When we had work done to September Song I could, and often would, go by the yard every day to check on progress, confer with the yard manager, and bribe everyone working on her with donuts and lunch. Seeing the daily progress, spending time with the people performing the work, suggesting alternative approaches to particularly odd problems, keeping the boat clean and tidy, all these things kept me sane while I watched our ocean home be torn apart, bad stuff extracted, good stuff installed.

But Good Omens, our trusted keeper, a new but very special member of the family is so far away. The distance is disconcerting. I did spend a week aboard her in mid January to remove and clean the portlights. This time spent at the yard, watching everyone work, and talking to them between jobs has become a vital link between family and boat, not to mention my sanity.

Mark just sent down a bundle of pictures showing all the work completed to date: All new thru hull fittings, new Side Power bow thruster and batteries, new white trunksides, rebedded portlights. But one picture wrenched me into a silent stupor: the engine compartment, empty except for a myriad of hanging hoses.

The sight of nothingness in a space so recently occupied by the boat's power plant was jarring and emotionally disquieting. Perhaps, had I been there to see it come out, carefully and gently, I would not have have experienced such a negative reaction. But all I saw was empty space.

So I'm going back to Rhode Island in a few weeks. I need to be with our sailing home, to gently pat her hull, clean the dust off her topsides and putter about doing a few small jobs here and there. If it doesn't make her feel better - she's just a boat, right? - it'll certainly calm my nerves.

I keep hearing the last part of the saying "take care of your boat and your boat will take care of you". I must take some care with me to Rhode Island and leave it with Good Omens if she is to live up to her name.