Project Creep (or something like that)

There's an old story, or fable, about a woman who was an indifferent housekeeper. She was given a beautiful bouquet of lilies. But when she reached on the shelf to get a vase to put them in, she found the vase grimy and dirty. So she washed it until it sparkled, and then put the flowers in the clean vase on the table. The freshness of the flowers highlighted the dustiness of the table top. So then she dusted and polished the table -- and that one bright clean corner in turn contrasted with the rest of the dingy cluttered room, kicking off another cleaning session. And on and on, until her entire house was the envy of the village.

This could be a cautionary tale about project creep, about how one seemingly innocuous thing leads to another and another until it snowballs into a massive venture. Or perhaps it is inspirational, that the seeds that inspire greatness can be found in the smallest of simple things. You just never know how things are going to turn out until you begin them.

To say that the first few years we had Cinderella there were many projects to be done would be an understatement. We were ruthlessly practical in what we tackled those first years, replacing the engine, leaky fuel hoses, propane sensors.  We replaced sails, installed a heavier anchor and chain, added solar power, strengthened lifelines, and many more. We had a simple litmus test for prioritization: if it didn't make the boat safer or sail faster, it fell to the bottom of the list.

But however slowly it felt we got there in the end, ultimately we did get to where the aesthetic projects could be addressed. It started two years ago as we stripped and sanded the teak trim to bare wood and painted on eight (!) coats of glossy varnish. Well, that kicked off a project cascade just like the lady and the lily, because the shiny refinished wood didn't stand out well against the patchy faded burgundy cove stripe. A good friend with Photoshop expertise helped us explore the possibilities of various colors until we settled on a deep navy blue. Two coats of primer, three coats of paint, sanding and allowing a day to cure between each coat. I got into a rhythm.

I can't paint without ruminating the same two thoughts in my mind. One came from a shipmate on the Galeon during our second year. She really enjoyed painting or oiling the teak, a task most of us dreaded as not difficult but boring; she described it as meditative. Her attitude totally changed my attitude toward the task. (Thank you for that helpful perspective, Challie.) The second thought that I always have while painting is my hydrodynamics prof in grad school explaining the concept of thixotropic fluids. The word sounds like it describes a property of a plant that grows in the Caribbean (tropic). Actually though it's a property of some fluids that change viscosity - in this case, paint that's fairly thick when you brush it on so it doesn't drip, and then actually gets more fluid as it sets, so the brush strokes fade away.

All in all, the project was tedious and I hope we don't have to do it again any time soon, although the varnish gets scuffed and recoated every six months or so. But we've gotten so many compliments since we came back to the dock. And my heart sings every time we walk toward the boat. And that, that little tune of joy in life, I learned last summer, really matters to me.

Final detail, using a small artist brush to add silvery-white metallic paint for the scrollwork on the bow.