When D. and I arrived in Denmark to live on our friend’s boat, we found she’d had an unpleasant facelift. It looked like Freddy Krueger had caressed both sides of her hull with his long, razorbladed fingernails. We were taken aback; the last time we saw this gorgeous creature in the Azores her body had been in perfect condition.
Our friend relayed some vague story about an encounter with a fishing trawler in a lock but the details didn’t really add up. He seemed less than eager to talk about the debacle and our incredulous questions eventually tapered off. Luckily, insurance will cover the massive paint job that has to take place now.
Nice weather or not, people walk up and down the docks looking at all the yachts. They check out the rigging, peek in the windows, and stand with their hands behind their backs inspecting every inch. I think of the marina as a boat museum, and living here is like living in the Met. Someone is always observing/analyzing/assessing. The people looking at our friend’s boat have gotten predictable. Their eyes usually wander from top to bottom, then do a double-take when they reach the hull -- then a flurry of agitated Danish ensues. Even though I don’t understand, it’s easy to tell by their body language that they’re saying, “How the hell did they do that? Amateurs!”
I wish I could tell them that my expert-sailor boy is most certainly is not responsible for this mess.
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