The oak has to be returned. Exchanged. Brought back.
Alone on the 7.50 ferry; it's not at all sunny, the wind is simply cold and unfriendly; I read yesterday's Driftwood in the cab. The windows stream inside with condensation; it's chill, damp and smells like a dog kennel – which is odd, because no dog has been here since Churchill died.
At Westwind I am slightly exonerated, since the rack I took the nice (red) oak planks from is labelled "White Oak". Lars tells me that this is a mistake - a new and ignorant young man didn't know the difference. I feel like an old and ignorant man, since I didn't either, apparently. I am kindly guided to an adjacent stack of white oak. I feel like an OAP being helped across the road, and am lent a tape measure. Lars kindly refrains from explaining how to use it.
However, there is bright spot. I see a piece of nicely gribbelled and rust-stained wood leaning against the wall. I buy it for $20.00, and take it home. (On the ferry, I take my penknife and cut out the sodden carpet on the driver's side. The sheet metal separating me from the wheel well has rusted through. No wonder there is a permanent small puddle on the floor, and that the truck windows stream with water, and there is a smell of old wet dog. This is a very satisfying moment.)
I have a use in mind for this, not unconnected with bicycle parts.........
So the journey is not in vain.