Marsali Taylor
The prospect of antifouling in bitter weather conditions can actually put a spring in your step when fellow boat owners come together
My easiest place to antifoul is up at Brae, 6.7 miles straight northwards, and my ‘local’ sailing club. It has fellow boat owners to club together with a large area of hard standing, cradles to hire and pressurewashers to borrow.
Come mid-March, there’s a flurry of emails comparing people’s availability, crane times and, for the deeper boats like the two Contessas, the spring tide times. They also have a tractor and hydraulicarmed hoist, which saves the trauma of watching your pride and joy dangling from chain and slings.
There was a working party the Saturday before, to get out the meccano bits of cradle which, suitably assembled, can support even the heavyweights. There was calculating of who was going where, which also included the coming out order, further complicated by some of us coming out by tractor on Tuesday and others by crane on Friday, and one of the Tuesday ones (me) hoping to go back in as the others came out, leaving the cradle I’d been in free for a boat of similar length, so long as the crane could lift it over the boat waterwards of me...
The suitable tide time meant being there and ready for 0830, and by bad luck my husband, Philip, was off the island, so I couldn’t take Karima over during the day before because without him to fetch me I’d have no way of getting home. In theory I could have spent the night aboard, but the thought of sleeping on an unheated boat in Shetland in March didn’t appeal.
I left our marina at 0645, wearing full thermals and layers, including double gloves and one of those balaclavas favoured by bank robbers. The wind, naturally, was on the nose, and bitter with it. Even so, my spirits rose just being out on the water, and rose even more as I contemplated the idea that when I came back it would be time for mast up again.
I had breakfast tied up to the floating jetty, strangely quiet without a row of pink-sailed Picos and blue-waterproofed children. Gradually my fellow boatworkers arrived, including Peter, whose long-nosed pressure washer makes me feel like Lara Croft confronted with a zombie horde. Die, barnacles!
The tide crept up the slip. Boat by boat, we came forward to the concrete pier, tied up in a flurry of people leaping on and off, edged forward into the waiting arms of the tractor, and fiddled the sling under to shouts of ‘You’ve caught the propeller – back a bit – lower it – forward now.’ I’d meant to come off before Karima began moving, but somehow got stuck on, which meant I was stranded in the air until she was firmly enough on the cradle for the arms to come down, and someone to fetch me a ladder.
Once we were all ashore it was wash time. The power wash first, to get off the slime, and any paint that was even a little loose. I gave the iron keel an extra skoosh, to clean off the rusting bits – no worse than last year, but next time it will all have to go right back, and get several coats of primer. A palette knife for the more firmly stuck barnacles on the rudder. After that I got going on the white bits: a general wash, then stain remover for the waterline.
The still-bitter wind was drying her off nicely, so after I’d walked along to the Co-op for a picnic and eaten it in the warmth of the ladies’ changing room (underfloor heating), I got on with rust inhibitor on the rusty bits, and wax polish to get her topsides gleaming again. For good measure, while she didn’t need them, I gave her fenders a scrub.
The forecast reckoned Wednesday morning was painting time, if I wanted to go back in on Friday. I masked along the waterline, then kitted up in boiler suit with disposable overalls on top, mask, goggles and gloves, and set to. Being alongside the underwater acres of a 35-footer makes you very grateful your boat’s the baby of the fleet!
I rollered and brushed, with the extra dregs on the waterline, keel and rudder, and I’d just finished by the time the rain came on. My Karima looked like herself, and catching up with all my fellow sailors made me feel as if spring had really come at last. Now all I needed was my mast back for the sailing season to begin.
‘The long-nosed pressure washer makes me feel like Lara Croft confronted with a zombie horde’