Saturday, January 31, 2009

Boat Maintenance

A V10 Sport spans the length of my family room carpet. It appears both bizarrely out of place and curiously at home at the same time. It's winter here in NE, an inch and a half of boilerplate ice has turned my driveway into a skating rink, and the early vestiges of cabin fever are beginning to set in. All eyes are on Punxsatawney Phil next week, fingers crossed that it will be a cloudy day...

It's maintenance time in the Ceconi household, and boat after boat waits its turn to be shouldered in through the garage door to take the spot of another, carefully maneuvered to fit alongside the fireplace-too gosh darned cold in the garage. This current patient, a favor for a friend, is in for a routine 'rudderdectomy' to remove the stock pin, free and lube the shaft, epoxy on a weedguard, and apply 3M clear protective film to the strike zones on the cockpit sills.

Next up is the Westside Boatshop EFT. It's slated for a pullbar addition to the suh-weet carbon footbrace assembly from Pat at Onnopaddles. Taking advantage of its appointment, the doctor on call may recommend some early preventative maintenance by switching out the understern rudder for the overstern, with an eye toward the Run of the Charles Race in April.

Holding the next deli counter number ticket is the fully flamed Huki S1-R. Jude's gelcoat crew are masters of graphics, and the boat literally seems ablaze, living up to its moniker' Ring of Fire,' appropriately named after Johnny Cash's infamous lovers' lament. She's up for some footstrap retooling, and a couple of coats of Marine PTEF wax to keep her vivid hues burning.

The 'chickenboat' Epic 18's ToePilot rudder pedal tracks could use replacement hardware, so that may be the next candidate on the card. Or maybe one of the tandems, for cable checks and the omnipresent application of more coats of UV protection. The list goes on...

There's something awfully satisfying about maintaining your paddlecraft. as there is with any conveyance, be it a boat, bicycle, or Bugatti, disassembling and reassembling parts so they snick together flawlessly, padding out seatwells for a better fit, and retying the %$#@ knots in brand spanking new Spectra line, so the push of a footpedal sends a weed shedding 9" rudder through the full swing of its travel with unerring smoothness.

Yup, it's wintertime, maintenance time, and it helps to make the days go faster till ice out and the first winter thaw. The boats take their places, one by one, waiting patiently with a magazine for their names to be called by the receptionist in the third garage, no HMO required.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Snow Row February 28, Hull, Mass, 11am

I got word via email that the Snow Row is February 28, 11:00, Saturday this year. The Hull Museum site last I checked, has not been updated from last year. I tried to verify a second time with another email but no response. If you have more info please post on the web group. Wesley

Monday, January 26, 2009

Carbon Legend

I have paddled my new carbon legend for the past 2 days. Watch for the updated review in the next few days. Wesley

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Suiting Up for Winter Surfski Paddling

(Or the Return of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man)

The alarm clock rings accusingly at 6:30 AM on a balmy 28 degree Saturday, and an icy wind is already lashing the treetops across a dull gray sky, as I force open one eye and peer sideways out through the crack in the curtains. On the fourth ring I slap it silent, and consider rolling over again, pretending this never happened. Reluctantly, I swing out of bed, wincing as my heels contact the cold hardwood, and hobble courtesy of a matching set of heel spurs to the hulking pile of thermal wear laid out on the blanket chest the night before. I can hear the coffee gurgling in the final throes of brewing out in the kitchen. Even the dog stays curled up on my daughter’s bed, demonstrating far more common sense than I on this cold January morning in New England.

In a pre-caffeinated stupor, I slide into the neoprene paddling shorts, the rubberized thigh bands painfully catching and pulling the leg hair of my thighs. Wiggling both feet into scratchy wool socks, I pull on my thermal cycling tights, followed by neoprene booties. Next comes a wicking layer of polypro, then a NRS long sleeve Hydroskin, followed by a Polarfleece over that. The house is cold, but I’m not, encased in my little synthetic cocoon as I shuffle to the kitchen for a steaming cup of coffee, to grab a banana and a Mojo Bar. Gauging the amount of layers required is tricky; better to be on the warmer side and risk making one’s own gravy within the drysuit like a bag of Birds Eye vegetables, versus becoming a human popsicle via hypothermia.

I fire up my computer, checking hopefully for some cancellation on the part of the three other crazies I call ‘friends’, likely in the midst of their own morning rituals, who will soon be joining me for our usual weekend paddle out on Long Island Sound. No dice, we’re on. Checking the NOAA forecast, it looks like a fine day to be on the water-29 degrees, with southeast winds at 15-20 and an outgoing tide, flurries predicted.

Downstairs in the garage, I rifle through my bin of paddlegear, mentally checking off the stuff I need: pfd, Aquapak case for cell phone, silk liners, neoprene gloves, wool cap, neck gaiter, neoprene hood…and just to be sure, throw in a last minute assortment of clothing and other possible items that might be needed by me or lent out, should someone have a lapse in their own mental checklist and leave something important at home. Opening up the garage door to a frigid blast of air, I hump the bin into the back of my CR-V, sliding the wing paddle between the seats. The engine cranks slowly twice in disbelief, then catches quickly. Twisting the heat knob on full, I leave the car to warm up a bit as I go to fetch my boat.

By the time I hoist my Huki S1-R onto the Thule cradles and get the first strap on, my hands are already numb and ineffective. By blowing on them and tucking them under my armpits, I’m able to retain enough feeling to get both straps on and the ski cinched down. Back into the house I go for thawing and the final donning (Pause for dramatic music for emphasis…) of the drysuit.

This part is always a whole lot of fun, and deserves an audience for the theatrics involved. Stepping into the garish mango and cobalt Spaceman Spiff costume makes me feel as if I’m trying to relive some childhood Halloween of years gone by. First, the feet slip into the integrated booties, calling to mind memories of my first pair of Doctor Denton footsie pajamas. Snapping my hands through the neoprene wrist cuffs of the sleeves, the final step is to force my head through the neck cuff (flashbacks of my trip through the birth canal, long, long ago. Push! Push! ) Grunting and tugging at the rubberized zipper, I finally jerk it closed across me, struggling at the awkward angle and the last inch and a half required to seal it up. On go the neoprene water shoes over the booties of the drysuit.

Filled with air like some bizarre Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon, I resemble the Stay Puft Marshmallow man from ‘Ghostbusters.’ The family room is my stage. Performing an award winning reenactment of the ‘Hava Nagila’ from ‘Fiddler on the Roof’ the show continues with me squatting and leaping into the air whilst holding the neck cuff open to ‘burp’ the suit of all air bubbles. With a slow squat and a final ‘Hisssssssssssssssssssss!’ my suit has been purged of all trapped gases; it seems vacuum packed to my body via negative air pressure. I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror with a wool beanie cap on going out the door, looking like a cross between Bozo the clown and an Alaskan king crab fisherman from season 1 of ‘The Deadliest Catch.’

It’s forty minutes to Greenwich, and I’ve a careful eye on the ski through the moonroof, as side gusts attempt to rip it sideways on the open sections of I95. Passing motorists stare upwards at my red and mango colored ski, replete with black flames, the red warning flag fluttering like the tail of some fishing lure. I imagine I see the word ‘l-u-n-a-t-i-c’ mouthed more than once as I make my way to the boat launch. Pulling into the lot, I spy a Fenn Elite on stands outside the bay doors of the boathouse sporting 'MensHealth' and 'surfski.info' decalia. Big Jim stands by the side door warming up with slow torso rotations, his wing resting across the span of his shoulders. The corrugated bay door opens with a metallic clanking sound, and the nose of a V10Sport emerges into the light, shouldered by Steve (aka: 'Rocky IV' "He is like a piece of iron."). Dubai Tommy's unloading his TwoGood Mako Pro across the lot, the boat once paddled by none other than the venerable Greg Barton himself in the Surfski Championships in SanFran. Looking down over the fencing to the marina below reveals a thin sheen of ice along the docks, and at the very end, open water of the Mianus River. It's choppy here already, signaling a herd of 'white horses' awaiting out beyond the harbor. Another day, and the fresh beginnings of another winter paddle in the northeast…

~Mark Ceconi