Hilton Head Island: done—for now; behemoth; land pier and giving supreme pleasure

 

I woke at 5:35 this morning, glanced at the time and rolled over trying to go back to sleep.  I did not succeed in that and soon got up and brought a glass of grapefruit juice and a cup of coffee back to bed where I read what those who publish news think probably accurately interests people, followed by some poetry and Tim Robinson.  My 7 AM commutes to GANNET are at an end, which in some ways is regrettable.  Skull Creek and the marsh are lovely those first minutes after dawn and I have come to look forward to saying ‘good morning’ to a great egret who stands on the port stern dock line of a large catamaran and merely looks at me as I bike past a couple of feet away.  Yesterday he had just caught a fish and was concentrating on turning it in his beak so he could swallow and didn’t even give me a glance.

As planned Thursday I sanded and painted the cockpit, despite a few drops of rain, and yesterday I installed the new cockpit bags.  There are still two items on my to do list, but they are minor and may not need be done at all.

I don’t know who makes the new cockpit bags.  I found them at three different sites with three different names on them.  I originally ordered from another firm, but they never shipped or responded to my emails, so I cancelled and ordered from Harken who charged a bit more but shipped in twenty-four hours.  I like these bags.  They are attached by three snaps along the top.  The bases have screws for which I drilled holes and easily inserted.  Naturally the sharp ends of the screws extend through GANNET’s thin cockpit walls into the space beside the pipe berths.  I have a Dremel tool used exclusively to cut off the ends of such screws and bolts.  However the cutting disc wore down after removing the ends of ten screws and I found the tool had so rusted that I could not replace the disc.  Not surprising considering I’ve had that Dremel for ten or twelve years.

I replaced almost all the tools on GANNET after her circumnavigation because they had become exceedingly rusty.  A lot of water came over and into GANNET during that voyage, but I keep my tool bag inside a sealed trash bag at sea, so the tools were seldom wet.  

Very little water has come into GANNET in the past five years, but after the Dremel became inoperative, I found that a hand hack saw blade holder was also frozen with rust and that a pack of ten spare hacksaw blades had rusted into a single lump.  These are obviously not tools I often use.  The marsh has high humidity and that must be enough.

I ordered replacements of all from Amazon with delivery due today.  The new Dremel tool is operated by an internal rechargeable battery which will be an advantage.  The old one was 110 AC and I had to plug it into a small inverter.  I covered the ends of all the screws cut off and not with sealant and assuming the new tools are delivered as promised will go down tomorrow and cut off the two remaining intact screws.

GANNET is restored to workboat condition.

I have a friend who has named his boat BEHEMOTH.  Not that she is big, only about 40’, but after the cat in Bulgakov’s great novel, THE MASTER AND MARGARITA.

Here is a real behemoth.  Well, actually only part of one which when assembled will be the world’s largest single masted yacht.  85 meters.  285’.  The anti-GANNET.

I first read of this at Sailing Anarchy.

For more astonishing photos of shiny aluminum.

https://www.royalhuisman.com/ready-to-roll/

From Tim Robinson’s STONES OF ARAN:  PILGRIMAGE.

The pier itself was built in 1893, when the Aran fisheries, which had dwindled almost to extinction in the post-Famine period, were being refounded by the Congested Districts Board.  It has never given much satisfaction, as there is insufficient depth off it at low water for any but very small boats.  As one shore-critic put it, “You don’t build a pier on dry land; that’s my policy anyhow!”

and

A last impression:  a stumpy-legged dog, white with brown blotches, mainly gundog but “with a bit of seal in him” according to his owners; our adopted pet, Oscar, dearly loved and sadly missed as the death notices put it.  I used to throw a ball for him on the strand, a game that almost killed the neglected creature with delight.  If I stood forgetful with the ball in my hand, lost in my musings over the riddles propounded by the sea to the sand, he would wait patiently at my feet, looking up, and very delicately place a paw on my toe to recall me.  Then I would glance down and catch him saying, “There are just two ways, or perhaps three, in which you can hope to give supreme pleasure to another living being.  You can go home and make love to her who loves you, or you can throw that ball for your dog.  This is the time for the second alternative, for the third is to go on trying to perfect your book, which I do not believe you have it in you to do.”