I DON’T REMEMBER exactly when yacht
chandlers turned into huge fancy supermarkets. The marine stores of my youth
were mostly dark, dank places that smelled intriguingly of tar and hemp, and
had a long wooden counter with a couple of tough-looking guys behind it. One of
them invariably had a wooden leg and a parrot on his shoulder. The other never
wore anything above the waist other than a dirty singlet, the better to show
off his tattoos of ladies with long legs and exposed bosoms.
Unless you knew the exact nautical
terms for the things you wanted to buy, it was an intimidating experience to go
shopping in these places. You had to know the difference between a futtock shroud
and a gammon iron, otherwise you risked a severe dose of scoffing and derisive
snorts of laughter, especially if you owned a vessel that displaced less than
600 tons deadweight.
But my, how things have changed. How
genteel it has all become. And how overwhelming. And confusing. My local marine
emporium now caters for clients who live in smart homes in the suburbs, and who
go to work in suits and ties. They own fancy yachts that they keep in the
downtown marina. They’ve never heard of a futtock shroud and the store
assistants don’t give a damn because they don’t have to serve you any more. You
have to serve yourself.
And this is the problem. Whereas in
the olden days you could just ask the guy with the parrot to find you half a
gallon of reddish-brown, hard epoxy, antifouling paint, you now have to wander
aimlessly on a solo circumnavigation,
back and forth between the serried ranks of shelves piled high with
glittering trinkets for smart yachts.
The best you can hope for, as you back and fill your way around the
store, is to catch a glimpse of something that looks like a paint can, or
something that at least looks as if it might logically lead you to a paint can,
such as a piece of 180-grit sandpaper, or a 3-inch bristle paintbrush.
The fact that I can never find
anything in the same place twice is, I think, a deliberate ploy to lead me to
collide with merchandise that I would never bump into normally, with the object
of creating what the marketing experts call an impulse buy.
Now, I am fairly resistant to
impulse buying. In the first place, I hate shopping, and in the second place,
all I want to do is grab the thing I really need and get out of there. Because
I get mad when I can’t find what I need straight away, I sometimes walk out in a huff without buying anything at
all. It’s not a clever thing to do,
because eventually I have to come back and start shopping again, but I can’t
help it, and it makes me feel better, at least temporarily.
So what I’d like to suggest is that
marine supermarkets should fit little GPS units to their shopping carts. You should be able to punch out your desired
purchase on the keyboard, and the GPS should guide you right to the very spot
on the very shelf on which your intended purchase lurks. If you have ever tried
to buy one flat-head, stainless-steel, machine screw, 1/4-inch by 3 inches,
with a slotted head, plus washer and nut, you will know how handy the GPS could
be.
It could have a husky lady’s voice
saying: “Turn left; straight ahead 20
paces; second aisle on the right; third shelf from the top; Oh-oh, you’ve gone
too far; recalculating . . . make 180-degree turn . . .”
There is probably a fortune awaiting
the person who perfects this kind of GPS. It could be a stand-alone unit or an
application available to those who can afford smart phones. And never mind
marine stores. Think of how many you could sell to food supermarkets. No more
frustrating searching for that elusive Belgian chocolate or that special
Alabama moonshine your girl friend likes so much.
The technology exists. It’s such an
obvious need that someone is bound to fill it soon. I can’t wait.
Today’s
Thought
The
customers had a tendency to stop shopping when the baskets become too full or
too heavy.
— Sylvan N. Goldman, (On why he
designed the first grocery carts in the 1930s.) NY Times, 27 Nov 84
Tailpiece
Overhead at a Boy Scout meeting:
“Did you ever have one of those days
when you felt just a little untrustworthy, disloyal, unhelpful, discourteous,
cowardly, and antagonistic toward those wretched old women who always wait for
suckers to help them across the goddam road?”
(Drop
by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
2 comments:
Most of the West Marine stores located in our region of FL have gone from about 40/60 clothing/parts to about 60/40 clothing/parts. In one extreme circumstance, the entire store was gutted out, expanded, and to walk in the store you have to walk through the clothing aisle. I guess that shows what they are making money on and the types that visit the stores. That said, where would we be without them? I'm glad business is good, even if it's selling foul weather gear as a raincoat to grandma.
My bigger, and somewhat related problem, is finding competent people to do work on boats. To me, sitting in Florida, the NE seems like the promised land full of competent boatyard employees, clean boatyards, shiney marinas, and no one doing crap work. Down here, it's a free for all and finding someone to do decent work is a nightmare, so I end up having to do it myself. I long for the days where I can hire someone to do a job that returns my calls, actually does the job, and does it within a week of promised completion. Oh and, at least use their brain.
When our beloved boat was refitted, whoever did the refit found it appropriate to route pressurized water hoses through the electrical compartment. We looked at another boat who had a "professionally installed" battery compartment that looked like a spiderweb of wires one broken crimp away from setting the entire marina on fire. The last time we had canvas work done, I had to call 5 canvas shops to get one that would return my phone call. I know people that have called close to 10 canvas shops without a returned call. Mild steel keys on the prop/propshaft, installed by a "reputable" shop. I could go on.
We do consider ourselves fortunate to have a friend that is very meticulous, very hard working, and very prompt. He does excellent work and, without him, we'd be lost in a sea of boatwork misery. He is the exception among dozens I've worked with, though.
I miss the old days, where finding people who didn't take pride in their work seemed like the exception rather than the rule.
What do you expect from an "expert" who became a specialist after 6 weeks in collage?
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