Gambling With the Suck to Fun Factor

Maia's dream beach

Ever have one of those days that starts out warm and sunny, moves into a perfect sail, and then brings you humpback whales? Not spouts in the distance. But a mama resting on the surface a few hundred meters away and a curious baby who decides to come and visit?

Baby heads over to see us with mama close behind

But then the day turns—your main motor doesn’t start, so you use your outboard. And when you sort out the main motor’s problem the outboard hops off the back of the boat and falls into the ocean (thank-goodness for that safety line). And then you tip the mocha flan that you made, to soothe your sad soul, into a dirty sink and the pickle jar explodes over the floor, where you notice a trickle of saltwater from a seeping thru hull (and you just hauled out…). And none of the good—not the sail, not the whale, can make up for the fact that some days just suck.

I think cruisers must be bad gamblers at heart.

abandoned rail track

Roo prints on the beach

Those perfect days, where you wake with the plan of sailing on but a quick morning hike shows you’ve stumbled upon an abandoned resort with a perfect beach and clear warm water, are the ones that keep you sailing from country to country, endlessly searching for the combination of magical elements that feel like a row of cherries in the slot machine.

our morning turtle

But mostly we plug coins into the slots, taking the little payoffs; the turtles, the sunsets, the clear water and empty beaches. They’re our reward for the endless repairs.
Endless repairs.

abandoned train

 

The good days though? They are so good. Yesterday we planned to travel. But I wanted to see shore before leaving Brampton Island. Evan needed to finish flushing the outboard so after communing with a huge, wise-looking turtle Maia and I headed to shore on our own. We set off down an overgrown rail track the lead us past shy kangaroos and outgoing butterflies and into an empty resort.

There was a Christmas tree in a window, a pool table with cues and balls, an ancient banyan tree and sailboats for guests. There were linens on the beds and furniture in the dining room. And it was empty except for two other cruisers. We learned the resort was abandoned after a 2010 cyclone. Eerie and perfect we thought Evan should see it.

So we spent the day on abandoned lawn chairs, drinking from coconuts, cooling in the blue water and exploring the resort. In the evening we joined newly arrived sailors on the broken jetty to watch the sun drop into the sea.

the only guest

what the resort lacked in bar service it made up for in ambiance.

 And today we’re sailing on, gambling that someday soon we’ll have another day as good as yesterday.

The Hard Life-Australia

Hauling out is difficult, time consuming and expensive (and occasionally dramatic). So we tend to put it off. In fact, the last time we hauled the boat up onto dry land to paint the bottom was May 2010 (we had such a terrible paint job done at Abaroa’s we ended up careening the boat in September 2010 and adding another coat of paint). This time we were hoping to eek every last bit of use out of our paint, which we did, plus a year or so. About a month ago when scraped a barnacle farm off the boat we knew it was past time.

 

we just fit

Anyone with a cat can tell you finding a place to haul takes a bit of research. Because of our width we tend to need travel lifts designed for really big boats—which leads to a really big price. Our strategy is to hunt out smaller-extra wide lifts in industrial boat-yards, which means we end up in interesting places. But the price tends to be slightly more manageable.

 

barnacles, weed and river goo

This time we ended up in Brisbane Marine Industry Park on the little lift—which Ev had carefully measured and saw we *just* fit on. Though it was a narrow slot, and the current was on our beam, getting into the lift was drama free (yay!). Once the boat was out (Maia: “Oh, I love the smell of a boatyard!”) and we looked over the hull (Evan to yard worker: “It’s not so bad, is it?” Yard worker with bemused look: “It’s filthy.”) we were moved to our spot and the work started. And so did the rain.

looking at the bend in the rudder--this one is slated for replacement shortly

Winter in Brisbane is dry season. You can ask locals and many will tell you about years that went by without measurable rain in June or July. This year though: record breaking. It’s been raining so much it seems to have thrown the weather forecasters off their game. The weekend, which was supposed to include an occasional shower, turned into one big rain fest. We ended up draping the boat with everything tarp-like we own (including the tent) in an effort to keep the hulls dry enough to paint.

Then we ran into another problem. North American power tools don’t run on the Aussie 240 outlets and when it rains non-stop there isn’t much sun available to charge solar panels. A quick trip (with a borrowed car) to the hardware store for a battery charger (and more tarps) solved the problem though.

Once we were set up it was time to start sanding. Problem #3 was the discovery that 18 months in brackish water had lead to the development of some osmotic blistering. We had the same thing happen on little Ceilydh after her time in the Rio Dulce—not sure of the science behind it but the blisters were pencil eraser to dime sized and none went into the glass. We treated them by popping them open, rinsing them well, and then any that need filler after sanding were filled.

a few of the little blisters we found after they were opened and dried...

Next came a couple of coats of paint, a few minor repairs and after four days it was back into the water on a bright sunny winter day and out on the bay for a short sailing holiday.

The paint is supposed to be 30 month paint—which I’m sure we can stretch….

Regalvanizing-from A to Zinc

rusty chain--some links are in better shape than others

If you’re not a boater, a rusty anchor chain probably isn’t that exciting a thing to contemplate. But when those rusty links are the link between your boat and your anchor (a piece of equipment that is easily one of the most important items on a boat, or under a boat) the rust gets personal.

Chain is expensive stuff—and in recent years, because of increased costs, the protective zinc coating found on chain has become thinner. This means that unless you are diligent about washing down your chain, end for end it as it shows wear, and touch it up with a wire brush and zinc paint when the first spots of rust do show up, before you know it you’ll have a rusty ball of chain in your anchor locker.

 

take your chain for a drive

Or at least we did. Our chain is about 5 years old. Not that old in the boating world—but a few years of constant use, followed by a year in the anchor locker meant that our chain was rapidly approaching the cut-off point between salvageable and garbage. Although surface rust, even if it’s a bit flakey, isn’t the end of the world for chain-but you do need to remove heavy rust to have chain regalvanized.

As a guideline you should toss rusty chain if:

- Wear exceeds 10% of a link diameter (check where the links connect).

- The chain is cut, nicked, cracked, gouged, or pitted.

- It’s distorted, twisted, bent or stretched.

- You don’t know its history, including how many times it’s been regalvanized.

If you got around to regalvanizing before we did and the surface rust was fairly light (indicating you still have some zinc coating left) you can probably send it straight for regalvanizing without prep. If you have more rust then you’ll need to look at sandblasting, which is normally hugely expensive, unless you try a version of poor mans sand blasting.

 

bare metal after 10 km--we were still able to see the stamps on the links indicating we hadn't lost much material

We headed off out of Brisbane in search of a sandy road. When we found one we tied the chain the trailer hitch and set off down the empty road (the one car that passed us was pretty confused, or thought we were confused). By end-for-ending the chain a couple of times and driving through sweeping S turns the chain started to show bright metal after about 10k. Then it was off for galvanizing.

Because I ask about this stuff I learned the first step of the galvanizing process is a caustic soda solution to remove grease and oils from the steel. The chain is then immersed into a pickling solution of sulfuric acid. Then it’s ready for the molten zinc.

newly galvanized chain

The result is a thicker coating of zinc than what the chain had when it was manufactured—which means it should last longer. Especially because we’ll take better care of it this time round and not wait so long before regalvanizing it again.

Our cost at Industrial Galvanizers in Brisbane was $2.05 a kilo—and our chain came in at $166. Far less than new chain would have cost (we can’t get our chain here so would have needed a new gypsy as well).

Raft up--The Pink and the Blue

 

If you’ve been on a cruising boat you may have heard the phrase ‘pink job and blue jobs’ when it comes to stuff that needs done. Mostly the terms are used in jest to describe the 1950’s-style delineation when it comes to who’s found barefoot in the kitchen vs. who’s covered in grease and grime in the bilge.

The fact grime falls along gender lines is something my inner-feminist chafed at when we first started cruising. But when Evan asked me if I wanted to change the situation by rebuilding the head, or changing the engine oil I could have claimed I couldn’t because dinner would burn—but the truth is I don’t really like messy mechanical jobs though I'll certainly do them in a pinch.

Must be a blue job if guys are working...

 Okay—so here’s the point in the blog where I should tow the party line and say the whole pink vs blue job thing is myth, and that while each person on the boat should work to their strengths both genders should be competent in all things boat. And while the idea has a lot of merit (heck—I even took a diesel maintenance course), the truth is most of us only have so much time in the day that we want to devote to chores and having someone who can build a remote throttle kit (without directions) while someone else replaces a damaged zipper and makes lunch means there is more time for the stuff you actually went cruising to do (hint: not repairing the boat in exotic locations).

Boat chores are a fact of cruising. And while you can try to hire someone to do the nasty stuff (good luck with that in more remote locations) typically this means one person is going to need to become mechanically competent while the other person develops strong support skills and becomes responsible for keeping the kids alive.

Pink or blue job? Doesn't actually matter--it's something that needs done.

 So the trick, as I see it, isn’t to decide who’s pink and who’s blue, but to come up with the way you work best as a team. For us this means Ev’s the project guy—he’s the engineer and knows how stuff works and why it does what it does. And I’m the people person—if a project is too big for him (or simply big enough to be a social job) I either chip in and help, or hunt down helpers and then supply the food, find the missing tools, add a an idea here and there, hide the hammer if it looks like it’s all going to hell and then pour the cold drinks when it’s time to celebrate, or quit for the day.

It took me a while to feel good about that role. It just felt so icky to be so, umm, pink. See the other problem with that 1950’s stereotype is it comes with a 1950’s value judgements about the worth of different types of labour. According to a pink vs blue stereotype managing to eek a fabulous meal out of sketchy 3 week old veggies, two tins and a box, while keeping the kid busy, helping hunt down tools and strategizing a plan 'e' for getting part 'd' to fit into slot 'a' because we've run out of spare part 'a's' is somehow less valuable than managing to actually fix a water pump with a borrowed part 'g' and duct tape.

But the reality is stuff needs to get done and someone needs to do it. And when we’ve done it (whether we’ve ended up covered in paint and engine oil, or flour and olive oil) we all need to be thanked and appreciated by our partner: Because this living on a boat stuff is hard, whatever the job.

There's a reason to work so hard--the rewards vary, but are oh, so worth it...

More raft-up 

Jan 1st - Dana - svnorthfork.blogspot.com
Jan 4th - Stacey - sv-bellavita.blogspot.com
Jan 5th -Steph - http://www.sailblogs.com/member/nornabiron

 Jan 7th - Behan - sv-totem.blogspot.com
Jan 8th - Diane - http://maiaaboard.blogspot.com
Jan 9th - Jessica - mvfelicity.blogspot.com
Jan 10th - Lynn - www.sailcelebration.blogspot.com
Jan 11th - Verena - pacificsailors.com
Jan 12th - Toast - http://blog.toastfloats.com
Jan 14th - Ean - morejoyeverywhere.blogspot.com
Jan 15th - Dana - svnorthfork.blogspot.com

Boats Break; living on them is stupid

A walk in the woods

Last night while making dinner I switched on the light over the counter and got, nothing. No, there was a faint glow, and if I squinted, I could chop carrots. Then, when I went to rinse the beans, I had another problem, no water. Our water pump has been cycling for no reason—so we need to turn it off when not using it. So up I went, across the cabin, into the other hull to turn on the water, then back to the sink to rinse the beans, then back to the other hull to turn off the water, then back to the beans, only to realize I’d forgot to put water in the pot to cook them. I called to Ev to flip on the water but he and Maia were dealing with a deflating dinghy so back I went…

There does seem to be some sort of law on boats that when one thing goes on the fritz, several more follow suit. On our first boat we had it happen many times, but the most significant occasion (read costly) was when we reached Panama. First the rigging needed replacing, and then the depth sounder died, then the windlass—but my breaking point was when the stereo stopped working. Using a lead line to find the depth and pulling up an anchor by hand are two old-school sailing traditions I can cope with if required—but I’m wasn't quite up for listening to Evan singing sea shanties.

Afternoon entertainment--a play starring Charlie the Reluctant Reindeer

 Last night’s breakdowns were not in the same league as Panama—a new light fixture, tinkering with the water pump, slapping a patch on the dinghy (if we could find the leak) are all affordable—just time consuming. But it made me realize how much of our boat chore time is spent in triage. Even when were not actually going anywhere, most of our efforts are spent just trying to keep things functioning and afloat. While Evan worked on the inflatable he had to step over the carcass of one engine, past the brand new one that’s waiting to be installed and fish for tools in the projects-under-way pile.

It’s no wonder really that heavily cruised boats go into refit every few years (or every few oceans). And last night as we tinkered and fixed, while trying to catch up on each other's day and actually eat dinner, it all felt frustratingly endless.

Maia's school dance

But afterward when we turned on a Christmas movie (at least the computers still work), and started to hang up our lights and ornaments, and watched a quarter moon rise up over our current city, the small and not so small inconveniences began to feel manageable. The to-do list may grow at the same rate as mildew (time to add de-mildewing to the list again) and boat stuff may break at a rate that leaves us feeling we are always a few steps behind, but the reminders of why we live such a challenging life are always there: When we can stop fixing stuff long enough to lift our heads and look out past the bulkhead that needs painting and at the world we've made such an inconvenient journey to see…

Maia's class performing at the end of year concert

*the pictures obviously don't match the post, they are just a few from life lately

How to Wreck a Boat

So here’s the deal—even with lots of ocean miles and plenty of experience you can still wreck your boat—in the span of a few heart beats.

When we came down the river Friday morning it was on a spring tide (it’s a full moon thing—not a season thing) which meant there was a lot of water pushing us to the sea adding 3+ knots to our boat speed in places. There was also 15 knots of wind in our face.

We needed to pull into a fuel dock—so the choice was dock into the wind? Or into the current? A sustained strong gust made us choose the wind—but as we approached the dock, and the wind died, we realized we chose wrong. But we bounced onto and along the dock and managed to stop ourselves after losing only a little paint.

But then it was time to leave. Leaving into a strong current is a cake walk if there is nothing directly ahead of you—but if you have mega-yacht row downstream, with the first big shiny yacht a boat length away—leaving gets trickier. Or technique was to angle our bows out into the current by going in reverse—then when we were pointed into the middle (and past the power boat) we hit it with full forward throttle and the wheel hard over.

The boat was promptly pushed back into the dock by the current and we were now hurtling toward a huge, expensive looking powerboat. Evan called for me to turn harder and raise the rpms to redline—hoping to get the boat to turn. Which it did, inch by inch. We could have kissed the powerboat as we swept by—literally.

Then the engine died.

We are still on Fiji fuel. But we filter fuel as we it bring aboard and we have two more inline filters. But the engine still laboured and died. And then laboured and died again. Evan decided it was a fuel issue. I decided we needed a sail. So we unfurled the genoa and tacked down the river until we reached a wide spot where we could anchor. Only to discover that the hateful Italian anchor windlass, had after three months of non-use, had turned bitter and seized up.

So you got this? We just about flatten the boat, and live. Then the engine dies on a busy river and we set a sail and live. We get to a safe place to drop the anchor and the windlass won’t work… It feels like we should just go home. But can’t.

But Ev drops the anchor manually then set about replacing the fuel filter. The engine starts—so he sets out to fix the windlass. His multimetre (which would diagnose the problem) has a flat battery. So we decide to haul up the anchor by hand and fix the windlass out on the bay.

So we head off—and after ten mellow minutes the engine starts to die. A freighter is coming—so I aim for the river bank where we drop anchor—again.

 This seemed like a good time to sit down, have lunch and decide if we really wanted to go out for the weekend after all. Because it sort of seemed like maybe we weren’t meant to. But then Maia mentioned the Easter Bunny and we rallied. Evan completed a repair on the windlass sans helpful tools and changed the fuel filter and the next morning we headed to join our friends.

the sort of sailing mishap that is fun--rather than fraught

A new sail

The flapping was the clue.  A dark overnight passage from the island of Tahiti to Ra'iatea was the precipitating event.  As we rounded the reef past Moorea, the wind rose in strength faster than we realized.  And the flapping was the sound of our aged mainsail with a 12' tear in it, from one side to the other.  We were fortunate that we found a decent sail repair loft in Ra'iatea, near the Moorings base.  But after we got the patched up sail back, and looked up along the trailing edge (the leech to you sailors out there), we found evidence that this sail was really on its last legs.  It was 25 years old after all, and it had carried us thousands of miles – and we really planned to replace it in Australia. Honest.

The new sail - note we don't have a "#1 reef". We just go right to #2, or #3 if it's really hairy.

Clearly it was time for a new sail, and hopefully before the sometimes windy passage to Australia.  We had met Dave Benjamin of Island Planet Sails a year previous in La Cruz, Mexico.  He was running his mail order sail business from his boat, often sitting with his laptop for hours in the cruiser's lounge. We met a few people who had ordered sails from Dave and were very happy with them. So I emailed him a 1 page list of requirements for a new sail and he got back to me immediately.  I have to say I was rather shocked when a lot of my “wish list” items were standard with his sails.  For example:

-        I wanted s.s. slides at the headboard and reef points. Dave says 'I had assumed all s.s. - they never wear out in the sun like nylon'

-        I wanted a particular style of seam stitching. Dave: that's our standard, but we use Goretex thread. Sailmakers NEVER want to use Goretex thread because (a) it's a bit more costly (b) it's slippery so it's harder to sew with (c) and it doesn't rot in the sun, so the sail doesn't need to go back to the sailmaker for repairs!

-        I forgot to ask for the little triangular reinforcements at the ends of the seams. They were included anyways.  Lots of sailmakers don't bother

-        Tapered battens – no extra charge

-        better full batten hardware – original quote didn't go up

-        Shipping to Fiji – included in the price. And I didn't realize it and was going to be happy to pay the quoted price for the sail and whatever extra the shipping was going to cost me. (Dave you can ignore that bit dude)

I could go on and on but you get the idea.  I've never worked with a sailmaker who was so happy to discuss why we want to do this and would you like that. I think we each had about 20 emails back and forth over details before it was all settled.  I'm a picky sail buyer.

The final price: with better full batten hardware than he had originally quoted us, with shipping to Fiji included, and all those little extras that mean the sail will last longer – was less than his first price.  You have to love that sort of service.  There are a few little details to fix that weren't quite right but Dave is already there for us, and we will sort those out when we get to Oz when we are closer to a sail loft again.

Our last passage from Fiji to Vanuatu we finally got to hoist it and sail with it.  Before we had been motoring around Fiji's islands in little or no wind. With a very slight adjustment to the upper batten tension the sail sets very nicely and is of course more powerful than the old one. I found myself reefing about 2 knots of wind sooner, because the boat was just that much more powered up.  So great job Dave, and thank you very much. (No, Dave didn't give me a special price for this blog post. But do check out www.islandplanetsails.com for your next sail purchase)

p.s. To other sailors crossing the Pacific. Make sure your sails are in good shape before the crossing.  Proper sailmakers are non-existent, and sail repair lofts are not that great (found them in Tahiti, Ra'iatea, Vavau group Tonga, and maybe in Denarau, Fiji).  Shipping the sail and clearing through customs in Fiji was almost painless. Cost me about $60 including the ride back from the airport with the customs officer to make sure it got put on the boat.

Moving On

 If things go as planned (bwahahahaha—I’m laughing at that too…) we should be departing Nuku Hiva in just a few days. We have a new-to-us outboard. There were two for sale on the island, but only one was running. And because we already own the type that doesn’t run, we thought it was time to spend some money on the other kind…

We also have it on good authority that our new rudder is jetting toward us from Tahiti. We even paid extra money to be sure it got on the plane, instead of languishing at the airport until someone to pity on it and sent it our way. So if it does arrive today, and it was built to plan, and we can find the welder, and he can get it welded tomorrow, we should be able to fit it to the boat by Saturday. Which means we will be able to leave.

I have to admit I’ve started to empathize a little too closely with Herman Melville in his true story called Typee. In 1842 Melville deserted from a nasty whaling ship, hiked over the mountains and took refuge with a tribe over in Taipivai. While he enjoyed his exotic new lifestyle (and made the most of every moment, despite a severe leg injury) he felt somewhat trapped on the island, especially because he no obvious means of escape.

I’m at the point in the book where he’s still certain he will get off the island, eventually, maybe, someday he just doesn’t know how or when…But like Melville, we’re doing our best to enjoy each moment (I can here the snickers from you folks in the office cubicles, “sure, making do in the Marquesas, sounds rough.”)

adventuring with WGD

 While we wait we’ve been hiking, snorkelling and exploring, as well as trying to rid our boat of bugs and mildew. (See? There is a downside to paradise.) I know it’s really humid and hot here but I seriously can not understand how these nasty little ecosystems can crop up so quickly. We had 3 bags of flour mildew on us and the rest developed bugs (we are currently flourless…). I’m very much regretting that we never took WGD up on their offer to use their vacuum sealer—and if I were to do this again I’d make more of an effort to seal stuff.

The plan now is to ready ourselves for the passage to the Tuamotus. Because like Melville; we have faith in our eventual escape. The to-do list includes picking up more fuel and provisions, getting a few final chores out of the way and finishing Typee. I’m slightly nervous though—what if he never does escape?