How I became a Welsh coalminer (or, more accurately, how I learned to play one on TV). Part II.

Our car was stuffed to the gills with yachting equipment that we had bought for Sharinda when we had planned to sail her up the Thames. We had a long, somewhat squished drive across England, through the mountains and down country lanes to Pwllheli, Wales. (For those of you who don't speak Welsh, I was told by a few locals that it is pronounced Pwuh-kth-eli, approximately.) The drive in was pretty, with rolling hills dotted by dozens and dozens of sheep. It was rainy and mountainous on the interior and windswept along the shore. Here are a few photos:


The lambs were out and very cute. I kept exclaiming, "Oh, look at the cute little baby lambies!!" Simon just laughed at me and even stopped by the side of the road to let me take pictures. (Sheep are not novel in England, but they are to me!) The castle ruins are in the town of Criccieth (pronounced Kris-eth), where we stayed. It is nine miles from Pwllheli. The sea wall picture is in Porthamadog (pronounced "Port-hm-a-doe-g," said in a fading sort of way. I had real trouble with this one and started just calling it Port Dog.)

We arrived late and stayed in a bed and breakfast hotel in an old stone building in Criccieth called the King George. It was a most amusing hotel and we refer to it fondly as Fawlty Towers. The King George is run by a group of Asian immigrants (I can't tell you from where, but I think maybe somewhere near India, but not India), with thick accents. They appear to be a family (or at least several of them are). At first the hotel was a bit scary as the wallpaper is peeling, the pipes groan frighteningly whenever someone flushes a toilet, the decor is questionable, the old elevator terrifying, and there is water damage along most of the ceiling. Our room the first night had broken heaters, too. The breakfast food is of mediocre quality. It caters largely to elderly tourists on budget coach tours and has weird sing-alongs in the evening (think Welsh-accented Johnny Cash). Nonetheless, the staff at the King George are so nice and genuinely friendly that we grew to love it there. It was also quite affordable, clean, with comfortable beds, bathtubs, spacious rooms and kept toasty warm (once we got into a room with good heaters). By the second day, they knew what we wanted for breakfast and it would be delivered immediately upon our arrival in the dining room at 8:30 am.

That first night, we ate at the only pub open and feeding people after 8 pm called the Bryn Hir Arms. I have no idea what that means or how to pronounce it. I referred to it, instead, as "beer in her arms," which, judging by the picture on their sign of a beer maid holding two pints, might not be that far off. Simon really did not want to eat there at first, as it looked like a dive. They are nicely decorated with rude statues behind the bar (one of a sheep being used romantically by a bear in Wellington boots, which probably alludes to the crude joke that the Welsh shepherds are "sheep shaggers.") Football was on and we could hear the bartender shouting, "Come on, you fucking wankers!!" at the TV. But, as it was the only place open, we had no choice. Simon walked me up and down the dark, windy street (it is a one street town) for twenty minutes to be sure. This part of Wales does not have a McDonald's anywhere. We were in the deep countryside. For all its roughness, though, I had some of the loveliest lamb and mint sauce ever, there. We went back for it several times over the next couple weeks.

Back to the adventure: the next morning after driving up, we wandered into Pwllheli and searched for the brokerage. Simon and I have an absolutely uncanny ability to find the boat we are seeking without any directions whatsoever beyond showing up at the town (this happened with Polar Bear II, the Grimsby boat and Sharinda). Julie Anne II was no exception. We drove straight to her, where she sat in a rocky boatyard on wooden supports. We walked around her and tapped on her hull for a bit before calling the broker and driving to their offices.

William Partington Marine sat on the opposite side of the bay. It is a family business, with son Will now at the helm. Will Partington seems to absolutely hate it. When we arrived and walked upstairs over their shop to their offices, one of the nice (but ever so dotty) ladies who are perpetually hovering in the office greeted us. "I'm bad with internet," she tells us at one point, which came as no surprise since we are still awaiting that email with the specifications of the boat. She knew nothing about Julie Anne II, except that it had been on the market for a long time. She poked her head out into the giant garage in which boats were being repaired and shouted, "Will!!!!! There's a gentleman here to see Julie Anne II...." After a shouted debate over keys, she tells us to just head back over and let ourselves onto the boat because it is unlocked. This was only the first of many trips over to Partington's that turned out to be perfectly pleasant but absurdly unhelpful.

As we walked out, she handed us a print out of the internet advertisement that we had already seen. This time, though, I noticed a detail I hadn't before: Julie Anne II was built by Roy McCartney in Ireland -- the very same builder who Mr. Davies had recommended to us the day before! We spent the next hour poking, banging and prodding Julie Anne II unabashedly. We pulled up the floor boards, looked at her equipment, yanked on her rigging, pushed sharp objects into her wooden pilothouse, scratched at the paint and knocked on her hull. Satisfied, we headed to the pub to eat lunch and discuss what we saw. And what we saw was a diamond in the rough! She had the potential to truly be the Polar Bear.

We had just settled into the Mitre pub in the center of Pwllheli when Will Partington called Simon and asked him how he felt about Julie Anne II. "We're having lunch now, but we'll stop by the office afterwards to discuss it with you," Simon said.

"I smell a weak wildebeest." I told Simon over my half pint of Strongbow. "Let's go for the kill and make an offer of £6,000." Simon balked a little, thinking that it was rudely low considering that they wanted twice that amount, and suggested we offer £9,000. But I persisted, "look, it hasn't sold in over a year; the owner passed away and his family isn't using it and probably just want to get rid of it; it is a concrete boat, which most people find risky and difficult to survey; it's ugly and spartan; it's in the boonies of Wales and being brokered by people who are like the 'anti-sellers' they are so unhelpful; I think we should go in low and feel it out. If they sell it to us for that amount, won't you be glad we asked?" I argued.

Simon agreed. "OK, but I think that psychologically, we should say £6,500. That sounds less like a low-ball offer and more like we've arrived at that amount for a reason, taking into account all that needs to be done on it."

"OK," I agreed. "There is a lot that needs to be done on it, though. So, when we go in to negotiate, remember to tick those things off," I said, listing all the issues and expenses. "Plus, this is a risk on our part, because we are buying it without knowing how it sails, whether the engine works or all the electrics. We have a limited amount of money, so we need to have as much left over as possible to fix it up if anything is in bad repair. Make all those points and I will only butt in to slow things down or remind you of these points; I'll say stuff like, 'honey, we found a prettier wooden boat in Woodbridge... I don't know about this one.' I'll play the girl but use it to control the pace; if you ever feel pressure, then just say we need time to think about this and discuss it." I warmed to the negotiation games as I coached Simon. Even lawyers like me are sharks... and I smelled blood.

Back at Partington's, we stood before Will, who had resumed his place in the office. After a minute, Simon asked for some seats, although I liked the idea of negotiating from the position of power, looking down on our opponent. I realized I was being a little silly, and took a seat when one was offered, finally. Simon began as rehearsed, but Will did not put up much of a fight. As Simon spelled out the problems with the boat, I could see all over Will's face that he agreed entirely. He clearly wanted to sell this boat, once and for all. When we got down to our offer, he said, "well, I can tell you right now that the [owner's] son won't accept that, but I'll call him now anyway." I could tell, by the way he said it, though, that he would try to talk the son into it.

We excused ourselves and poked around the shop. I shamelessly kept my ears tuned into Will's conversation, making out intonations but not words, until Simon told me to stop. Simon decided to head outside for a cigarette, but I was not equally willing to stand out in the cold. Not even a minute after Simon had left, Will came out and told me that the owner would sell it to us for £7,250. Simon had already told me that anything under £8,000, he would agree to on the spot. I kept my face blank and said I would let Simon know. As soon as I stepped outside, though, I had to work hard at keeping my composure. Half an hour later, we were unloading our gear into the fore cabin of Julie Anne II. "I told you we should go in low!" I couldn't help but gloat.

Simon gave me a smile and we moved onto the next, much dirtier and physically-intense phase: refitting the boat.

How I became a Welsh coalminer (or, more accurately, how I learned to play one on TV). Part I.

Admittedly, just about everyone I know has sent me a message asking, "WTF?" and "Where the heck are you?" I figure it is time to pony up with the details. Today's topic: How Simon and I bought a concrete boat and ended up living in Wales. This will be a long post as I need to back up about a month, where the story really begins.

The last week of March, after Simon and I looked at Polar Bear II and before we looked at Sharinda, we were combing through dozens and dozens of ads for yachts within our limited budget. Simon wanted a project that we can partially rebuild ourselves, but not such a large project that we'd be consumed by it for the next several years. I wanted something that floated and would bring me closer to the equator. (OK, Simon wanted that, too.)

On a Saturday afternoon, he looks up from his laptop and exclaims, "I've found a 55 footer concrete yacht! It looks like a real bargain!"

"Ha-ha," I replied. "Concrete. Bargain. Good one."

"I'm serious. You can make a yacht out of concrete."

He had my attention now as my feeble mind fought to grasp the concept. "You're joking," I protested weakly.

"No," he said, "they float just like steel or wood. They make strong boats and are more likely to survive an accident than fiberglass." And that is how our strange trip towards a ferro-concrete boat began.

We contacted the owner of the homemade 55 foot ferro-concrete boat. He was in Grimsby and had an accident that prevented him and his wife from fulfilling their lifelong dream of cruising around the world. The boat had been their pet project for twenty years and was 75% completed when he had to give it up. It was a sad story. "This is a good example why," I told Simon as we drove to Grimsby the next day, "we need to get out and sail the world now rather than waiting for someday. Someday may never come."

It was cold and snowing that day. Grimsby was about a five hour drive from London and an industrial wasteland. (The pubs were also all out of food, for some bizarre reason. Every time we walked into one, we were told that they had run out of food. No joke. We ended up at a McDonald's by the motorway and eating in the car with the heater blasting.) "Grimsby is grim," Simon joked.

We toured the boat, which had great potential but was a huge (and I mean HUGE) project. Simon was excited at the prospect but I was overwhelmed by it. You can see my doubt as I peered into one of the cabins which was still a pile of wood. Still, we put in an offer for asking price. Unfortunately, we were outbid.



Grimsby wasn't a waste, though. We began reading about ferro boats voraciously and learned that they offered everything we wanted in a boat. They made strong, stable yachts. They could be abused a bit and didn't require the same maintenance that wood yachts require. They didn't have the same osmosis problems that fiberglass yachts have. They were closest in nature to steel boats, but with slightly less rusting problems and more flexibility in the hull. They were the rough and tumble 4-wheelers of yachts, capable of bringing us around the world in heavy seas. They were also cheap because the material is misunderstood by most yachties. They are not suitable for racing around because they are heavy. They also have the downside that they are frequently made by amateurs in their own backyard, so quality can vary widely. Many insurers are afraid of them and few surveyors know how to judge them. For everything you've ever wanted to know about ferro boats, go to www.ferroboats.com. Still, we were intrigued.

I quickly found a listing for an ugly 38 footer in north Wales. Her name was Julie Anne II and she had real potential. She had the double aft cabin, length and pilothouse that we wanted. In the pictures, though, she was Spartan and my girlie side protested. Simon, however, was again very excited. He particularly liked that she had a bilge keel with two feet on the sides that create a sort of tripod so that the boat could be parked in shallow waters, or even dried out, without supports. We sent an inquiry, but got no response. We telephoned and were told that she had been on sale for a year and promised more information by email. They even told us that they were dropping the asking price from £13,500 to £11,000. But still, they never sent us the information. As it was an eight hour drive to north Wales, we weren't willing to drive up there without hard facts on the build, equipment and history of the yacht.

In the meantime, I found Sharinda and my girlie side rejoiced. She seemed meant to be, as we were able to organize a surveyor, haul out, and a sailing crew on extremely short notice. (The plan, as an aside, was to haul her out on spring tide, when she could get pulled out of her mud berth, have her surveyed, paint on new anti-fouling quickly, return her to the water, and sail her around to the Thames, where we would berth her on Simon's father's mooring. With only a few days before springs and all the surveyors and cranes booked, we thought it was a miracle when a surveyor had a cancellation and the yard was able to fit us in last minute.) Unfortunately, the survey found that she had extensive rot that was concealed by epoxy filler and a lining on the inside of the hull. To be seaworthy, she required approximately £20,000 in repairs, on top of all the electrics and equipment that were going to cost us £10,000. We quickly decided to pull out of the deal.

But, Sharinda, although an expensive lesson, also turned out to be a valuable experience. Alas, our surveyor, who was able to work with us last minute only because of a cancellation, turned out to be the only ferroconcrete qualified and experienced surveyor in all of England! Peter N. Davies was an experienced, sage old man with the gift of gab. He was all around very knowledgeable and impressive. I think he may be the same Peter N. Davies who is a professor emeritus in maritime history at the University of Liverpool, but I can't say for sure. I base this opinion on several comments he made about his work and education (partially at a major university in Chicago) and the fact that he owns, with his brother, several historical square rigged ships, that are still sailing today. (Which, coincidentally, Simon worked on for a couple weeks a few years back!) Anyway, it was like we won the surveyor lottery.

Mr. Davies was concerned that our experience with Sharinda would put us off boats and offered lots of advice on what we should look for in purchasing our vessel. When Simon asked him what he thought about concrete boats, he lit up like a Christmas tree and that is when we learned of his experience in their construction. "Nothing wrong with them!" was his response. He told us a few things to look for, what build history he needs as a surveyor, and added that he was quite impressed by ferro fishing boats built by Roy McCartney in Ireland. He even charged us only half of his fee (as we quit a bit early, once Sharinda became an obvious loss), but he did so out of kindness. Grinning like Cheshire cats, Simon and I drove to Wales on the spot.

All Hell has broken loose.

OK, that is an exaggeration, but the last few days have been excitingly busy and very weird. There are so many things that I need to write about, that they have to be broken down into multiple posts. Moreover, I am still running about in a frenzied fashion, so the posts will be trickled in over the next week or so. You have the following events to look forward to reading about:

• Simon and I bought a concrete boat named Julie Anne II. I had already intended to write about our forays into the world of concrete boats (and a trip to Grimsby). Now it will be a central piece as this long, strange path has culminated in our yacht, to be renamed Polar Bear. We also met the only surveyor in all the land (literally) of concrete boats. But at least we have our yacht now, full stop (thanks to some awesome haggling skills)!
  
• We dumped Sharinda, who turned out to be a dirty, rotten whore.
  
• Simon and I have moved to Wales (temporarily).
• We spent the night on Wednesday in a real haunted castle.
• We got arrested and highway robbed. (Really, we did!)
  
• We went to Birmingham. It was like Detroit, so we decided to leave Birmingham.
• I've learned to drive in the UK and I've even mastered roundabouts.
  

As you can see, we've been busy. I can't wait to tell you all about it.

Cheers!

The weather in England is schizophrenic.

It was warm and sunny just two days ago.

PS - We're going to be painting and antifouling our boat in this weather tomorrow and Tuesday. Even more fun: sailing it on the North Sea this Wednesday, Thursday and Friday through ice flurries. I like to do things to the extreme, baby. Woot, woot.

An American about town: comments on confronting misconceptions and cultural insensitivity as a traveling American.

This Absolut Vodka ad is one of the single-most offensive things I have ever seen. For the first time in my life, I am genuinely going to boycott a product. I urge you all to do the same. It is crappy vodka anyway.

This ad is a tragedy and I hope that it is forgotten quickly and has little actual impact. It advocates hate, malcontent and an “us vs. them” mentality. As a San Diegan, I have always loved our unique blend of American and Mexican culture. To me, being American means not only embracing our diverse cultural roots, but also celebrating our Americanness: we are a unique country of free and varied people. We should be proud to be Americans, all of us, no matter what kind of American; and we are American first. We all know brave Mexican-Americans who fight to protect our country, and an invasion of our country by Mexico (or any other country) is abhorrent to what they fight for. Further, inclusiveness is something that many Americans have fought hard for throughout our entire history. It would be a tragedy for those struggles to be in vain and a culture of separatism to triumph.

So why is this relevant to the Chronicles? This is not a political blog. Nonetheless, this is relevant because I am an extensively well-traveled American and it reminds me that I am often been asked to comment on media-influenced misconceptions about America. (Sometimes I am just asked whether I ever pass myself off as a Canadian. The answer to that is "no.")

This ad is an extreme example of how the media creates misinformation and hatred towards Americans. It also shows how non-Americans can be insensitive to Americans. Absolut, a Swedish company, claims on its consumer inquiry line, for example, that they did not intend this ad to be offensive. They further claim that it is not meant to "advocate an altering of borders, nor does it lend support to any anti-American sentiment." Which begs the questions, what exactly did they think it was saying? How could they be so unaware of how this would make many Americans feel? Are they simply unaware that America is populated by feeling people? Have they been brainwashed by popular images that suggest that America is worthy only of hatred and malcontent?

Even though I travel through places where people make fun of Americans out of ignorance, spite or jealousy, one thing I will never do is apologize for being American. We aren’t perfect, but I can tell you that no place I have been is perfect. All countries have their social, economic and political problems. But to our credit, most Americans try to live up to our ideals of freedom, tolerance and generosity. Sometimes our government doesn't get it right, but although our government answers to us, it is not the same as being us. We are a good people.

I find it incredibly arrogant for other people to think that they can approach me with the assumption that I would be ashamed of being American or that they know better than we do what America should do as a country. Americans aren't the only people capable of being culturally insensitive. But at least this helps me not behave similarly insensitively.

I travel because I believe that it enriches you as a human being. It makes you empathetic and tolerant. It also highlights the "humanness" of people, which exists without exception, culture to culture. I've never been to a country where I didn't like the people or didn't see examples of love, hate, kindness, tragedy, hope, pettiness, humor and struggle. I only wish that more people would actually experience America and Americans before swallowing the media's popular misconceptions.

I believe that we are all brothers and sisters. And, when the questioner is actually interested in my answer and not just asking to feel superior, that is what I tell them.

Peace,

The sun came out in England today and I celebrated by drinking an entire pitcher of Pimm's.

I was going to write a witty and informative article today on ferro-concrete boats and our adventure last week to grim Grimsby to try and purchase one. Alas, the best laid plans... (I would finish the adage, but I'm too hungover to remember it).

The sun came out in England today. I first learned of this at about 8 am, when I was startled awake by a horde of bees. Our bed is under a window graced with bright yellow curtains. The bees apparently awoke from bee hibernation and decided to get some of that good, down home pollen before the rain comes back. Unfortunately, they thought the curtains were flowers and buzzed around my face for a while.

I'm quite ashamed to admit that I find bees a bit -- OK, alot -- scary. At one point, I jumped out of bed with a yelp and spilled water all over Simon. Amazingly, he just shot me an annoyed look, helped the bee out of the window and went back to sleep. I decided that getting under the duvet and hiding from the bees was my best course of action and also fell back asleep.

Somehow, it became nearly noon and we were still sleeping. (It's shocking, since we are such early risers.) Since we were supposed to meet our friend Marie for lunch at 12:30, we did get out of bed and we headed straight to the pub (the White Swan in Richmond). Beer for breakfast. Good start.

It was a beautiful day outside, so after lunch we wandered down the path along the Thames towards the White Cross (another pub in Richmond, about 500 meters away). We decided to grab a seat in the sun and look over the idyllic water, graced with ducks and flowers. As part of the warm afternoon ritual, a small glass of Pimm's sounded like just the thing.

Now, if you've never had Pimm's, I can't really describe it to you. It tastes kind of like a citrus, cola, long island iced tea, only it is made with just gin. It is easy drinking, but it can sneak up on you. After the first pitcher, all good judgment was lost. We must have been a sight to Marie's boyfriend, Mark, who joined us late afternoon and had a civilized beer.

The three of us put down three pitchers as the afternoon turned to evening. I don't know how. I don't know why. But I do know that I put away my equal share and that about halfway into it, I thought, "I can't participate in intelligent conversation anymore. I can't even understand what is being said, between Marie's southern accent, Simon's British accent, and Mark's Scottish accent." (I, of course, speak without an accent like Hollywood and God intended.)

But we enjoyed the sun quite a bit. Simon was attacked by another bee at one point and expected me to save him. It was then that I understood the irony of my fear. I have little fear of sailing across the ocean in a 40 foot yacht or rafting class five rapids, but I squeal like a five year old at the sight of a bee. I don't even think bee stings hurt that badly. I'm a rich tapestry of psychological contradictions. Marie commented, "you should get that sorted."

So, anyway, the whole point of this post is: (a) the sun in England is like a four-leafed clover and (b) I spent the entire day drunk, which I half (but not fully) regret, so I did not accomplish much. I think that it is English tradition to get loaded when the sun comes out though. They call it Sun Fawkes Day or something like that.

Out of the storm and into the sun.

First of all, I want to express my deepest gratitude for the support of our friends and loved ones during the last two weeks that saw the passing of Simon's father. We are blessed to know so many wonderful and compassionate people.

Simon and I have seen some hard times, but we've decided that we are now ready for some good times. Accordingly, this last week, we undertook a mad search for our first yacht. We went through hundreds of ads. We developed a budget. We learned about ferro concrete boats (more on that later). We looked at charts and weather and work opportunities for Simon. And all this effort has culminated in (drumroll, please): Sharinda.

I think you need a photo reel.



She's a real gem! She's a 12 ton 38' Hillyard yacht made of oak and mahogany. We got her for a song and she just buzzes with the personality that we wanted in our first sea-going home together.

And Hallelujah, too! Getting her has been an amazing testament to the power of the universe to align and create good things when you feel most like you are going to fail. The fact that no one snapped this beauty out from underneath us is a near-miracle. Getting her scheduled for haul-out and survey next week on spring tides (she is currently up a river and can only be moved once every two weeks when the water is high enough) is a definite miracle. Every surveyor in the land was booked for a month. The boat yard's cranes were all occupied. But, divine providence intervened and both had cancellations. So, she's out of the water on Monday, back in the water on Tuesday, and we're sailing her on Wednesday.

She's currently in Woodbridge, which is just a few miles north of Ipswich, the current home of the Polar Bear II. (Alas, the Polar Bear II has been purchased. But that doesn't mean we won't see her again some day... or better yet, get our own customized Nauticat 44 and name her Polar Bear.)

And, no, we aren't going to rename Sharinda. We don't know what her name means (it appears to be a South Asian or North African female name), but it suits her as it is unique and feminine but strong.

Our first sailing adventure, commencing Wednesday the 9th, will be moving her down the River Deben, through the North Sea and up the Thames. In the meantime, we are on a boat kit shopping spree to get her ready for the Atlantic in spring.