Newlyweds study a new language - the looks of their beloved. It starts with the "Wow we're in love - who knew the world could be so wonderful" look and the "I can't believe someone as amazing as you exists" look and evolves to include the "Just got home from a rotten day" look and the "I don't know how to fix this thing but I'm going to keep trying till it kills me" look.
One of Mark's more foreboding looks is the Saturday Morning look. Foreboding because I never know what it will lead to - running errands? going to a movie? pulling apart the entire engine room to paint the floor?
One thing for sure - it will involve me.
Like the Saturday before we left for our honeymoon in December. The final task to prepare the boat for winter was to shrinkwrap the top. Shrinkwrapping, in essence, is wrapping the boat in thick plastic, then taking a blowtorch to the plastic to seal it down tight. It keeps the boat warm, protects it from the elements, and eliminates the need to shovel snow. It's also the annual winter feat for live-aboards, who try to outdo their work from the last year, and the work of their neighbors. Some wrap the entire boat in plastic and build a door. Others, like Mark, just wrap the top and leave the windows clear. Last December it snowed early and Mark stayed up all night to build the structure and shrinkwrap the boat. It didn't snow for the rest of the year, and he fought the thing all winter, patching holes and struggling to save it from caving into the wind.
This year, Mark had a new improved plan to build the structure. Of course, plans are always slightly ambiguous in his mind, and in less than an hour, he had me outside, holding PVC tubing while he torched the middle to curve it, all part of an elaborate crown design for the fly bridge. By mid-afternoon when our friend Dennis arrived to help, it was pretty clear there was no way PVC tubing was strong enough to suspend the heavy plastic, and we went with a simple yet effective revision: five tall saw-horses, hinged at the top, built on six-foot 2x4s, three atop the fly bridge, one at the bow, one at the stern. The design was perfect in its simplicity; neighbors came out to applaud.
But we spent so much time on the structure that we ran out of time to actually wrap the boat in plastic. We flew to Rome for our honeymoon, spent another week in the Dolomites, where they were trucking in snow for skiers. The talk everywhere was of Global Warming. We returned home on New Year's Day to a balmy 50 degrees.
To wrap or not to wrap? Mark asked my opinion; I told him I thought it was a waste of time. "Of course, it could drop below zero next week," I said. "This is Chicago."
So the next Saturday, a spring-like day in early January, Mark was out testing the blowtorch before I was even out of bed. Soon I heard him calling from the dock, "Can you come out here a second? I just need you to...."
Ten minutes later, I'm dressed and standing on the fly bridge. Mark is perched on the dock in front of the boat, a four-foot roll of plastic balanced across two deck chairs before him. Slowly, he unrolls the plastic, sending it up to me and down the back until the entire boat is draped in a thick white blanket The air around me is still, quiet, the sounds of downtown muffled; I felt like Jonah, peaceful and safe in the belly of the whale. This isn't so bad, I thought. I like helping my husband...
And then, as it often does in Chicago, the wind changed course and a frigid gust blew up the river, up under my secure blanket of plastic, and suddenly I was holding for dear life onto a parachute I could not control. It turned under like a tidal wave, while I fought to keep the plastic from diving into the river water and taking me with it. Below on deck, Mark raced around, trying to secure the plastic under the white strapping around the perimeter of the boat. But as soon as he tucked up one side, the other side blew out. Stan appeared - "I couldn't watch you guys do this for much longer," he said - and he and Mark taped the plastic to the sides of the boat while I steadied the top. Once it was secure, Mark strapped the blowtorch to a gaff and within the next few hours the entire marshmallow top was heated and sealed down tight - and not a single bit singed.
And now? We are nice and toasty inside this igloo, and good thing, too, 'cause the temperature has dropped to the single digits again. Mark cut a zip-door in back so we can reach the cooler, and the top stays tight, even when the wind blows, while elsewhere in the marina, plastic is blowing off boats like abandoned kites.
And my husband's Saturday morning looks have changed to a lighter variety - last week it was, "Let's go score some scalped tickets to the opera."
