Captain Grifter and the Marina of Misfortune: A Retrofit Tale
There I was, just your average mild-mannered, medically-challenged, circuit-breaker-ignorant Antares owner, humbly pulling into a quaint little dockyard affectionately (and apparently, insultingly) nicknamed the Marina of Misfortune.
Little did I know I was about to star in a thriller. A tale of incompetence, wire labels, and deeply personal existential judgments—most of which I didn't realize applied to me until I was told so. Repeatedly. In caps lock.
Meet “Me”: As Described By the Man Who Knows Me Better Than Myself
According to the eloquent craftsman in charge of my retrofit—whom we’ll call The Artisan of the Marina of Misfortune—I’m a:
Grifter.
Charlatan.
Obnoxious, meddling ex-executive who shows up to staff meetings like a golden retriever trying to be helpful.
A man so delusional that I think pulling wires or using a label maker might actually help instead of setting the entire install back by weeks (apparently).
A guy who drenched technicians with soap and water in a fit of boat-washing hubris before peeling out of the marina like it was Daytona and promptly grounding the boat—just as I did when I arrived (crazy me assumed the water depth for a marina docking catamarans had water deep enough for a catamaran).
The Horror I Put Them Through
I insisted on living aboard my own $1M boat during a complete electrical overhaul, ensuring the work was done right. Unheard of, I know. Apparently, this turned their timeline into a Greek tragedy.
I brought my son aboard. A human! During an install! This apparently sent shockwaves (pun intended) through the workflow and nearly collapsed the space-time continuum.
I washed my boat. While they were working. With soapy water that rained down like a maritime plague upon their sacred tools and shoes.
I tried to help. I labeled wires (slowly). I asked questions. I once stood too close to the label printer and nearly broke the entire install with my need for “meaningful involvement.”
I allegedly electrocuted a technician. (Though I recall being told to power the system for him to test the circuits he had disconnected and could not figure out how to re-connect. Apparently, I misunderstood and brought the wrath of Zeus down upon him.)
What They Did for Me, Out of Pure Charity
Stayed late. (Out of the goodness of their hearts, not because the job ran over and I was only paying them $52,000 to do the job.)
Didn't charge me for my alleged timeline-wrecking presence.
Replaced components they recommended, when they didn’t work the way, they said they would.
Bought and programmed new parts at their own expense. (Because I’m a charity case, not because they installed the wrong stuff or the parts were defective in the first place.)
Offered "training" I didn’t take because I was too busy flooding the cockpit and revving my engines in dramatic departure mode. (Nothing says “thanks” like soaking someone’s boots in Dawn.)
A Few More Crimes, As Told by the Gods of Lithium
And just in case anyone was still uncertain about how much chaos I personally rained down upon this job, let me offer a few more bullet points of shame—technical, perilous, and apparently all my doing:
I melted the shunt enclosures. Yes, melted. Why? Because the ARCO regulators weren’t configured with temperature limits, causing the alternators to run full tilt until the shunt boxes were soft and smoky—like marshmallows, but with more fire hazard. Totally my fault for not instinctively knowing about the Arco settings tucked in submenu number 37.
I caused the boat to reboot itself during windlass operation. Why? Because the Victron Battery Protect was set to “Standard” instead of “Li-ion,” and I foolishly used the winch the way one might use a winch. Shame on me for not intuiting that this would trip the system like an emotional teenager.
I dared to leave after two bonus weeks of delay—even though the job was “done.” How inconsiderate of me to want to catch my fabricator before summer hit and the arch install got buried. Pro tip for my fellow sinners: don’t do your solar arch after your power system refit. Only ignorant monsters like me make that mistake.
I panicked at every alarm on the way home. Each one a cry of “Wolf!”—except for the ones that were real issues like blown fuses, bad generator fusing, and my “oops” moment forgetting to change the input limit from 50A to 30A after switching off the genset. These may have been real problems, but still: I’m the boy who beeped.
I swapped out DC/DC chargers with surprisingly little fuss (shocking, I know). I also had to replace one of the solar charger they installed to fix the Bluetooth link without throwing it in the water. Growth.
I impressed myself (and no one else) by diagnosing the blown engine battery switch-over fuse solo. Did I mention I’m a PADI instructor? 🤪
I ordered the wrong B&G chart plotter that I was told I wanted in the place of the SSB radio. Yes, me. And then asked for help fixing the mess it caused. And when your supplier wouldn’t do a credit, I didn’t even throw a tantrum. Just quietly dropped another $4,000 to buy the plotter I needed.
A Man Defined
I’ve had a few titles in life—PADI Instructor, Retired Exec, Engineer, Husband, Widower, Sailor—but now I proudly add to the list:
Enemy of the State of the Marina of Misfortune
Breaker of Circuits
Destroyer of Schedules
Boat Washer of Doom
I came in for a lithium retrofit. I left with a literary dressing-down that rivals a Shakespearean soliloquy. Somewhere in the midst of battery banks, B&G screens, and melted alternator shunts, I became the villain in someone else’s fantasy epic about defending a marina from “grifters” like me.
Lessons Learned
Don’t help. Especially if you think you’re being helpful.
Don’t live aboard your boat during major work. Apparently, your presence has quantum effects on timelines.
Don’t wash your boat near tools in the cockpit enclosure. Or really at all.
Don’t expect accountability—expect martyrdom and deeply personal psychoanalysis instead.
Don’t talk about your career or experience. This triggers flashbacks involving heads of state.
What’s Next?
The retrofit is behind me. For a few more dollars in Annapolis, I’ve corrected more programming bugs and fixed more programing issues than I care to admit. But Ohana is now humming (not smoking or melting down), and I’ll be heading south soon.
To those following along: Yes, I’ll be posting more updates of my adventure. Yes, you can still come sailing—though I might have to issue rubber boots and a waiver now, just in case I accidentally wash you away in one of my compulsively misguided need to wash my boat.
And to the fine artisan who gave me the gift of self-awareness through a 2,000-word takedown email?
Thank you.
Truly.
I now know that I am not the man I thought I was.
I am, in fact, Captain Grifter of the Good Ship Ohana, survivor of the Marina of Misfortune.
And I sail on.
