July 22, 2011.

Evidently Satan left the door open because it’s hot as hell here. I know that everything is relative. It’s not like we’re in full battle dress doing a thankless job in some shithole in the Middle East.

But God damn, it’s hot but at least theres no breeze.

We have air conditioning, but use it sparingly. We’ve only run it lately when we get home in the evening and shut it down just as we turn in for the night. This evening when we fired it up the room temperature was 100°.

I didn't even know the thermostat went out 3 numerals.

Boats generally aren’t the most efficient of air conditioned dwellings. Our AC unit will knock the humidity out of the air pretty quickly but the temperature drops oh so slowly. But once the humidity’s gone, it does start to feel pretty good pretty quickly. Tucker even enjoys the rare evening below in more temperate surroundings.

Christy is at that juncture of a woman’s life when she could burst into flames at any moment. Working outside, with a heat gun in her hand, combined with the weather this week has been challenging at best. I pretty much bob and weave and try to stay out of the way.

Christy and her boss Maggie have their backs to the wall. They have a 1957, 60 foot wooden Chris Craft that has to be refinished by the first week in August.

Unfortunately, last week Maggie fell on a section of decrepit dock and broke 2 ribs. That left Christy in the sun with her heat gun and scraper by herself for Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. She worked long days and made good progress but Maggie had to get back to it, in order to have a chance at making the deadline. Whoever says women aren’t tough hasn’t met these two.

Things at my job are still going nicely. I drag my tools around the boatyard on a small wagon like the Radio Flyers of old. It probably weighs better than 200 pounds with my tools, goos, screws and miscellaneous crap onboard.

I had to do some work at a small marina about 3 blocks away. All the company trucks were out on the road so I walked the 3 blocks pulling my little wagon behind me.

(not my actual cart, just an appropriate visual aid)

All my shit is pretty much balanced on the wagon so I have to walk on the street rather than use the bumpy sidewalks. Kinda like Dennis the Menace runs away to fix boat crap. It’s a little bizarre as I stand in the driveway punching in the security code to gain entrance at the giant rolling gate while the guy behind me in cue is sitting there in his Benz drumming his fingers on the wheel. That’s right buddy, I see your impatience. You better hope that it’s not your boat I come for. Then I’ll really show you some slow.

Oooh, its getting cooler in here, where’s my socks.