Well it’s official. I’m boatless. I’ve ceased to float. I’m bereft of craft. I am an ex-sailor.
On some level I’m relieved. I mean, I decided to sell the boat exactly 28 days ago…and I signed it away at 11 this morning. Overall it’s been a lightning-quick, utterly painless process, and one that I really shouldn’t complain about. It could have been much, much worse.
I do wish I hadn’t met the guy who bought it, though. He sat across from me this morning as I signed my half of the paperwork. A bedraggled, morbidly obese man in a torn t-shirt, blood stains on his ball cap, and reeking of stale cigarette smoke. Oh, and he kept requesting that we move things along because “my cats are still locked up in the car and I’d like to move them onto the boat as soon as possible.”
So a 350 lb. man is going to live aboard
my a 30′ sailboat, smoke down below (you’re not allowed to smoke on the docks), and keep multiple cats on board? I really don’t want to think about what she’s going to look like a month from now…
Yes, I know his money is just as good as anyone else’s. And yes, I’m happy that I no longer have to worry about selling the boat…
But still. I just wish I was leaving her with someone who was going to actually take care of her. Someone who recognizes that she’s in fantastic shape for a girl her age (37), and who’s willing to work to keep her that way.
Maybe I’m crazy (and being a bit of a snotty yachty), but I do feel guilty for abandoning her with someone like that.
But enough of that; none of this is why you’re here. You’re here for the promised update on yesterday’s mega-hyper-ultrasound, aren’t you? Fine.
Everything went perfectly. So much so that, apparently, we won’t require another one. So the next time I see her we’ll be face to face for the very first time.
See that? That’s the reason I’m doing what I’m doing.
Talk to you Monday.