So check out the brass cabin lamp shown above--it's from the saloon of my lovely Grand Banks trawler Betty Jane. A few weeks ago I took to comparing the frowziness of this little jewel with the rest of Betty's interior and came up with a stalwart, lantern-jawed conclusion...I needed to replace the dang lamp with a brand new one so that my lighting situation might better blend with the otherwise high-endy look of my teaky and sumtuous decor. A little high-falutin' perhaps? Well yeah perhaps, but a solid seafarin' proposal all the same.

The next thing I did was check on pricing. And holy smokes folks. I mean: HOLY FREAKIN' SMOKES! These days, one brand-new brass cabin lamp costs more than Betty's yearly fuel bill and, given that the charming ol' girl has three of these lamps onboard (and you can't sport one gorgeous new lamp in your saloon and two frowzies in the forward stateroom) there was simply no way I could realistically fund a whopping, three-part, lighting-related cost overrun on the maritime budget (of approximately $1,000...whooooooeeeeeee), given the state of our nation's economy and the state of my own economy as well. I mean: my wife would get upSET! If you know what I mean.

So, like a bilge rat eyeballin' a trap, I sought a thinking-rat's escape. I decided to call the manufacturer of my brass cabin lamps and see if  I couldn't find a way to get a little rehab action going on. And the discussion I had with the Danish guy in Denmark (where else?) took me back to two spots in my very own biography that, at least the first time around, did not impress me all that much.

The first occurred during my military days when Drill Sergeant Sapp expected us raw recruits to shine our belt buckles with such enthusiasm that all vestiges of protective lacquer would be worn away to expose a virgin brass surface that needed polishing with a vengeance every damn day. The second percolated up from my stint as a Merchant Marine cadet when I was expected to "shine the brass" (a long and thankless job that included the railings of the steering stand, the giant binnacle, and a few other odds and sods) of the MV Roger Blough, an ore-carrier which still quite proudly (and without a doubt, quite brassily) sails the Great Lakes. In both cases, the memory was highlighted by a product called, descriptively enough, Brasso!

Anyway, just a few days ago, I bought myself some Brasso, which interestingly enough now seems to be sold in plastic bottles rather than metal cans. And with the Dane's advice still ringing in my ears and surprising amounts of brass-burnishing expertise returning to me like a bad dream, I went to work with an old rag and plenty of elbow grease.

If I was going to add anything to what the Dane told me (and the directions on the bottle), I guess it'd be this: Apply your Brasso to whatever you happen to be working on (be it lamp, barometer case, bell, or whatever) and let it sit for a minute or so before you begin polishing with the rag. After all, if Brasso will do part of the job, why not let it? And bear in mind that using Brasso on brass nautical paraphernalia will indeed remove the lacquer that's there to ward off corrosion. Don't pour on the Brasso and the elbow grease until you've totally given up on the lacquer. Once the lacquer's gone, however, maintaining the burnished look of the brass will go much easier and faster.  

And one last thing. Just in case you get tired of the whole deal, as you probably will if you're like me, it helps to turn soothing music on while you're polishing. And, just as importantly, quit thinking about ever finishing the task during the years alloted to you here on earth. Polishing stuff up with Brasso is not about the destination...it's about the journey.

But hey! The destination ain't bad when you eventually get there. The way I got it figured, I was able to do all three of Betty's cabin lamps in about three hours. Which is not bad considering the sorry shape they were in to begin with. And the fact that they now look spectacular!