So...I work a 9-5 now. This is weird.
Okay, it's not the average 9-5. I spend a lot of time now painting ship hulls on a derelict raft, or climbing the mast to unscrew blocks the size of my head, or driving a pick-up truck full of marine toilets to the Shop. But it's a 9-5 in the sense that...you know. I work from nine to five.
Don't skip that part over, now. When you're on the water, it's more like a 6-11. Even--maybe especially--on the turnover days, the job's hectic as hell. Now that the Bailey's downrigging, we're going by the ring of the bell at the top of Union Street. Nine rings means we start, twelve rings means we stop for lunch, and five rings means quitting time.
Of course, because this job wouldn't be this job without spontaneity and chaos, they put a drunken toddler in charge of the bell. This means that sometimes at nine o' clock, nine bells ring. Sometimes at nine o' clock, seven bells will ring, then two more a minute later. Sometimes the five o' clock bell will ring at 4:45, which is great. Sometimes the 4 o' clock bell will ring at three in the morning, then the three o' clock bell will ring, which is just absurd. At least it keeps us on our toes!
And just because our downrigging couldn't have gone that smoothly, we went ahead and found that the main boom had a few inches of rot in it.
The bad news: this meant that we had to pop the entire boom--think a telephone pole, sideways, covered in varnish, hung over the deck--off of the ship and carry it back to the Shop. Yikes.
The good news: by its very nature, it's already rigged up to a crapton of pulleys. And it's surrounded by water. And it floats.
Which is how, as the Admiral disinterestedly worked the halyard, Wolfman, Picasso, Little Chef, and I put all our weight into the two-ton boom as we did our best to drop it into the Camden Harbor.
It's not really as hare-brained as it sounds. Or maybe it just feels that way in comparison, because half an hour later we lashed it to a trailer a third its length, hitched the other end to the Tundra, and towed that forty-five foot fucker ten miles up Route 1 with a bright red mooring pennant waving on the back, pedestrians gawking and diving out of the way.
The Admiral, one hand on the wheel, shrugged, adjusted his steel-colored aviators, and casually began telling us the first of many stories in which he'd towed much crazier stuff.
Like I said--keeps us on our toes.
Okay, it's not the average 9-5. I spend a lot of time now painting ship hulls on a derelict raft, or climbing the mast to unscrew blocks the size of my head, or driving a pick-up truck full of marine toilets to the Shop. But it's a 9-5 in the sense that...you know. I work from nine to five.
Don't skip that part over, now. When you're on the water, it's more like a 6-11. Even--maybe especially--on the turnover days, the job's hectic as hell. Now that the Bailey's downrigging, we're going by the ring of the bell at the top of Union Street. Nine rings means we start, twelve rings means we stop for lunch, and five rings means quitting time.
Of course, because this job wouldn't be this job without spontaneity and chaos, they put a drunken toddler in charge of the bell. This means that sometimes at nine o' clock, nine bells ring. Sometimes at nine o' clock, seven bells will ring, then two more a minute later. Sometimes the five o' clock bell will ring at 4:45, which is great. Sometimes the 4 o' clock bell will ring at three in the morning, then the three o' clock bell will ring, which is just absurd. At least it keeps us on our toes!
And just because our downrigging couldn't have gone that smoothly, we went ahead and found that the main boom had a few inches of rot in it.
The bad news: this meant that we had to pop the entire boom--think a telephone pole, sideways, covered in varnish, hung over the deck--off of the ship and carry it back to the Shop. Yikes.
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| Fortunately, we didn't have to call Comcast. If we did, the boat might have capsized. |
The good news: by its very nature, it's already rigged up to a crapton of pulleys. And it's surrounded by water. And it floats.
Which is how, as the Admiral disinterestedly worked the halyard, Wolfman, Picasso, Little Chef, and I put all our weight into the two-ton boom as we did our best to drop it into the Camden Harbor.
It's not really as hare-brained as it sounds. Or maybe it just feels that way in comparison, because half an hour later we lashed it to a trailer a third its length, hitched the other end to the Tundra, and towed that forty-five foot fucker ten miles up Route 1 with a bright red mooring pennant waving on the back, pedestrians gawking and diving out of the way.
The Admiral, one hand on the wheel, shrugged, adjusted his steel-colored aviators, and casually began telling us the first of many stories in which he'd towed much crazier stuff.
Like I said--keeps us on our toes.
Following you now, Sam. :) Sounds like a wonderful adventure. How did you find such a job? It sounds like a great experience!
ReplyDelete~Jessica (http://clayxmatthewsxfan89.blogspot.com/)