Survival of the Fittest

Instead of going to the gym, I put on my sports bra and dusty shorts, and head over the railing of our boat and onto the floating raft. Everything I need, bondo, sandpaper, sander, paint thinnner, rags,primer, is already scattered about the raft, as I was too tired to put anything back the day before. I put in my headphones, and start my "workout". I find that it helps me to think of this work in terms of execrise, rather then what it really is; sanding, filling, sanding, primering, sanding, sanding, sanding...

Standing at the stern, I don't look to see how far I still have to go, but rather focus on the spot in front of me; the rest is just too overwhelming to consider right now. I feel small next to the beastly hull, small and somehow awed that this is now my third time touching every curve, crease, and hollow down Lucy Maru's port side.

The raft sways beneath me, and I move with its rhythym. I adjust my sanding according to the motion of the raft, it goes left I sand left, etc., as resisting it is futile and frustrating. Our neighborhood ducks have grown accustomed to me, and now sit on the raft even when I am sanding. This is cute at first, but since they left a bunch of their poo behind them, I now shooo them off. Its not cool to step in duck poop, its slippery.



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