Shipyard in a pandemic
Phoebe Gilday News moves strangely in a shipyard. Time moves strangely in a shipyard. I went to work on March 13th; before the Canadian border closed; before anyone was talking about social distancing; after hand sanitizer was scarce and toilet paper almost as rare. We live on the boats; we wander the locked yard at night to stretch our legs. Everyone is exhausted and sore and has a dry cough from wearing a respirator all day, yet also somehow inhaling sawdust and paint fumes. News of course came in, but it seemed surreal. Emails from head office got stranger and more panicked. Could we launch in a week? Definitely not possible. How was everyone holding up? Totally fine, thanks for asking. One night someone broke into our tool trailer looking for masks (I’d moved them). Then the Corker dropped his tools halfway
through the day and said he had to go find guns before the zombies came (we’re in Canada, that just isn’t a thing). He hasn’t come back. Two weeks later the ‘tools down’ came from the office. We got one boat to ready to launch and put her in. When the fuel truck came the driver put the clipboard down and backed away, he told me to use my own pen. I think it was then I realized what world I was stepping out into. Pushing the ship far enough from the dock against current to slip in fenders, the crew stood shoulder to shoulder, as we do.
We dropped anchor for the night and went to take a breath on the beach. There were signs saying it was closed. The ferry traffic was a fraction of its usual self. Our arrival at home port was greeted by one lone office representative. He took our lines but jumped aside anytime we got near. SisterShip 40
