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 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?

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!