You know, life can be tough on lots of levels, but don’t you just hate it when things get complicated or stupid for just no reason? I’m not just talking about boats, but there is plenty there to highlight that sentiment as well.
I do the cooking most days, and like anyone who spends duty time in the kitchen, I have a supply of favorite sauces and pantry items to whip up something at the end of the day. If I can’t stop for some fresh fish, I can make do just fine.
My current pet peeve is the Knorr sauce product line. These products, originally from Switzerland I believe, are dry sauce mixes that combined with water or milk, and butter, to create tasty carbonara, garlic herb, pesto, and other sauces, and the similar gravy mixes are perfect when you need additional gravy to complement traditional pan drippings. Knorr products have a long shelf life and I think they are perfect for variety and ease in both kitchen and galley. Mingle a little meat or fish, some fresh or frozen veggies, and pasta du jour to make a really fine dinner that goes well with a bottle of red.
Okay, so what’s my beef? Well, some time ago, the company decided to go for a new look. You know, one of those corporate decisions that originate in some buffoon’s zeal to make his or her mark on the business turf, “fixing” something that isn’t broken.
From the moment I picked up the new packaging, I was upset. Now encased in a light green package, the product inside is the same, but the printing on the light green foiled pack is also light green, and the font size is so small it is unreadable. To make matters worse, some designer, in cahoots with the bumbling bureaucrat, chose to put style above function, and the directions are moved into the left corner, on top of graphic art (or behind, hard to tell), and the type size is even smaller. I’m not blind, but even with reading glasses on, I just can’t make the direction out.
It is mind-numbing stupidity at its finest. Make it pretty, make it sassy, and make it unreadable. Considering the age of its customer base, I know I am not the only one who finds this offensive due to it being completely unnecessary. You know what I mean?
While we’re in the kitchen, have you ever tried to use those packaging wonders that might have seemed like an inventive solution to someone locked in a building, but which are completely impossible to use in the real world? How about those flour tortillas, pick any brand, and try to open the closure without destroying it. Impossible. The plastic is too thin for the zip closure and pulls apart when you try to open the zip closure, destroying the closure.
Or how about cheese packaged in its own, reusable zip storage bag? Ever try to get the block of cheese out of the bag for the first time? The bag is just big enough for the cheese, but not large enough to maneuver it out of the bag without ripping the opening. Another worthless attempt to imply utility, and of course it costs more.
How many cardboard boxes, for cereal, pasta, cookies, or crackers, do you have open in your pantry that didn’t rip when first opened? Yes, the nice instructions on the top show how easily the two ends can mesh together for storing what’s left, but every one in my pantry has at least one tear in the top of the box, as the glue is stronger than the box top.
Okay, enough of the kitchen tirade. How about last weekend, when we anchored Growler in a snug little anchorage? It is a lovely spot that locals find perfect for weekends when you don’t want to venture far but want to feel like it.
We were snug as a bug, and settled in for a couple of days. Other boats came in, and soon the anchorage was full of boats. The day boats, most filled with squealing children on inflatable watertoys, enjoyed an afternoon on the water, then took off as the day ended, to perhaps a barbeque at home.
Our Rocna anchor was set like a pit bull, and our chain rode lay lazily down to the bottom and we felt like we were in paradise. Until…
You know those damn ugly boats, the ones no authentic boat designer would ever really pen, the ones with windows that don’t open? White fiberglass disguising the heart of Darth Vadar, the boats that blend so perfectly into the scenery you don’t even noticed them until you are deprived of your other senses, like when the evening is upon us and the anchorage becomes a quiet scene of towels on lifelines, the sparkle of anchor lights, dinghies hugging close by, the smell of grills turning steaks medium rare. And then you first notice it.
A generator. The sound that plagues our community, those older-style generators that have no relations to today’s quiet gensets. Oh, please don’t tell me the boat that is just over there, that ugly white boat with windows that don’t open, has swung around and now its genset exhaust, spitting water and gas high above the waterline, is facing me. No, please no.
For the entire night, I keep waking to the sound of this exhaust. There is no need for air conditioning, yet this vintage all-electric boat, never apparently intended to leave the dock and its shorepower, is running its genset 24/7. I swear at the gods for letting such a boat exist—and in this anchorage. Among maybe 40 boats, all quiet during the night, this solitary generator can be heard by all.
It’s just not right.