I've been living in the boatyard for nearly two weeks. It's loud, commercial, full of marine poison finishes, spray paints, epoxies, glass fibers and other toxic substances. I've been up to my elbows in paint for days. I've ruined most of my clothes. It feels like living in a sort of post apocalyptic junkyard, complete with dead birds, mangy dogs and rowdy tenants. Between materials, haul out, launching and blocking (putting the boat on stilts), it's cost me an arm and a leg.

Christmas Eve I meet up with Charles and his pretty girlfriend Cassy. We eat bread, hummus and salad at their new home, drink wine and talk. Charles leaps in the pool. Their roommates' little girl is crazy excited about her presents. She's being cleverly distracted as her brightly wrapped gifts are shuttled from their various hiding spots to their rightful home beneath the evergreen.

I tried sailing to Stock Island a second time on Wednesday. The small craft advisory that went into effect Monday was still in place. The wind was blowing around twenty and the seas were very rough. I'd never been out sailing in this area under conditions like that. The water didn't look like waves at all, but more like the deep, angry claw marks of some giant beast. Each wave was some six feet tall and they were positioned one right after the other so that the boat pitched up then down continuously at what seemed like thirty to forty degrees.

Obstacles. I was supposed to be in Stock Island on Monday, hauling out Jordan's Ghost and beginning the first of a few basic improvements. I have been planning on getting the boat cleaned up, repainted and possibly re-plumbed before I leave town for Colorado in the first week of January. So far, no luck.