hurricane season wear on, the hurricanes become less and less predictable. People who get into trouble with hurricanes at sea almost always do so in October and November, when hurricane trajectories begin doing weird things, taking weird swoops and going the wrong way. But September is the big daddy of hurricane months, and according to projections we have eleven more named storms coming our way.

We have French Wells to move to, if necessary, and I hope our engine will work enough to get us there if needs be, and that our prop isn’t too fouled by gunk. I’ve been neglecting my bottom-scrubbing duties after the last time I made an attempt and became overwhelmed by creepy-crawlies under my bathing suit. We’ve started having crabs make an appearance on the boat, and a two-foot-long barracuda consistently hangs out beneath our shadow, drawn by the little fish that are drawn to the ecosystem growing on our hull. You know it’s bad when things are reproducing on our bottom paint.

It’s the same as with the head, though. The longer I put it off, the worse it gets, and the worse it gets, the longer I want to put it off. Karl took a stab at it today, cleaning the parts at the water line that can be cleaned without diving, but diving is my job, so the lower regions belong to me. I could do it easier if I could have an exposed abdomen while I did it, as he does, and loose lower garments. Maybe I need a bottom-scrubbing two-piece. Yet another unforeseen use for the string bikini.

What drives me crazy are the little red insects that live in all the growth. The cloud of algae I can deal with, even the stringy brown gunk that grows around our macerator pump fitting, but as soon as I find one of those little red ones crawling down my cleavage I throw in the proverbial towel. One needs nerves of steels to feel those little feet and keep on scraping. It’s even kept me out of the water for the last two weeks, and you know how much I adore the water. I know that if I get in the water, I’ll feel a moral obligation to tackle the bottom with the scraper, and instead I’d rather sit on a screened balcony and sip my ice water. As much as we’ve been talking about a haul lately, I was even hopeful that I could wait until then and let a power washer do it. But no such luck. I’m going to have to steel myself and do it one of these days.

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