So I’m throwing our trash in the dumpster up in the lot, when by the light of the streetlamp I catch a flash of white before our bag drops in. That can’t be what I thought it was, was it? Sure enough, it’s a dirty but near-pristine genoa, in the garbage. Somebody in the boatyard above us must have been clearing out his unwanted gear, and this sail was just too unsightly for the likes of him I guess. But not for us! This right here is the trickle-down economics of sailing in action.
I hustled back down to the boat to tell Harmony what I’d found – both to enlist her help in retrieving the treasure and to confirm that we were the kind of people who were willing to pick things out of a dumpster. It was confirmed that we are. Have I mentioned that I love my wife?
After laying the sail out on the parking lot, we discovered that aside from mildew staining, there was only a single tear about the size of my finger and a little fraying along the luff tape.
“Look at this thing! It’s probably worth hundreds of dollars!”
“Yes, but it’s too big for us. We don’t actually need it.”
“Granted, but we could sell it or trade it for one we do need, eh?”
“I suppose. How would we do that?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
Before we could go any further, this sail would need a good cleaning. As it happens, we also needed to inspect, clean, and do some minor repairs on our own sails before our trip, so we decided to load up the car for the weekend and head down to my parents’ house for a work party.
Backyards are a luxury unknown to us.
We filled buckets with dilutions of Woolite and vinegar and got out our scrub brushes for a good old fashioned swabbing. The dog was extremely excited by the hose and continually sprinted across the sails seemingly right after our brushes left an area, tracking fresh dirt.
We found that the mildew came off pretty easily, but all the other stains, including pretty much every discoloration on our own sails, were here to stay.
My Dad had a hard time believing that the stains were undefeatable. He put down his iced tea and got up from his chair on the porch where he’d been idly watching us work. He went to his shop and got his “special cleaner” (which turned out to be Simple Green) and a stiffer brush, and went to work. I have used this particular maneuver on him many times over the years. I call it “White Washing the Fence”.
My vantage point, with iced tea in hand.
After another hour of the two of us tackling the stubborn stains, we both finally gave up and figured it was a free sail anyway, so who really cares. As far as our own sails, I’d given up on the pride of beauty already. Next came repairs.
We closely examined each sail and marked all of the problem areas with a tab of blue tape. I went first and Harmony followed after me, marking problems that I hadn’t noticed or had let pass. She had marked probably twice as many problems as I had. Yes, this is a metaphor.
We busted out our heavy-duty thread and needles and began stitching the repairs, sitting in the backyard in the summer sun. I’ve hand-sewn a cockpit dodger and two sail covers over the years, so I put on the mantle of resident expert and gave Harmony instructions on proper sail sewing that I had pulled out of my ass. Harmony was a quick learner, particularly regarding the discovery that I was full of shit. She took her needle and thread to the most difficult repair on our sails and proceeded to make it good as new.
Around the edges of the sail repair work, Harmony and my Mom revisited their sewing collaboration to make a new vee-berth cushion. Our old foam was shoddy Fred Meyer stuff topped with a 3″ memory foam topper that I’d bought online a few years back. I loved it like an old recliner, but Harmony was not impressed with its bare foam appearance and profusion of little black spots that I generally avoided thinking about. So, atop my complaints, the ladies got to work on a replacement.
Harmony doing what she does best – which is detail work. I didn’t mean sewing, sexist. 
Mom doing precision work in her craft room. Fun Fact: The craft room’s previous name was “Jeff’s Room”.
I came in to check on their progress right as they were getting ready to cut the foam, which was a sheet of 2″ regular foam with 2 inches of memory foam stuck to one side. Harmony laid the triangular vee-berth pattern over the top of it and looked at me.
“What do you think?”
“Is the vee-berth really that lopsided? One side is clearly longer than the other.”
“You know, I had the same thought. It’s the pattern though so it must be right.”
“If you say so. Which side of the foam do you want to have up?”
“It doesn’t matter, it’s all the same.
I think I’ll just make it symmetrical anyway so we can flip it.”
“What? But what about the memory foam part? It’s activated by our body heat, so it has to be on top.”
“I don’t think that’s true. Who told you that?”
“The astronauts.”
“Bullshit.”
“Wanna bet?”
We laid down on the foam on the dining room floor and continued to argue in our way. Meanwhile, my Mom manned the computer and after a minute or two chimed in from over our heads.“
Memory foam was developed in 1966 under a contract by NASA‘s Ames Research Center to improve the safety of aircraft cushions. The temperature-sensitive memory foam . . .“
“NASA!” I crowed. From my vantage point on the floor I waved my hands in the air like a concert maestro as my Mom continued to read from Wikipedia, and Harmony raspberried and poked my ribs.
“I don’t know why I keep betting against you. You only want to bet when you know you’re going to win.”
“Well I’m not going to bet if I think I’m going to lose.”
“Pfft.”
After two full days at the house, we finished with the cushions and repairing the sails. It was time to load up the car and head back to the cat at our new home. He was pleasantly surprised to discover that we hadn’t locked him in the cabin and abandoned him to die, as must have been his assumption.
Normally when you go home to visit your parents, it feels like you’ve started a countdown timer. In the beginning it’s just nice to see them, but it doesn’t take long to start feeling unsettled and for your “patient pants” to wear through and start to show the grumpy pants beneath. This time though was different. It was comforting to rummage through a drawer and still have it contain what you thought would be there. It was exhilarating to take my Dad’s bike on a spin around the block with childhood winds in my face. It was fun again to spend a day in the backyard, everyone with something to do, and eat sandwiches with iced tea around the table. I guess the difference was in coming home with a purpose. It wasn’t about just being a guest.
It’s been a couple weeks now. The new sail still sits in my car, also known as “the garage”, with no time to try to sell or trade it. Hmm. Let’s hope we didn’t trade it from one refuse pile to another.
I also now check the dumpster for additional treasures regularly. Sigh. I used to be respectable.