Making fiberglass gleam

IT WAS WITH no small degree of astonishment that I recently learned how I should have been making my fiberglass gleam during all these long years of boat ownership. It was thanks to a four-page article in the latest issue of America’s largest-circulation boating magazine, BoatU.S. magazine, that I learned how I was supposed to have done it.

I read that article through from beginning to end with a growing sense of shame and disillusionment.  I ended up confessing to the cat, who could sense my distress:  “I am guilty, guilty as charged.  I have never ever made my fiberglass gleam like this. I am a failure, an impostor, and unworthy of boat ownership.”

Let me boil down those four pages for you, so that you won’t repeat my failure.  Making your fiberglass gleam is apparently not just a matter of vanity but a matter of protecting your boat. To do this you should follow these steps:

1.  Remove oxidation from the topsides with a power orbital buffer and oxidation remover.

2.  Remove the oxidation remover.

3.  If the oxidation was severe, remove remaining oxidation with orbital buffer and oxidation remover.

4.  Remove oxidation remover.

5.  Eliminate any stains remaining. Use rubbing compound and a rag. Rub by hand.

6.  Remove rubbing compound.

7.  Polish hull with buffer and a dedicated polish.

8.  Remove polish.

9.  Polish hull again.

10. Remove polish again.

11. Seal the shine in with a thorough coating of paste wax over the whole hull, by hand. Let it dry.

12. Remove paste wax.

13. Apply another coat of paste wax by hand. Let it dry.

14. Remove paste wax.

15. The coup de grace — apply a coat of carnauba wax by hand.

16. Clean off the carnauba wax with a buffer and a microfiber bonnet.

Now, I don’t know how long all this is supposed to take you, but presumably you can get it all done in just one winter because the article then adds that in spring “you should be able to get away with a quick polish and then sealing in the shine.”  And if you can actually bring yourself to use the boat after all this spiffing up, during the sailing season you can renew the shine by giving the gelcoat another carnauba wax job every other week.

Well, let us pause for breath here. As I told the cat, I have never wax polished the hull of any boat I have owned. When fiberglass hulls were invented, the inherent promise was that they would never need any maintenance.  We would be freed from the annual task of rubbing down the topsides and slapping on another coat of paint.  They would simply shine forever, reflecting the rays of the sun and spreading joy and happiness wherever they went.

It wasn’t true, of course.  They got scuffed and battered just like wooden topsides before them, and after a few years we noticed that the gelcoat developed a sort of powder on its surface, and when we complained to the builders they laughed and told us how naive we were.  “One word governs all of boating,” they pointed out. “Entropy. Go look it up.”

I decided then and there that my topsides would have to take their chances in life and I cleverly decided that white was the only color for a hull because oxidized white hulls look better than oxidized hulls of any other color, especially red or blue.

I also learned in later years that when a boat got so badly oxidized that it looked like a moose shedding fur, you could slap on a coat or two of twin-pack polyurethane paint and it would look bright and shiny and brand new for at least seven years to come, and with about a quarter of the effort you’d need to make your fiberglass gleam by applying wax paste and repeating the whole process until Armageddon set you free.

I’m sure the BoatU.S. people think that anybody with my attitude is unfit to own a fiberglass hull, but I don’t really care.  My cat thinks I’m plenty smart, if a little over-emotional.

Today’s Thought

I’m tired of all this nonsense about beauty being only skin-deep. . . . What do you want — an adorable pancreas?
— Jean Kerr, The Snake Has All the Lines

Tailpiece

“Officer, is this the crash victim?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is he badly injured?”
“Well, so-so, sir. Two of the wounds are fatal but the other one’s not so bad.”

(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday for a new Mainly about Boats column.)

The spring ritual

IN SPRING a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of hanging upside down by his toes in the hatchway as he tries to perform maintenance tasks in the rear end of his boat. It should be a crime to squeeze a large auxiliary engine into the tiny, convoluted space available in the stern quarters of a small sailboat, but scofflaw yacht designers get away with it all the time.

They put the seacocks for the cockpit drains back there. They put the stuffing box for the propeller shaft back there. They put the dipstick for the transmission box back there. And they put other stuff in there that has to be looked at, poked at, adjusted, and maintained every year before the sailing season starts.

And when I say “back there” I’m talking about a space that’s mostly filled with oily engine, an irregular space under the cockpit with sloping floors and curved walls. It’s a space you can’t even get to on most boats unless you empty an adjacent, claustrophobic, cockpit locker and ooze yourself inside. Even then, if you can find a way to contort your body so you don’t slide head-first into the murky bilgewater, you won’t be able to reach every nut that needs turning or lever that needs to be unfrozen because your arms simply aren’t long enough.

Once you’re in there you can’t turn around. When you’re done, you have to back out. People regularly get cramps and find they’re stuck in position. I know of at least man who had to be rescued with the Jaws of Life by the local fire brigade. He would undoubtedly have starved to death had he not been equipped with a cell phone to call for help.

A sailor called Charlie Brenton was talking about this much-feared annual ritual on the Cape Dory bulletin board the other day. Here are his thoughts:

“Since most of us did not purchase our Cape Dorys new, many are unaware that Cape Dory did require prospective owners to pass a specific physical examination before purchase. Original Cape Dory owners were required to be less than 5 feet 4 inches tall and to weigh less than 120 pounds. Waist size was not to exceed 28 inches. Arm length was critical. It was required that the new owner prove that he could tie his shoes without bending over. Once these requirements were fulfilled, it was furthermore recommended that an additional joint be surgically inserted in the forearm between the elbow and wrist. Many of the spring maintenance problems that skippers experience are directly related to the inability to pass the Cape Dory physical.”

Charlie, who sails a 33-foot Cape Dory sailboat registered in Newington, New Hampshire, apparently did not pass the Cape Dory physical himself, but he has figured out his own personal solution to the problem of squeezing into the black hole back aft:

“Each spring I go on a three-day fast,” he said, “then I roll myself up to the configuration of a beach ball. With the engine room cover removed, my 10-year-old kicks me around the cabin until he is able to boot me over the exhaust riser to the realm beyond. Then I know that I am ready to uncoil and go to work. He throws me a sock full of wrenches, both metric and SAE, a box of Band-Aids and an occasional beer. He then sits enthralled while his Dad adds entirely new words to the English language.”

All I can say is that Charlie’s suggestion of a qualifying physical exam before purchase is a good idea. The fact that it might produce a new race of sailing dwarfs with chimpanzee arms is neither here nor there. At least the damn cockpit seacocks will work as they should.

Today’s Thought
Nothing is so easy but it becomes difficult when done with reluctance.
—Terence, Heauton Timoroumenos

Tailpiece
Notices we noticed:

Outside a church:
“Seven days without God makes one weak.”