By SALLIE SATTERTHWAITE
sallies@juno.com

Color me obsessive-compulsive, but I do like things to be neat, at least on the surface — don't peek in my closets.

I'm no better on the boat, I'm afraid, and the facts of life on a river are such that cleaning is a constant. My idea of heaven: windows to wipe a couple of times a day. A floor wanting dustpan and brush, thanks to a pretzel-addicted skipper. Dirty footprints and mud on white gel-coat. Washing clothes in a bucket to prevent dirty wash from accumulating until we dock near a Laundromat.

Our recent trip on the St. John's River in Florida was typical, although there were a few days when I almost had enough. I had cleaned the boat from stem to stern and was feeling very pleased with my efforts, despite Dave's remonstrance: “Can't you ever just relax and enjoy yourself?” (What he doesn't understand is that I'm wired to believe work comes before play, woman's work is never done, work 'til the night is falling, and all that. Housework — even onboard — is how I do enjoy myself.)

Anyhow, I had the boat shipshape, the floor not just swept but washed, when we worked our way just a little further up a narrow creek than was prudent. We managed to turn around to head out of it, but neither of us noticed the tree limb low enough across the stream to do us damage.

Dave was at the helm, I in the bow facing aft, and he said the look on my face told him what happened the moment he heard the crash. The radio mast snapped off at the base, and twigs, crumbling leaves, and tiny seed pods from the springing branch scattered over every square inch of my immaculate boat. With the rear doors open, debris spread through the cabin.

I got to do another hour's worth of cleaning after that one, and it took Dave at least that long to jury-rig the mast back into function, with an empty salt shaker for a running light. That was the evening he managed to tip a glass of zinfandel, and didn't realize it until he felt wet.

I threw a dish towel over that spill, resulting, of course, in an opportunity to wash out some things later on.

(Did I tell you about my maritime laundry technique? Dip up a bucketful of river water and vigorously apply yellow laundry soap to clothes. Dip up more to rinse, or run a rope through sleeves or legs, and trail behind boat for a few moments. Pin wash to lines under the rear canopy and it'll dry in a jiffy when the sun's out and we're making a 5 mph wind. I do take it down before we dock anywhere to avoid looking like a gypsy caravan.)

But back to the Cleaning Marathon. I believe it was the very next morning that the skipper snatched a plastic bag off the counter to prevent its melting on the stove. He saved it — but it was the bag in which I kept the open Wheatena box, and he generously sprinkled counter, rug and galley floor with grit from the bag.

My hero wiped the counter, but he had shoes on and didn't notice the floor. I was barefoot and did. Everything was clean again.

Entered glassy Lake George, when a cabin cruiser overtook us and passed close without slowing at all. Despite the terrible rocking this type of boat has given us in the past, I commented to Dave that nothing had ever actually fallen. Nonetheless, we could see a huge wake approaching and I assumed my customary spread-eagle position over the counter, one foot steadying my laptop on its shelf, while Dave turned into the wave to try to cross it at 90 degrees.

A Corelle mug, a plate, and two plastic tumblers flew out of the wall-mounted dish rack and skittered on the floor. I caught the tea kettle before it left the stove, my mind registering a brief appreciation for the fact that it had cooled since breakfast. One other item overturned and fell, spewing its contents everywhere. (Memo to self: Either empty and clean the coffee pot immediately after breakfast, or set it in the sink until you do.)

Coffee grounds and muddy water dripped from the counter, found their way into each of the drawers under the sink en route to my gleaming teak and holly sole. They ran down into the hatch that covers the canned goods and food storage compartment and dribbled into the stove.

As the boat finally settled back into its smooth passage, Dave picked up the microphone and radioed “Good morning” to the cruiser captain. Well, no. Not exactly.

Coffee grounds are amazingly mobile. I had to pull out every drawer, wash every utensil, and use an old toothbrush to dislodge those clever little particles from around the fiddle rail. Even had to rinse a cotton rug in the lake, but I was still having fun, if barely.

Good thing. Later in the day a container of refried beans overturned. Heck, by that time the floor was so clean, I just put the dip back on the table.

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