How She Became Mine

Life rolled on over the years. All of life's usual distractions, challenges and commitments came and went. Sentina remained in her marina berth and I would virtually burn holes in her hull with my eyes as we passed. I'd dream of the day that Paul would decide to sell her to me, and that it would be my turn to go sailing in her. Occasionally I'd passed her in Mossman Bay, tied up at the Sydney Amateur Yacht Club pontoon, awaiting maintenance. Paul would usually be sitting in the cockpit, happily smoking. We'd give each other a wave and I'd text him to see if he needed a hand. He never took me up on the offer. Eventually, I changed shifts and found myself out near Sentina's home waters less and less. After a while of not seeing her at all, I figured Paul must've found another berth somewhere else. I hadn't heard back from him for a very long time, and began to wonder if he'd sold Sentina to another.

Fast forward many years, and I was sitting in yet another wheelhouse, this time on a Rivercat going up the Parramatta River. I was doing my usual thing of chatting whilst scanning the various moored boats, and 'BAM!', there she was again. It was Sentina, lying to a swing mooring, just before the Gladesville Bridge. At first I figured that Paul might've moved her to a cheaper mooring, but as we got closer I realised that something was amiss.

Our skipper kindly slowed as we got near her, and I could take stock of what I was seeing. I didn't like what I saw. Sentina was looking decidedly down on her luck. Her once sexy, glossy, dark blue hull was now dull and scratched. The white topsides and decks had become dirty and scuffed, while her lifelines were loose and hanging. The boom was missing and the rigging saggy, and seemingly hastily tied off where it had broken free. The bow rail had obviously sustained a heavy hit, and was a mangled mess. Large sections of the teak rail capping was also damaged and missing. I was shocked and appalled. How could this be allowed to happen to such a thoroughbred? Did Paul know? My head reeled.

I decided that something had to be done. I assumed that Paul mustn't be the owner of Sentina any more. He had always kept her in great condition. From the looks of her now, her new owner(s) didn't spend much time on her. Perhaps they'd be open to the idea passing her on. Maybe I could bring her back up to scratch again? Just how I could do that was a puzzle. We weren't exactly rolling in money, and my wife just rolled her eyes when I came home and told her my troubling news.

Undaunted, I started asking around. By coincidence, a work colleague (also afflicted with an interest in boats and sailing) had a brother who worked at the marina where Sentina was now moored. He made some enquiries, and discovered that poor old Paul had passed away. The boat had passed to his son, who was not a boat-nut like us. But he had hung onto the boat, out of respect for his Dad. I felt sorry for the guy. The loss of his Dad, plus the unexpected commitment of a boat on a Sydney mooring. Each would be a crippling burden on its own.
Using my newly acquired grapevine, I passed on my condolences to the son and said that I may be able to buy Sentina if/when he ever decided to sell her. I wasn't sure how I would be able to do that at the time, but I figured that I'd work out a way if it eventuated.

Some time later I heard back that they may be interested in selling, but it was during another financially tight period for us, and I just couldn't find a way to raise the funds needed. I was gutted. So close, yet so far. I had to reluctantly decline the sale, and strived to put the image of a decaying Sentina out of my mind. What a terrible shame.

                                                                  *****

Fast forward another year or two, and I found my life swirling around in larger than normal tidal currents. Big changes were afoot in my career. Visions of exciting opportunities elsewhere arose. Strong urges for drastic change could no longer be ignored. Tempting alternatives taunted and teased from a distance. I took the plunge. Accepting voluntary redundancy from my job, I spent about nine months in a complete re-assembly of my working life and world view. I did some significant retraining in a completely different field (earthmoving), and aggressively went in search of all these proposed opportunities that had seemed to be just waiting for me.

Unfortunately, the world seemed to have been making some changes of its own along the way as well. Despite my strong resume and glowing references, the offshore industry wasn't exactly doing cartwheels over my knocking on their hallowed and heavily fortified doors. My contact in the mining industry broke the ironic news that their sector was suddenly scaling back and even letting experienced people go, just as I was completing my retraining for that field. Even my pursuit of what I call 'chimp' work was proving to be depressingly fruitless. These were dark, scary times. So I did what any sensible person would do. I took my family on a holiday throughout Europe for a couple of months.

As soon as we were back home, with the financial noose ever tightening around my neck, my frantic job-search was interrupted by a call out of the blue. It was from the executor of Paul's will. They knew of my interest in Sentina, and wanted to know if I would be interested in taking her off their hands for a reasonable price. Of course the idea was ludicrous. How could I? My bank and creditors seemed to have the silly notion that I should pay them their money back, and the cost of living here had risen so much that people were clambering over each other daily, to extract the last vestiges of funds from my bank account at every opportunity. To take on a project like Sentina at this time would be idiotic. Financial suicide.

Ah, what the hell. Maybe just go take a look. What harm could it do?

I made the trip to Sydney one drizzly morning, finding the marina without difficulty. A guy there kindly ran me out to the boat in the tender. I felt more and more uneasy as we got closer to her. It looked like she really had fallen on hard times. The tender went alongside and I clambered aboard. The marina worker said to just call him when I wanted to be picked up, and then slowly puttered away. Alone on Sentina, I took in the scene of desolation. My heart sank. She really was in a state. I mentally ticked off each job that would need to be done, as I scanned the decks and rigging. I didn't need to tally up the costs to know that I was looking at a pretty expensive and time consuming undertaking.

Then I opened her up to look below, and my jaw really fell. The interior looked like a bomb had gone off down there. She was half full of black, rancid, stinking, oily water. Things that had fallen were floating around on the surface, along with doors that had become dislodged. Various flavours of thick mould adorned the bulkheads and work surfaces. Light fittings hung from the ceiling and junk was scattered across the bunks. I slowly sat down on the cockpit seat and just stared at the shambles.
[NB: See the link to the 'How I Found Her' album below, for photos of what I found]

"Oh crap" I thought, "I'm too late."

This changed everything. What was previously impossible, was now just plain ridiculous. There was no way I'd be able to take on a project of that magnitude at that time. I simply didn't have the resources. It was heartbreaking. To see such a capable and purpose designed machine in its death-throes, and nobody caring. What a waste.

But as I sat there staring, I felt like she was staring right back at me. It was crunch time for her. If I walked away, she'd probably be sitting on the bottom of the harbour within months. After a period of mental static, my mind started to calm down a bit. I began playing the 'What If' game. What if I did decide to try and save her? What would have to happen? I ignored the financial barriers for the time being and focussed on the priorities. Where I could keep her? How she would be transported? What would I have to do to prepare her for the trip? What would the logical order of tasks be to bring her back to sailable condition? Each item on my list seemed like a big challenge, and would be a significant hurdle to my own little personal struggle for survival.

I called the marina and the guy came out to pick me up again. As we motored back through the other moored boats, my mind was spinning. Sentina and I were a lot alike. We were both down on our luck, and the stakes were high. But we're both pretty capable and neither of us was finished up just yet. Against my better judgement, I decided to see if I could find a way to take her on.

Over the ensuing weeks I did some brain storming and made a heap of enquiries. Then an incredibly helpful individual stepped forward with the offer of a loan (if you're reading this, this you know who you are, and many thanks again mate). I spoke with Paul's son. A deal was struck and my fate was sealed.

Whilst frantically running around doing day-labouring type jobs, I put 'Operation Sentina Salvation' into effect. She was towed to a different (cheaper) marina, where the mast was pulled and her hull pressure cleaned (probably lucky that I wasn't there for that). Then she was taken to an appropriate boat ramp, where a boat transportation guy waited. He managed to pull her out and tow her up the coast to my home, where we rendezvoused with a Franner crane. I'd made careful preparations for her arrival, and I fretted that I'd covered all my bases properly. After a bit of fiddling around, Sentina was lifted off the trailer and then set in her new home on proper boat stands. The crane driver said that the boat weighed 3, 600kg (she's supposed to weigh around 2, 500kg).

Anyway, mission accomplished. Phew! Now the real fun starts.

[NB: See the link to 'Sentina's Arrival' album, for photos of the big event]