In my almost twenty cumulative years of boat-ownership, I have done a lot of scraping. I scraped old peeling varnish off Skybird’s teak trim and took miles of ancient adhesive off Harmony’s decks where the hurricane had torn off her teak trim. I spent long hours underwater scraping weeds and barnacles off Harmony’s hull and days digging rotten wood out of her cockpit sole (floor). When I met her, Dyola had fifty-six years of anti-fouling bottom paint on her hull, which was peeling off in places and needed to come all the way off. Enter the scraper.

There are many varieties of scrapers for this purpose, but my favorite is made in Sweden by a company named Bahco. I love this thing. I love the orange stripe on its ergonomic handle and the way the screw to change the blade fits a different sort of scraper, which I am more likely to have on hand than a screwdriver. I love the sleek little plastic cover it slides into and even the built-in belt clip, which I never use since I don’t wear belts. Just nice to know it’s there. A thoughtful touch.

The scraping most often involves the part of the boat below the waterline, which is done both in the water to remove sea growth and outside the water in a boatyard to remove the antifouling paint, which tends to build up on the hull as various owners grow weary of scraping and pile on coat after coat of paint. The antifouling paint is incredibly toxic, which enables it to control the growth of critters and plants that want to set up housekeeping on your hull and slow down your speed. The barnacle is a common enemy and leaves a tidy round “foot” on the hull when the top cone comes off.

I was fighting these little feet, which range from barely visible to a half-inch across, on the hull of Harmony in Trinidad. The black antifouling paint, which I had gotten for cheap in Curaçao when another boater ordered too much, clearly wasn’t doing the job. Most likely my fault for not mixing it well enough. I was tediously scraping away at each barnacle foot, while a gathering of dangerously skinny black Trinidadians watched from their perches on upturned milk crates in the shade of the hull of the boat next door. We called it “The Hood” and were on a first name basis with some of the men. They always greeted us with a slow, uplifted hand and we brought them cookies and cold drinks to thank them for keeping an eye on Harmony.

Unlike this New Yorker, the Trinidadians do not move quickly. It’s way too hot for that. I have to check my speed regularly or risk heatstroke. One of the guys from The Hood ambled over as I worked much too closely on each calcified barnacle foot, taking care not to scratch the underlying paint since we planned to apply a new layer on top of the old. It was easy to remember this particular man’s name since it was Gary, same as my Gary. But this Gary had an identical twin brother named Barry. My Gary quickly figured out that Twin Gary had more teeth than Barry, so I knew the man who smiled as he shuffled toward me on tattered flip-flops was Gary.

“Looking good,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said, sopping sweat off my forehead with the sleeve of my damp t-shirt. “Man, it’s hot,” I added unnecessarily.

I thought he might simply be passing on his way to the toilet or to the little convenience store, where we were also on a first-name basis with the ladies behind the counter and went daily for cold drinks and an occasional popsicle (My Gary calls them ice lollies), but this time Gary lingered near my shoulder. I could see he wanted something and it made me uneasy.

After a short pause in which I caught my breath (scraping is surprisingly hard work) and wished for any hint of a breeze, Gary said, “You wetit down be easier.” He gestured widely with one long thin arm.

As usual, I didn’t understand him at first. Trinidad is an English-speaking country but I find the island dialect very difficult to understand. I must have looked confused, because he tottered over and picked up the middle of a hose lying nearby and gestured again. “You put water, it come betta.” He said.

I had scraped a lot of barnacle feet by this time and cleared maybe a square foot and I was hot and irritable. What does he know? I thought. It’s coming off just fine. I was glad when he walked away with a casual wave and for a minute I went back to scraping at the stubborn feet, which were not, in fact, coming off easily at all.

All right, I thought grumpily. I’ll try it. But I wasn’t going to use the hose as he suggested. I picked up a small bucket, filled it and chucked it at the hull with more force than necessary. Stupid hull. Stupid suicidal barnacles. I felt like an absolute idiot to discover that Twin Gary had been correct. They came off with one gentle swipe. In no time, I had the whole lot off. Abashed, the next time I saw Gary, I gave him a heartfelt thanks.

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