Fouled tank, cheery humour

We hauled! Yessss. We hauled, and even better, I talked the man i love into HIRING people. Going to Maple Bay, we had a little trouble with a clogged seacock and seawater sloshing around the cockpit, none of which is good. “Me and George can bail,” my husband told me.
“Are you NUTS?” I yelled. “You’re like those crazy women who think if they can diagnose a guy that’s the same thing as being able to live with him. HIRE someone.”
So he did.
Then, “We don’t need anyone to help us paint the bottom,” he said. “We can do it ourselves.”
“Honey, who is this ‘we’?” I asked. “HIRE someone.”
So he did. Bless Pete and Dan – they painted and I didn’t have to. Actually, I lasted an hour before I handed over my paintbrush. And George, who had helped bring the boat over, supervised the powerwashing & pronnounced the seacock cured when a gobbit of water sprayed out the cockpit drain.
Motoring home the engine worked beautifully right until it quit halfway up Sansum Narrows. John had to be towed in by the Coast Guard. I hopped up and down on the dock and yelled, much to the amusement of the six local men with smirks on their faces who had gathered on our dock to help catch lines.
“Take a good look at me,” I hollared. “You’ll never see me again. A week from now I’ll be living in a condo.”
It’s some time later and no condos came by, so I am still on the boat – and somewhat calmed down.
John Darling crawled around the engine room for awhile until he figured out that a fuel stoppage chocked our engine (we hope short of the injectors) because our daytank is fouled.
“Hire someone,” I said. So we got a fuel filtration company who said all they needed was an inch and a half access top and bottom (these guys are the masters) and for a mere $250.00 an hour they’ll solve all our problems. They’ll arrive, like cavalry, at the end of the month.
We can’t afford to live in a condo because we own a boat.
So I continue to teach and tutor. My writing career, such as it is, seems to have ground to a halt because there aren’t any boating magazines willing to publish me anymore. I was on the masthead of at least three magazines that tanked, which is not the kind of thing your brag about on a resume, and the RV Times publisher is downsizing & doesn’t want to pay me. That leaves Edge YK, and I’m running out of ideas for then. The problem with memoir is that it’s a finite resource. The material does not continue to climb the graph to an infinite end off the edge of the page. I am limited to what happened in highschool, and some of that is too depressing to talk about. I mean, I love my alma mater, dear Sir John Franklin HS in Yellowknife, NT, but you couldn’t pay me to go back there.
I have the manuscript for the next book nearly ready to go, but whether I can publish depends on how many hours it’ll take the tank guys to fix our problem, bless their hearts. Tanks take the higher seat at the table over books.
Paul has gone back to Edmonton and I miss him. Paul and I both were grateful to fly Westjet, which is such an improvement over 24 hours on a Greyhound bus, that words fail me.
So we continue to work and fix things, and the sun is shining, and the engine light hasn’t recently flashed up on my car, and Rupert phoned us last night.
Much love to you all, and many blessings.