Once we got in the water, the immensity of tasks became apparent when the work crew was reduced to three people.
Living on a boat, unless it is a super yacht or cruise ship, is always a compromise. The spaces for living are cramp by Tokyo standards. We have been living on the Titi Nui for three days now and even though we have had a toilet, we didn't have a shower until yesterday. Moving around on the boat, which has all our gear on it already, would be tight enough. We have to constantly shuffle things on and off the trampoline, in and out of quarters, hatches, etc. as the work areas shift around, wiring gets pulled, and plumbing installed.
We get rained on, and work in the brutal noonday sun. Our clothes stay wet from the constant sloshing of water of multiple dingy rides to shore for food and errands. In short, it is not comfortable. Last night I slept the best yet because a fan in the forward cabin was finally wired, giving me a respite from the heat. The whole boat finally cools off somewhat in the wee hours of the morning.
The situation reminds me of my childhood growing up in Florida, where air conditioning was a new thing. Our home was built by my father, ever expanding with new rooms built off of a very simple cottage. We didn't get AC until I was a teen. We still slept with fans because my mom thought the new fangled device would catch on fire in the middle of the night if left on. Hell, it didn't really cool the bedrooms anyway because it was one big unit that ccoled the whole house. The Dining Room, where the 10 ton window unit was mounted, would be an ice palace if you wanted to feel the effect in the bedrooms.
Taking a shower was ofter futile back then, because you would be sweating within minutes of drying off. It is like that here on the boat.
Am I complaining? No. This has been an adventure. I walk in beauty. There is magic waking up and watching the sun come up on a clear horizon, and the constant symphony of waves lapping on the boats hull, and the hum of the wind playing the stays of the boat like 90 foot long guitar strings. The far off sounds of dogs barking and roosters crowing onshore provides stuccatto for the grand overture. And if we are not working late, we can observe the whole thing again with an encore provided at the end of the day.
The mountain or hill, really, that is off our starboard side is named Fortune Mountain. That is a nomenclature that seems to fit. Each morning the goats climb to the top, and several of them stand on the promentary, and just look out to sea. They are not eating. They stand motionless for long periods soaking up the view. I think it is play to them. There is nothing on the last 100 feet or so but solid rock. Why do they like looking out to sea?
