The last stretch before launch was a busy one: mounting the radar dome on its new bracket, building the bimini frame, re-stepping the mast, tackling the hull blisters, and finally rolling on fresh anti-foul. It felt like a race against the calendar, but we could finally see the finish line.
Re-stepping the mast went smoothly… well, almost. As the crane lifted it into place and we guided everything home, Rich suddenly noticed the radar connector was far too big to fit down the compression post. With no time to spare, he made the split-second call to snip the connector off—fingers crossed he’d be able to reattach it later.
The Cabrales crew made quick, clean work of setting the mast. Once it was in place, they stepped back and let Rich dive into his post–mast-step frenzy—bolting on shrouds, threading turnbuckles, and making sure every stay was exactly where it needed to be. After everything was loosely attached, he spent a couple of hours tuning the rig with a Loos gauge.
For non-riggers: tuning a sailboat rig isn’t just tightening wires until they “feel right.” Each shroud and stay needs to carry a specific percentage of its breaking strength—usually somewhere between 12–20% for the lowers and 15–25% for the uppers on a cruising boat—so the mast stands straight under load, the leeward shrouds don’t go slack, and the whole system shares the forces evenly. It’s a slow process of tensioning, sighting up the mast, adjusting, rechecking, and repeating until everything lines up perfectly.
Over the next couple of days we reattached the boom and got the sails back on. Ramble On was starting to look like a proper sailboat once again.
One thing Rich and I learned this season is just how exposed our cockpit is to the sun. The new solar arch will give us some much-needed shade, but I also wanted coverage over the helm itself. More than once our navigation iPad overheated from sitting in full sun—which is not ideal when you’re trying to find your way into a harbor. So we ordered a two-bar bimini kit from Sailrite, along with the canvas, zippers, and snaps to build it ourselves.
For anyone new to cruising: a bimini is a fabric shade supported by a metal frame, usually mounted over the cockpit. Unlike a dodger, it doesn’t provide protection from waves or wind—it’s all about creating a pocket of shade so the helm, instruments, and crew don’t bake in direct sun. On a hot passage, a good bimini can make the difference between being comfortable and feeling like you’re steering inside a toaster.
We definitely made the project harder by deciding to build the bimini frame while the mast was still down. The frame needed to fit neatly between the boom and the backstay, but with neither in place we had to guess where everything would land. There was a lot of stepping back, squinting, adjusting, and hoping we hadn’t boxed ourselves in. In the end, it all fit—just barely.
Sewing the bimini canvas turned out to be the easiest part. Following the Sailrite instructions, Rich and I made a template from skrim, then I cut and stitched the panels together in a day. I wasn’t convinced the bimini would add much shade beyond what the solar arch already provided, but once we put it up, the difference was huge. The cockpit suddenly felt cooler, calmer, and far more livable—exactly what we’d hoped for.
When we first hauled the boat out in Napa, we found quite a few small blisters on the hull. We didn’t take on a full blister overhaul at the time—just opened up and repaired the worst offenders. This haulout, we were relieved to see far fewer blisters overall, though there were still a couple that needed fixing.
We also made the call to redo the boot stripe. The one we painted in Napa was a one-part enamel (Brightside), and it simply didn’t hold up to real cruising conditions—sun, salt, and constant splashback had taken their toll. Instead of repainting it again, we stripped the stripe completely and decided to run the anti-foul all the way up.
This time we used Interlux UltraKote, a hard, high-copper anti-fouling paint that’s designed for boats that move frequently. Hard paints like UltraKote don’t wear away the way ablative paints do; instead, they create a durable shell that resists growth and stands up well to scrubbing, beaching, and lots of time underway. It’s a good match for our style of cruising—regular sailing, warm water, and long stretches between haulouts. Running it higher on the hull should give us cleaner lines and fewer barnacles grabbing on where they’re not invited.
All told, we spent four and a half months in the Peñasco boatyard—long enough to tackle not just the big jobs, but some of the smaller projects that had been sitting on our “someday” list. I sewed a waxed-canvas tool roll for Rich’s wrenches, which instantly made his toolbox look far more respectable. We also cleaned and recoated all of the exterior teak with Starbrite Teak Oil and Sealer. It’s a two-in-one finish that soaks deep into the wood, bringing out the warm honey color while sealing the grain against UV and salt. It dries quickly and holds up well in the sun, which makes it perfect for busy cruising teak that never stays dry for long.
Another big task was polishing the topsides—something our boat had somehow never had done in her entire life. The gelcoat was chalky and oxidized from years of sun, so I spent a full week working my way down the hull with rubbing compound and polish. Polishing gelcoat is basically slow-motion restoration: you start by cutting through the oxidation with compound, then bring back the shine with a finer polish until the surface feels smooth and reflective again. By the end, the hull looked brighter, glossier, and a whole lot closer to the boat we knew was hiding under that layer of chalky white.
