Shifting Gears Without a Clutch
My dad’s best friend, Peter (who drove 4 hours one way on 95 and 91 to visit Dad in the hospital after his heart surgery) is a mechanical wizard who used to have at least 20 old cars in his driveway. He loved each and every one of those things, even the ones that looked from the outside like they’d be better off in a dump. I remember taking a drive once in one ancient vehicle and watching him shift gears. His foot never, ever touched the clutch (and no, it was not an automatic car.) “You can do it when you know the car. You just listen to the engine. There’s a sweet spot where the car is just asking to switch gears.” Never a grind, never a stall.
We got back to Deltaville one night a week ago at about 11 pm, after a scramble few hours at the Cville house packing up a lot of stuff that’s eventually destined for Calypso but in the meanwhile will languish be stashed in our storage unit here. Windlass and spare chain anyone?
Side note: said storage unit will not be kept when we leave to go cruising. It’s a place holder, if you will, a temporary spot to house boat parts and gear until we can put it back on board. It’s inexpensive by Virginia standards ($65 a month for a 10x10 unit; the same unit in Charlottesville would be upwards of $250 a month after the first month) and incredibly convenient as it’s less than 3 minutes from the boat.
Jeremy unloaded wood and tools onto the screen porch and looked around. “Now. Where was I?”
When we’re in Deltaville, the rhythm of our lives means we’re focused on boat work. Other than work work, I mean, but the mental list of what’s in progress has a narrow scope. When we leave Calypso after an evening of demolition or building or painting, we have an idea of what we’ll tackle the next day. Those white painted panels leaning against kitchen cabinets in the house here require no explanation.
Shifting to Charlottesville involves mentally moving focus in addition to physically moving tools and even boat parts, though last time we went back I convinced Jeremy that he actually would not have time to work on the forward hatch despite his best intentions so schlepping it back and forth wouldn’t pay off.
Each time we move we forget something. (Did we leave that 4-block charger in Vermont? Crap, we need one now. Whew it’s here.) We put items in containers labeled “OPO” and “BOAT” and then forget to go through those containers when we’re packing up to make a trip. What about the items we need for regular life in Charlottesville but also need at the boat? I’m talking galley supplies particularly (spices, a salad spinner) but it’s true of tools and painting supplies, towels and fingernail clippers. Some of those items live in bags that just go back and forth, but I detest living out of suitcases and this applies double when it comes to cooking utensils. Unpack and put away, that’s my motto.
Each time we move, we forget where we are in projects. Even with lists and post-its everywhere, we forget things. It takes time to ramp up to speed again.
Either we’re missing a clutch or we’re just not listening well enough. In any case, there’s definitely a lot of grinding and stalling happening here.
Update/note: This post was written on March 8. To say there’s a lot of stalling happening now is a vast understatement. We’re preparing for one last trip to Deltaville, to burst finish what we can on the boat and empty out the house we borrowed there. Then it’s time to settle in for the long haul until this virus has loosened its stranglehold on our lives. The blog will take a sharp turn towards how to cook with what’s on hand, how to work on a boat remotely, and how to come to grips with suddenly being not empty-nesters again.