The Case of the Crumbling Coping
Hear this story read aloud.
It was a hot one. The kind of day where the sun bakes the pavement until it smells like burnt rubber and desperation. I was parked out front of the Greasy Spoon, my fedora tilted low, sweat dripping down the back of my neck like a leaky faucet. My old woody wagon sat across the street, radiating more heat than a steel mill in August.
Flo was refilling my chipped coffee cup for the third time, and the Admiral was in his usual booth rambling about naval battles no one remembered. I was about to dig into a slab of bacon that had all the charm of shoe leather when my phone rang. The kind of ring that tells you this breakfast is going cold.
“Stone Detective,” I muttered.
The voice on the other end was dry and tight, like a contractor who’s already seen the invoice. “Got a pool deck that’s fallin’ apart. Stone coping’s comin’ loose all around the edge. Big mess. Fancy house. Real fancy. You interested?”
Interested? That’s like asking if stone stains.
Next thing I know, I’m rattling down a palm-lined street where the lawns are manicured, and the air smells like money and chlorine. The client—sweaty, red-faced, and twice as nervous—ushered me around back like we were heading to a crime scene. And in a way, we were.
The pool was a beauty, no doubt. Infinity edge. Fancy water features. But the stone coping was coming apart like a cheap toupee in a wind tunnel. Pieces shifting. Edges cracking. Some stones had already popped clean off like bad dental work.
I dropped to my knees and ran a gloved finger under one of the loose pieces. What I saw made me sigh the way I do when I find yet another marble countertop ruined by vinegar. There it was: that telltale, sugary amber hue of polyester glue.
“Figures,” I muttered.
Here’s the thing. Polyester glue is like a bad relationship—looks strong at first, but it breaks down the moment things heat up. And by “heat up,” I mean sunlight. UV light and polyester don’t get along. After enough exposure, it becomes brittle. Loses its grip. Cracks apart like old candy. Works fine for indoor stone repairs or temporary fixes—but out here, baking in the sun day after day? That stuff didn’t stand a chance.
Epoxy, on the other hand, would’ve held. It’s tougher. Sticks like guilt. But epoxy takes more prep, more patience. And some installers don’t have either.
I pried off another stone. Same story. The bond had failed, and once the first few pieces came loose, the rest followed like dominos at a demolition derby.
I stood up and looked at the homeowner. “Let me guess,” I said, brushing grit off my knees. “This pool’s less than five years old.”
“Three,” he said, like he’d just realized something expensive.
I nodded. “Whoever did the install cut corners. Used polyester because it’s cheap and quick. But this is Florida. Sunlight’s like a wrecking ball out here. What you need is a full tear-out and re-bonding with a proper UV-resistant epoxy. Anything less, and this’ll keep happening.”
He groaned. “Can you give me a report?”
“I can give you a report, a recommendation, and the number of a guy who won’t glue your pool together like a kindergarten craft project.”
I tipped my fedora and headed back to my woody, already thinking about the coffee I never got to finish and the bacon that had turned to rubber. Another mystery solved, another glue job botched by someone in a hurry.
That’s the thing about stone—she doesn’t lie. You just have to know how to listen.
