How I became a Welsh coalminer. Part V. Subtitle: Playing with power tools in hail storms.

Simon and I spent only a day in London before we were off again to Southampton to get supplies for Polar Bear's refit. The plan was roughly:

• Sand the hull back with rotary sanders as far as needed to ascertain its condition and to change its color from blue to white
• Repair rust on rudder with acid and grinder
  
• Repair weak spots in hull with epoxy
• Prime, paint and anti-foul
• Change batteries and check electrics
• Clean out the bilge (it was filled with oily water)
• Remove all the junk from inside and air the boat out
• Check engine, change the oil, etc.
• Replace Welsh flag with British flag
• Check rigging, anchor chain, sails, etc.
• Stow all our stuff
• Sail it to Portsmouth, where we would place her back on the hard for a more thorough refit of the inside and topsides (including, most importantly, putting in hot water and a shower)

This was quite a tall order, so we decided we had to move to Wales, albeit temporarily. We had about two weeks to accomplish this stuff, with a weekend in the middle already booked with teaching work in Port Solent for Simon. Since it was about an eight hour drive to Pwllheli, several days were lost to transportation. We had no time to waste. Simon and I moved to the George hotel for the first week and camped out in the boat after that.

Now, I won't get into the mechanics of how we accomplished all of this work, because I imagine most of you will find that boring. If you really want to know how we did any of this stuff, feel free to email or comment and I will supplement this post.

Suffice it to say that we were covered in black dust and oil from head to toe for the entire two weeks. We were so streaked and stained black, that when we walked around town to get lunch or supplies, people stared at us and came up to us just to ask us what we had been doing. And, yes, I was asked almost daily whether we had been "down in the coal mines." It wasn't unreasonable to ask, since I'm obviously too big to be a chimney sweep, gov. I laughed and embraced my inner Pig Pen.

The sixteen hour days of hard labor that left us sore and filthy were masochistically fun. There is something really satisfying in physical labor and in building something, especially when you get to play with lots of power tools! Even though I have a million projects going right now (not the least of which is starting a business... shameless plug: Version 1.0 of GoodSharks.com launching in June), I was able to get lost in my coalminer alter ego while I went inch by inch over the hull with my sander. They were zen days.

We had only one industrial accident, too, despite the fact that we were working in intermittent hail and rain storms. One afternoon, I was using some acid to remove rust off the rudder. Unfortunately, it got under my gloves and onto my thermal shirt. I will tell you that claims of wicking action is not an advertising gimmick! The fabric wicked the acid right up my arm and I ended up getting a nasty burn. The cold water hose (fun for me in the freezing cold Welsh spring) was handy, but I still had to go back to the hotel and shower for about twenty minutes. I even burnt my fingertips removing my shirt, which made holding hot coffee the next day a rather unpleasant experience.

So, the good news is that the hull turned out to be in excellent condition, although it took us way longer to sand it than we hoped it would. In fact, everything took a little longer than we hoped, so I had to leave Simon in Wales to sail Polar Bear down to Portsmouth on his own. He had ten days and a volunteer in his good friend Alex, so we felt pretty confident that he would make it OK. But, alas, he only made it about half way....

You'll just have to tune in next time to find out why Simon ended up having Polar Bear towed to the port in Falmouth, leaving her on a mooring buoy and going to Spain. I returned to California to sell my car, rent my house out and be the maid of honor in my friend Michelle's wedding. (Woo hoo! Crazy bachelorette party on Friday!)

Team Polar Bear rendezvous next in London on June 1.

PS - Next time you all need to clean out a wet and oily bilge, it turns out that baby diapers work great. I found it amusing that I went to the store just for a bag of diapers, a can of grease and a case of beer. There's got to be a redneck joke in there somewhere.

How I became A Welsh coalminer. Part IV. Subtitle: Simon and I stay in a haunted castle.

You might be wondering how many parts this Welsh coalminer saga has in total. The answer is five.

April 8, 2008 is officially the most exciting day that Simon and I have ever had, bar none. In Part II, I told you about how we haggled our way into a concrete boat in the morning. In Part III, I told you about how we were highway robbed by a police officer in the afternoon. That evening, I learned how to drive in England and then we spent the night in a haunted castle turned luxurious hotel.

Simon drove for a little while after our agitating encounter with the police officer. After a few minutes, though, I suggested that I drive to give Simon a break. I don't know how much of a break I managed to give him, though, as roundabouts and driving on the left side of the road turned out to be slightly harder than I expected. Nonetheless, I enjoyed being behind the wheel for the first time in a couple months and I only drove on the wrong side of the road a couple times.

We hit the idyllic valley after about an hour and stopped at the B&B, thinking we should just pack it in for the day. However, it was booked. The same was the case for three more B&B's that we encountered along the road, despite the fact that we were in the deep countryside, on a random weekday in cold early April. We ended up driving into Shropshire, England long after night had fallen.

We drove past a castle that was lit like a beacon in the deep dark of the countryside nighttime. "That castle is a hotel," Simon observed. "Want to try it?"

"Yeah! It's not like I get to stay in castles very often." I answered. After a tricky U-turn, I drove the car up the gravelly lane towards the castle and parked in an open space under a giant tree.

"It might be too expensive," Simon warned, so we left our bags in the car and walked up the path to the front entrance.

The castle is named Rowton Castle and was beautifully decorated and renovated. It was warm and inviting but also held all the fantasy and historical charm of an 800 year old castle. The room was £104 for the night, which was actually pretty reasonable. "Please. I want to stay in a castle." I begged. Simon indulged me.

"Are there any ghosts?" Simon asked the receptionist jokingly as we registered.

"A couple of the rooms have them. There is supposed to be one in this front hall, too."

"Cool." Simon said. But I didn't think that seeing a ghost would be cool at all, though not surprising considering how crazy this day had been.

We collected our bags from outside and I was followed by a cute black and white stray cat. (I may have petted it. Somewhere Liz is annoyed with me and calling me a crazy cat lady.)

We went up to our room after ensuring that the kitchen would remain open a few minutes longer for us. Our room was beautiful, with a large bed and beautiful bathroom. We celebrated with a quick whiskey and Coke before heading back down for dinner.

The hotel offered to keep its white table-clothed dining room open for us, but, rather than be too bothersome, we decided to eat in the lounge. The lounge was actually an elegant drawing room with leather couches, tables, and a fireplace. The fabrics were rich and the twin life-sized statues of greyhounds were genuinely appropriate and nice touches.

We had just ordered a bottle of red wine when the receptionist came over and apologized profusely. "I should have upgraded you," she explained. It took us a minute before we understood that she was offering to give us a better room since the hotel was quiet and its four-poster suites were empty. Naturally, we accepted this upgrade happily. She was genuinely distraught that we had to move our luggage, but Simon assured her that we were delighted, not upset. "Which room would you like?" she asked us.

"Which room do you recommend?" Simon countered.

She pointed us to two rooms and said, "this one has a better bed."

"Sold." I said.

We ordered our food and I tested the wine while Simon moved our bags. Although I had originally had us set up at a table, the hotel's manager kindly set us up to eat before the fireplace and started the fire going. It was so nice it felt surreal. It was amazing how, despite our run in with that jerky cop, the day turned out to be extraordinary.

"You are going to hate the room," Simon teased, when he returned and found me relaxing before the fire. Dinner turned out to be extremely good, too. The restaurant is apparently busy even when the hotel isn't because the food is so nice. The room was absolutely gorgeous, of course. I especially appreciated the travertine tile work in the bathroom and the giant four-poster bed.

We were happy and contented when we settled into bed that night after more wine and a soak in the big tub. No ghosts came out despite the fact that we were in one of the supposedly haunted rooms, although I woke up several times during the night to every little bump or creak. The next morning we walked around the grounds, which are decently sized, but unfortunately abut more sheep pastures. I was totally sick of sheep by this time.

Rowton Castle is a great hotel and highly recommended as both comfortable and affordable, with excellent service and good food.

Mid-morning we drove back to London via Birmingham. We had originally intended to stop and check out Birmingham for the afternoon. However, driving through, it was so industrial and inhospitable looking that we both agreed instantaneously to skip it. We got back to London by early afternoon.

How I became a Welsh coalminer. Part III. Subtitle: Simon and I get highway robbed by a police officer.

Having finally acquired a yacht, we decided that this day, Tuesday, April 8, 2008, was the best day ever ever. Consistent with that, Simon and I decided to stop and have a civilized afternoon tea and scone in Criccieth, overlooking the sea and castle. It was perfect -- euphoric -- with cream on top. Late afternoon shadows obscured the castle, so we decided to drive to Snowdonia national park, about an hour and a half down the lane, and stay at a B&B that we saw in an idyllic valley, complete with a babbling brook and frolicking lambs.

But how things can change in a minute! We had just finished driving through Port Dog when a group of teenagers piled in a red compact car, sped around us. "They're nutters!" Simon complained for the twentieth time about the crazy rally-car driving of the locals down winding, narrow lanes with blind turns. We continued puttering along at around thirty-five miles per hour.

Blip, blip! "What was that?" I asked, interrupting my chatter about rude teen behavior, mid-sentence.

"Police," Simon responded. "I think he is trying to get around me." Simon slowed down and cars continued to dart around us on the narrow country road.

"Is he lighting us up?" I asked, astonished.

"I don't think so." But he pulled over anyway, on the side of a grass field filled with squealing kids and grazing sheep.

To our utter disbelief, the cop -- a tattooed, burly man, with a shaved head and self-important swagger -- walked up and motioned for Simon to roll down the window. "Do you know what the speed limit is here?" he asked brusquely.

"Um... thirty."

"Do you know how fast you were going?" This guy is the stereotype of all cops, I thought, my irritation spiking. They are the same everywhere.

"Not much faster than thirty. I was going slower than the rest of the traffic." Simon responded, although the cop obviously wasn't interested in the answer, because he interrupted him.

"No sir. Step out of the vehicle."

Unbelievable! I thought, as I watched the cop make Simon get into his unmarked police car, which still flashed with blue lights. For the life of me, I could not understand what gave the police officer the right to require Simon to exit his vehicle and get into his. I began to wonder exactly what rights applied in the United Kingdom, as being forced into a police car is usually an arrest in the U.S., requiring Miranda warnings, etc.

I watched the two in deep conversation for about five minutes. (Simon later told me that the conversation started with the cop lecturing him about how a kid could have -- hypothetically -- kicked a ball into the street, and then what would have happened?!?)

I tried taking surreptitious photographs of the police officer for the Chronicles, but never managed to get any shots worth keeping. (Simon later told me that he saw me raise the camera and was praying that the cop wouldn't see me.) Finally, Simon got back in the car. "Are you covered by your insurance company to drive here?" he asked.

"Yes, I think so. International coverage is part of my policy. Why?"

"When he checked my insurance, he couldn't confirm the policy. He says that unless you are insured and can drive, that he is going to have our car towed and we are going to be stuck here on the side of the road."

"I thought your dad had bought a policy that covered you and your brothers for this car!"

"So did I."

I told the police officer I could drive. And since I wasn't the person pulled over and hadn't done anything, I was a mildly surprised when he demanded that I call my insurance company on the spot and let him confirm. We were stuck. The police officer had already seized the keys to the car and called the tow truck. He said that we had twenty minutes to confirm my policy before getting towed.

Nice guy that he is, though, the police officer refused to give me the phone number to my insurance company from his computer. So we had to call Simon's mother, who was able to look up the number on the internet. Then, just as I got through to the agent, Simon's cell phone ran out of credit.

Simon had to run half a mile to the nearest gas station to get more phone credit. I stood in the cold evening wind feeling like this was a ridiculous situation. The cop handed me a carbon copy of the ticket, which stated that his name was Williams (shocking surname for a Welshman) and that Simon was driving at the rubber-melting speed of forty-two miles per hour. I didn't think this was likely. "How do you know Simon was speeding?" I asked conversationally.

"Are you telling me how to do my job?!?" He barked back, standing up and taking a step towards me.

Shoving down my irritation at the stupidity of his response, I persisted. "Did you radar him? How do you know he was speeding?"

"He did it and it's not my problem," he responded, again with little logical connection to my actual question. He was practically yelling at me and took another step towards me. I've been against harder people in deposition, so I wasn't inclined to back down and I asked a third time. He actually answered my question this time. "Yes, and I followed him. He did it. He did it and it's not my problem." He was definitely yelling at me.

"How do you know it was this car that you radar'ed?" I asked, again taking pains to be nonthreatening.

"Are you telling me how to do my job?!?" At this point, he was leaning over me, raising his arms menacingly. I took an involuntary step back. Sure, I've had worse in deposition, but they were never armed. And he was a lot bigger than me.

I put up my hands defensively. "I'm not trying to offend you. I'm not arguing with you. I'm not disagreeing with you. I'm just trying to gather information." I responded. "I'm just trying to gather information, that's all."

"I don't know how they do things in America," he sneered. "He was the one who did it and it isn't my problem." I nearly snapped back that in America we have due process, but thought better of it as I was genuinely afraid that the guy was going to strike me. I also didn't want to frighten and confuse him -- and therefore anger him -- as he seemed to have a poor grasp of logic and reason, but an overinflated sense of importance. I looked at him warily but held my tongue. He stepped back and started to get back into his car. "Get back in your car," he ordered. Like hell, I thought, and folded my arms. I stood on the side of the road, shivering but defiant.

The cold finally got to me. The sheep were bleating so loudly, I meanly fantasized about having lamb for dinner. "Baaaahhhh," one bleated at me from a few feet away while sticking its tongue out. I stuck my tongue back out at it and got into the car. Simon showed up a minute later, panting and holding out the phone.

I connected with my insurance company and was confirming my policy when the tow truck showed up and blocked our car in from the front. A round guy in overalls with only one tooth came over and stood next to me, demanding that I hurry up. In response, I silently shut and locked my car door.

Naturally, there was another hitch. My insurance company had to reissue my policy with Simon on it. I had to hunt all over the car and under the hood for its make, year and VIN. Another half an hour passed... then, success! I explained to the laughing agent that he would have to talk to police officer.

The toothily-challenged tow truck guy was still hanging around and Simon was having another debate with the Williams. He filled me in a minute later. "They won't let us go until I pay the tow truck guy £105 cash. I don't have any money, so the officer is going to drive me to the nearest bank to get it."

We've been highway robbed! I thought. Of all the places! After another twenty minutes, the cash was exchanged and we finally drove off. "Let's get the hell out of Wales," I suggested. We sat in shocked silence for a few minutes. "I can't believe he drove you to the bank! That was cheeky." I couldn't help but laugh.

To this day, we haven't received the ticket in the mail. So the question is, do we formally complain and risk getting the ticket or just let it go? Thoughts?