Proxie's Polyestermites

Summer was gone but the sun burned brightly as the pace around the marina slowed. The morning-coffee gatherings of the boatyard gang tended to stretch out toward noon even though rain or snow were not yet on the agenda.

On a Wednesday in mid September as the high-pressure system lingered over the bay, many boats appeared on the water and moved with the light breeze. They provided a booster shot in the lull between seasons. Everyone wandered out into the sunshine for look-see in the mid-afternoon. A graceful, cutter-rigged sloop came smoothly over from across the bay. She was a pretty sight even with her loose mainsail; she was alive and in keeping with the sparkling day with its whisper of autumn.

After one false start the skipper tacked, eased the sheets, and brought Proxie gently alongside the empty, outer dock of the boatyard. Uncle Ken, a regular, was parked in a faded, plastic-strap yard chair on the dock. He raised himself with his arms and ambled over to take a line from the skipper, a tall man with a shiny head and a giant mustache.

"I'll handle it myself," instructed the skipper sharply as he made ready to drop onto the dock from mid-ship. But he caught the toe of his back foot on the top lifeline as he high-stepped to clear it. With a thud his body made its acquaintance with the timbers, shoulder first; he dropped his white dock line in the process. Proxie, still moving, separated from the dock. With an effort, Uncle Ken bent over and grabbed the dropped line before it slithered into the clear water.

By this time other observers had arrived in force. Quietly, order was restored as Proxie was secured fore and aft. It was obvious to those gathered that the skipper had some of his parts wounded, in addition to his ego. Without a word to anyone, despite several offers of help, the tall man re-boarded his boat, limping, and he disappeared below. Eyebrows raised, shoulders upped, the group dispersed. Uncle Ken returned to his chair in the sunshine.

The Next Morning

Around nine the tall man came ashore and meandered through the boatyard toward the office where he could pay his bill for the night of moorage. He deliberately picked his way through a few sloops on braces, handsome powerboats on blocks, one derelict on 55-gallon barrels, and several boats on trailers ready to go somewhere for the winter. Two guys were busy with power sanders on the hull of one sailboat that was about Proxie's size. They were grinding away the fiberglass surface from stem to stern.

Tall man stopped to watch. Algae, old bottom paint, and white dust flew in all directions. As he edged closer, he could see the bottom looked like a teenager with acne. There was a random pattern of small craters and blisters. The sloop had a bad case.

Boat Acne

He ducked beneath the boat. Poking the ends of his index and middle fingers into two of the holes, he yelled, "What are these holes?" at one of the goggled guys holding a sander. The guy shook his head. "Can't hear you," he shouted over the sound of the sanders. "Ask Bill about it," and he gestured with his shoulder and elbow toward the nearby office.

"Those are blisters," Bill replied matter-of-factly after tall man stumbled across the threshold and through the open door. Bill had overheard the shouted question.

"What causes blisters?" tall man asked, with a frown on his face.

"Many fiberglass boats get them," Bill continued. Proxie's skipper squirmed a bit.

"Well, I'm sure I don't have to worry about blisters," tall man said unconvincingly. "Do they appear suddenly?" he rushed on.

Bill paused, looking down at the cluttered desk in front of him. He was undecided on what tack to take. "No, they take time to develop. You're probably okay. Just keep an eye on your hull."

"I just purchased Proxie this week. The boat broker told me it was in perfect condition, except for a few scratches here and there." The skipper shifted his weight from one foot to another as he unconsciously rubbed his shoulder.

"Did you get the boat surveyed before you bought it?" inquired Bill, innocently.

Tall man didn't answer. He didn't need to. "What causes the holes?" he pressed on with some trepidation.

"The blisters are caused by polyestermites," Bill drawled in an even tone. It had been a long summer. "You see," he continued, "polyestermites are little bugs that crawl up dock lines onto plastic boats, particularly those sitting endlessly in marinas. The mites seem to like party boats best; pieces of wine cork and cracker crumbs are their favorite foods. The mites sneak aboard, eat what they can find, and then they burrow into the hull from inside as they try to work their way back to the seawater. A few make it all the way through the hull and that causes chunks of fiberglass to pop out. Other mites get trapped in the fibers, die, and bloat, and that causes the blisters," Bill deadpanned.

Tall man looked grim. "How does one prevent them?"

"Well, you see," Bill twinkled and tightened his upper lip slightly, "you can do one of two things." He was warming to the task before him. "You can play a lot of classical music in the boat when it is in your slip, especially at night. The mites don't like classics for some reason, and it tends to keep them out of the boat.

“Or..." and Bill paused, "you can use black, braided dock lines. The mites lose their sense of direction in the dark braid, die of hunger, and fall into the water before they can get aboard. Smart skippers I know do both. They shift to black lines AND play Bach tunes when they aren't aboard."

Tall man looked suspicious, but he nodded, paid for his overnight stay, and returned to Proxie. There he dived into a catalog containing a wide selection of colored dock lines.

Copyright © by Steven C. Brandt 2012