c.e.grundler’s weblog

This is where we hope Karma comes into play, as some helm parts Annabel Lee is presently in need of, we could have pilfered off Laura Lee. Annabel’s lower helm pump is losing pressure, and it might be some simple seals, or it could be more, and being that old Wagner 700 is a sealed unit, not designed for rebuild, it would be easier just to swap out for another we know would fit. But being that Laura Lee will at last be needing hers, that isn’t an option. And anyways, a friend thinks he might have an old 701, which is rebuildable, in his shop. I should have word today.

Josh, Laura Lee’s new owner, says he pulled the starter and alternator to clean them up and replace the starter solenoid. He flushed the engine with Marvel Mystery oil and cranked it over by hand… another great sign! He installed a battery and all the electrical systems checked out perfect. In short, all the steps we’d planned to take, but the yard owners, certain she’d never run, stopped us from doing. See? We told you so! I can’t wait to see their faces when Laura Lee motors out of there, and I give Wally the sweetest smile and say “F— you, you old bastard.”

The word is that the old boatyard which shall not be named, where Laura Lee, Annabel Lee’s sister-ship, has been languishing all these years, has agreed to sell her so long as the buyer has her out by June 15th. The buyer assured the yard he would, either under her own power or towed out by a 50′ commercial fishing boat he has. There have been other offers on her, but he was the first to promise he’d make her disapear. Those were the magic words.

I’m pleased I’ve had a hand in saving the boat, even if indirectly, and I’m looking forward to seeing her floating. I’ll get pictures of her and Annabel Lee side by side before she heads north. This will be the closest these two have been since they left the Hong Kong Shipyard together thirty-one years ago.

They run off the screen, but I’m too wiped to play games resizing for now. For the big picture, go HERE and scroll down.

As promised, here’s a little story of the Lees. Myra Lee, Laura Lee, and Annabel Lee.

In the beginning, there was Myra Lee. A lovely little Marshall catboat, delightful to sail. She’d been renamed, awfully, I might add, but I learned Myra Lee was her original name, and I returned her to her rightful title. I had many years of pleasant sailing, but I must admit I was growing tired of crouching headroom and the outboard on the stern. I began considering a Flicka, which wasn’t much larger, but more ocean-capable, with a modest cabin and inboard engine. Yet…

…I’d been working in a nearby boatyard, and languishing in a far corner was this lonely little trawler, Laura Lee. Not really that little actually. 32 feet, but built like a tank. Bigger than I wanted, and lacking a sail of any sort. The owner, having driven her hard onto some rocks, found himself on the rocks financially as well, and stopped paying the yard for storage.

Years passed.

A friend at the yard constantly kidded me. He’d say “there’s the boat for you. I see you with that boat someday.”
“Yeah, right,” I’d laugh. But the thought stuck. And when the yard leined her, I began to think about it. Consider it. Click the link, you’ll see, she’d be one hell of a project. The potential was there, though. Everywhere she wasn’t built of absurdly thick, uncored fiberglass, she was solid teak. Only some interior trim was teak veneer. And the engine… a 80 horse 4 cylinder Ford Lehman diesel. With that big, slow turning prop and a full displacement hull, she wouldn’t go anywhere all that fast, and she’d barely sip fuel in the process. In short, they don’t build boats like this anymore. They didn’t build all that many to begin with. Best I could determine, there were maybe a dozen or so of these little Hong Kong built Cheoy Lee Shipyards trawlers world-wide. We started looking a little closer. There was lots of work, but it was do-able. Being that I worked at the yard, boat storage was free, one of my benefits. I got parts at cost. I had access to the tool shop, the wood shop, lifts, everything. The yard owners said if, come spring, I paid storage owed, I could take title. They shook my hand. I sold Myra Lee to a fellow who’d for years been begging me to sell her to him. I started gathering my tools, getting ready.

Then the owners decided they wanted to spiff up the yard, change the image from a working yard to a more ‘yacht-club’ style facility. They began denying storage and docks even to paying customers with less than ‘desirable’ boats, telling them to leave. They told employees we no longer had free boat storage as a benefit. And they told me they would NOT be selling me Laura Lee. In fact, they told me they intended to cut her up and crush her.

I tried to negotiate. Pleasantly at first. I tried to go around them and contact the long-gone, out of the country former owner, seeing if I work some arrangement with him. No go there. I tried every reasonable thing I could think of, none worked. Needless to say, I no longer work there. There was no reason to anymore. I’d sold one boat, didn’t have the other, the owners were lying pricks driving away all the customers I liked and schmoozing the yuppie scum I loathe. There was no reason to stay.

There was another of the same trawler for sale, hours up the coast in north Mass, but too expensive for our budget. We looked at other boats, but none compared, and none were what we wanted. The year passed. Laura Lee still sat there, and as winter approached, the price on the Massachusetts one crept down. One day we went for a ride, took a look, and made a low offer. The seller accepted. We shook hands. By time surveys were complete and contracts signed, it was November. We spent three days moving her down the coast to Cape Cod, near my parents, to wait out the winter.

Spring came, the cover came off, and we’ve begun getting her back in order. I’ve said I prefer not to rename boats, but this one had been through two other names, neither very good. A boat should never have a name that’s unpronounceable or confusing. Names should be clean and elegant. You don’t want to offend the water gods. So the old name came off. I would have carried on ‘Myra Lee’, but the original Myra Lee still bears that name. The consensus, for many reasons, was that Annabel Lee suited this boat perfectly.

Now the funny part(s). One; the old yard must have realized how expensive it will be, both in labor and disposal fees, to get rid of 20,000 pounds of boat. I was told I could buy her if I was interested, and I’ll admit it felt good and bad at the same time to tell them “No, I already have one.” And two; our dear Annabel Lee seems to be quite admired, with many people stopping to comment. A few have asked if we’d consider selling her. Amazing what some proper maintenance can do, considering her last owner struggled to sell her. One fellow asked if we knew of any others like her, as he’d never seen a Cheoy Lee trawler. I laughed, and told him about Laura Lee. He wanted more information. Then my phone rings, and there’s another fellow, heard there’s an abandoned Cheoy Lee trawler, he wants information too. I set up the pictures online, sent them both links. I suspect the phone at the old boatyard’s been ringing today. Maybe Laura Lee will float again, rather than wind up landfill.

Too many hours on the road. Too many hours in the bilge. In the engine room. Too many things to list. Too tired to even list them. I’ll just let the big picture speak for itself.

She looks quite respectable, and by Saturday, she’ll be floating. Amusingly, over the last few days, I’ve had several people approach asking if I’d consider selling her.

No.

Asking if I knew of any others like her.

Now, that’s funny.

Best I can guess, there’s about a dozen of these little Hong Kong built Cheoy Lee Trawlers in existence, scattered around the world. Including the very neglected, abandoned Laura Lee, about 15 minutes from my house. But that’s another story, and another post. Yes, coming tomorrow, the sad, tragic story of Laura Lee, a story which may at last have a happy ending. Tonight I need some sleep. Much sleep.

I guess this is what comes with a 31 year old boat that’s been through several owners and declining care. Fortunately the mechanical issues were handled, oil changes and such, were attended to, and that is what counts the most. But when it came to other random maintenance, I suppose the intentions were good, but the repairs, in some cases, did more damage than good. Boats, by nature, develop leaks as they age and bedding loses its bond. Hatches, ports, fittings, you name it. Water finds its way into places it isn’t meant to be, and left unchecked, does damage.  I suppose you can say he tried, but apparently, the previous owner’s solution was to apply liberal amounts of silicone to the areas in question. As I said, it seems well intentioned. But often, silicone is NOT the ideal sealant, as it has a tendency not to stay sealed, yet is near impossible to remove.  One such example, the running lights, while minor, is aggravating all the same. These massive, heavy, intricately constructed masterpieces are presently buried beneath a rubbery, opaque film of gop that has sealed them together, yet did not keep the intended water out. Internal electrical in the starboard light was replaced with non-marine grade components, which corroded to a lump of rust. Yesterday, I spent three hours with an assortment of razor blades and picks, removing this silicone snot, yet more silicone long ago oozed into inaccessible areas, and the light is still sealed quite securely together.

Yaaaay!

I finally found them, but it took all weekend, and required a whole lot of scrubbing, scraping, and tossing of many hefty bags. This is what you get for buying a 31 year old boat.  We knew the previous owners had let maintenance slide over recent years, and in the light of a bright sunny day, it was becoming apparent just how much. There was a point we began to question our sanity, but forged ahead all the same. Gradually she began to resemble the boat we imagined her as.

Then there’s the ladders. The boat is backed to a retaining wall beside a launch ramp. We park on the side of the ramp. I put a ladder there so I don’t have to walk the long way around. That’s about 4 feet. A 10 foot ladder beside the boat almost reaches to the side deck. Climb aboard, down into the cockpit and it’s another 8 feet up to the bridge, where I was doing much of my work. Add, then multiply by every time I got to the top, then realized a tool I needed was down in the car. On the bright side, my arms and legs will look great by time we launch.

And yes, I am having fun! (Which again, says something about my sanity.)

Too often.

I’m going about nothing much, and I glance out the window for a moment. Some movement caught my eye. The neighbor’s cat is flipping something small and live in the air. So I run out, chasing the cat off, and find the resulting damage. It’s a baby hare, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, so perfect and beautiful if not for the clearly broken back and large chunk of exposed thigh muscle. There’s nothing I can do, and I know it, but I can’t leave it there, with the cat lying in the bushes, just waiting. This isn’t the food chain here, Fluffy has a bowl of Friskies waiting at home, and I have a dying bunny nestled in my hand.

Why is it I always seem to find these things, enough that I know by the way it’s breathing it only has a minute, maybe two. So I hold it, and the breaths become slower, more strained, the racing heart beats unevenly. The cat waits. A last gasp, then limpness. My neighbor pulls in as I stand with a handful of dead baby bunny.

“Cat got another one, eh?” He laughs. “Least those things breed like, well, you know. And cats, well, you know how they are.”

Yeah, I do. Almost every night my kids stalk and kill that elusive little red dot from the laser pointer. Ruthlessly, relentlessly. They wake me as they play hockey with a hair tie, or some string, or just chase each other up and down the halls. They’re fond of stalking cornstarch packing noodles and knocking change off the counter. High score if it ends up in the dog water bowl. Yesterday they unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper. I know how cats are.

I walked away and buried the hare in my flowerbed. At least it got a decent burial.

30 days and counting. One month, possibly less, and Annabel Lee will be off the hard. The yard is looking to get everything that floats floating ASAP, so as soon as we give the word, in she goes. But first, she needs bottom paint, new zincs, and there’s issues with the steering and shifting that need attention.