Color me

obsessive-compulsive, but I do like things to be neat, at

least on the surface - don't peek in my closets.

I'm no better on the boat,

I'm afraid, and the facts of life on a river are such

that cleaning is a constant. My idea of heaven: windows

to wipe a couple of times a day. A floor wanting dustpan

and brush, thanks to a pretzel-addicted skipper. Dirty

footprints and mud on white gel-coat. Washing clothes in

a bucket to prevent dirty wash from accumulating until we

dock near a Laundromat.

Our recent trip on the St.

John's River in Florida was typical, although there were

a few days when I almost had enough. I had cleaned the

boat from stem to stern and was feeling very pleased with

my efforts, despite Dave's remonstrance: "Can't you

ever just relax and enjoy yourself?" (What he

doesn't understand is that I'm wired to believe work

comes before play, woman's work is never done, work 'til

the night is falling, and all that. Housework - even

onboard - is how I do enjoy myself.)

Anyhow, I had the boat

shipshape, the floor not just swept but washed, when we

worked our way just a little further up a narrow creek

than was prudent. We managed to turn around to head out

of it, but neither of us noticed the tree limb low enough

across the stream to do us damage.

Dave was at the helm, I in

the bow facing aft, and he said the look on my face told

him what happened the moment he heard the crash. The

radio mast snapped off at the base, and twigs, crumbling

leaves, and tiny seed pods from the springing branch

scattered over every square inch of my immaculate boat.

With the rear doors open, debris spread through the

cabin.

I got to do another hour's

worth of cleaning after that one, and it took Dave at

least that long to jury-rig the mast back into function,

with an empty salt shaker for a running light. That was

the evening he managed to tip a glass of zinfandel, and

didn't realize it until he felt wet.

I threw a dish towel over

that spill, resulting, of course, in an opportunity to

wash out some things later on.

(Did I tell you about my

maritime laundry technique? Dip up a bucketful of river

water and vigorously apply yellow laundry soap to

clothes. Dip up more to rinse, or run a rope through

sleeves or legs, and trail behind boat for a few moments.

Pin wash to lines under the rear canopy and it'll dry in

a jiffy when the sun's out and we're making a 5 mph wind.

I do take it down before we dock anywhere to avoid

looking like a gypsy caravan.)

But back to the Cleaning

Marathon. I believe it was the very next morning that the

skipper snatched a plastic bag off the counter to prevent

its melting on the stove. He saved it - but it was

the bag in which I kept the open Wheatena box, and he

generously sprinkled counter, rug and galley floor with

grit from the bag.

My hero wiped the counter,

but he had shoes on and didn't notice the floor. I was

barefoot and did. Everything was clean again.

Entered glassy Lake George,

when a cabin cruiser overtook us and passed close without

slowing at all. Despite the terrible rocking this type of

boat has given us in the past, I commented to Dave that

nothing had ever actually fallen. Nonetheless, we could

see a huge wake approaching and I assumed my customary

spread-eagle position over the counter, one foot

steadying my laptop on its shelf, while Dave turned into

the wave to try to cross it at 90 degrees.

A Corelle mug, a plate, and

two plastic tumblers flew out of the wall-mounted dish

rack and skittered on the floor. I caught the tea kettle

before it left the stove, my mind registering a brief

appreciation for the fact that it had cooled since

breakfast. One other item overturned and fell, spewing

its contents everywhere. (Memo to self: Either empty and

clean the coffee pot immediately after breakfast, or set

it in the sink until you do.)

Coffee grounds and muddy

water dripped from the counter, found their way into each

of the drawers under the sink en route to my gleaming

teak and holly sole. They ran down into the hatch that

covers the canned goods and food storage compartment and

dribbled into the stove.

As the boat finally settled

back into its smooth passage, Dave picked up the

microphone and radioed "Good morning" to the

cruiser captain. Well, no. Not exactly.

Coffee grounds are

amazingly mobile. I had to pull out every drawer, wash

every utensil, and use an old toothbrush to dislodge

those clever little particles from around the fiddle

rail. Even had to rinse a cotton rug in the lake, but I

was still having fun, if barely.

Good thing. Later in the

day a container of refried beans overturned. Heck, by

that time the floor was so clean, I just put the dip back

on the table.

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