It's pretty much a law of cruising that your stuff will break. Maybe not everyday, and maybe not all at once—but if you take all your possessions and expose them to heat, humidity and lots of shaking they just don't last as long as you might want. This means you need to do lots of preventative maintenance and become really comfortable with taking stuff apart. Because, for the most part, warranties really aren't that useful out here...
The problem is, once apart, things don't always go back together. No matter how carefully you disassemble them you always end up with a random spare part. Over the years we've probably ended up with enough bolts, bushings and whatchamadingies to build an entire somethingorother.
The other law of stuff breaking is it never breaks in a convenient location. Stuff gives up the ghost only after you've left a harbour with repair shops. Right now Evan is trying to fix two spear guns, do maintenance on two BCs, nurse two computers with intermittent faults and convince our camera it really wants to hang in there for a few more weeks. Our options for finding spare parts for this stuff is just about 0. So we either cobble together the repair—or learn to live without.
Sort of and intelligence test VS. enforced simplicity.
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Showing posts with label repair. Show all posts
Showing posts with label repair. Show all posts
June 11, 2010
November 30, 2009
The Good, The Bad, The Stormy (aka those damn bananas!)
We’re in Southern California – the home of light breezes and gentle swell. It seemed like the perfect place to connect with Mark and Val so we could take them and Mark’s mother for an idyllic sail to Santa Cruz Island in the Channel Islands for the Thanksgiving weekend (which also happened to be my birthday).
The day we left, the forecast was calling for 15-25 with seven to nine foot seas – all of which was to settle down over night. When we set out from Santa Barbara it was lumpy but there was only a whisper of wind. We motor sailed for the first hour then started to see choppy water in the distance. None of us knew these waters and we speculated – current? wind?
It was lots of wind - which filled in almost suddenly – we could see it before we could feel it. The crests of the waves were foaming up, then blowing off. Our sails snapped full and we shut the motor off. Ceilydh surged forward.
When we sail, the boat is loud – it makes living sounds that startle me still; clattering bangs, groaning creaks, and sharp thumps. The wind and waves were on our beam and the waves would crash over us, shoving us rudely. It was the first, (or maybe the second) solid wave smack (which sent things flying that had never moved before) that changed the mood aboard. Rather than going for a pleasant sail, I was holding on, knuckles white, calculating every 3-4 minutes just how many more hours more we had to travel.
As the weather worsened my sea sickness kicked in and my anxiety built. I’m tired of drama – and getting booted around by weather we didn’t sign up for pretty much pushed me past my limit. Sick (and relieved we had extra helping hands aboard), I curled up in our bunk with Maia and Charlie and tried to pretend I was in Paris. I felt the boat rattle and shake in the gusts then watched as our hatch would submerge under each breaking wave. Feeling detached, I watched as a trickle of water steadily streamed in. Occasionally I wondered if I should get a bucket or a towel to catch the water that was soaking the bed. But then I would think about the sounds – how loud and violent sounding it all was, and would forget I should be managing the leak.
Eventually we reached the lee of Santa Cruz. The wind was now a steady 40 knots, with gusts that blew our voices away, but we could see boats clustered in close, hunkered down as they waited out the gale. It was time to start the diesel so we could motor upwind and set our anchor and celebrate our arrival.
When our motor didn’t start one morning in Morro Bay Evan looked it over and discovered the starting motor was beyond repair. With our sailing weekend planned and a one-day weather window to get around Point Conception a few days away we ordered a replacement starter from an online company. The cheap piece of crap worked a charm – for 5 starts. Now, on the 6th start, when it really mattered, the engine wouldn’t turn over.
We sail fast in 40 knots of wind and the southern end of Santa Cruz is really short. At speed we’d be out the other side and into unprotected seas in a matter of minutes. Val depowered the already reefed sail, while Evan got our auxiliary outboard running. But we began to drift downwind and off the island, while our outboard’s thrust (which can normally push us at 4 knots) was no match for the wind.
Tacking into 40+ knots, in a cat, really doesn’t work that well. But Mark did his best and steered us in as close to shore as he could. Before we could blow away Ev let out all of our anchor rode and we all held our breath as the anchor caught, then dragged in a gust, then, as the sun set in a warm orange glow, seemed to catch again.
Gale force winds roared through our ringing. In the higher gusts the boat would thrum and the mast would vibrate. The spray reached our boom and hurt Evan’s face as he readied our hurricane anchor, to be dropped, should we start to drag. All of us stared out the window trying to judge if we were dragging or holding while eating our Thanksgiving turkey silently. My mouth was so dry I couldn’t swallow.
All night long we took turns sitting up, watching the radar and GPS and the lights from the boats around us, trying to judge as we rocked in the 3' wind waves and surged in the gusts if our anchor had slipped and we were about to find ourselves hurtling downwind in the now 20’ seas.
We had one gallon of gas for the outboard. We only use the engine for manoeuvring in tight quarters. We burn one gallon of gas an hour. Under optimal conditions we had gas to get us four miles. This was the problem we were confronted with in the morning when the promise for a weekend of good weather turned into a endlessly announced statement that an unstable and unexpected weather system meant we could expect continued gale force winds from the NW to be quickly followed by 35 knots of wind from the NE – a direction we had no protection from and that changed our uncomfortable predicament to a dangerous one.
We’re getting really sick of stuff breaking. And I’m getting paranoid and superstitious. It’s rubbed off on Maia. And when she found the banana Mark’s mum had packed as a snack, she snatched it away and hurled it over the side – chastising our guest for bringing such a dangerous item aboard.
Banana-free we began to formulate a plan, several plans. We called around the anchorage for gas and found a boat called Windward that not only had five gallons to spare, but who offered to deliver it. They arrived soaked but as they filled our tank they reminded me of all the best parts of being on the sea. They had been up all night too – on the radio, talking a boat in distress through the stormy night, as a coast guard helicopter lit the way with a search light.
When they realized we didn’t know the waters or what our plan should be they gave us additional options – and when the wind lay down enough from the NW, before it was scheduled to rise from the NE they led us (and another boat) back across the channel into Ventura. Where, in the dark, with an engine that’s made for calm harbours and that had submerged when we attempted to use it in the steep seas, the harbour patrol met us and led us to the safety of a dock.
We ate a late dinner that night and were giddy, high and grateful in that rare, I-survived kind of way. And today, two days later, we’re planning our next hop down the coast.
Bananas are banned.
The day we left, the forecast was calling for 15-25 with seven to nine foot seas – all of which was to settle down over night. When we set out from Santa Barbara it was lumpy but there was only a whisper of wind. We motor sailed for the first hour then started to see choppy water in the distance. None of us knew these waters and we speculated – current? wind?
It was lots of wind - which filled in almost suddenly – we could see it before we could feel it. The crests of the waves were foaming up, then blowing off. Our sails snapped full and we shut the motor off. Ceilydh surged forward.
When we sail, the boat is loud – it makes living sounds that startle me still; clattering bangs, groaning creaks, and sharp thumps. The wind and waves were on our beam and the waves would crash over us, shoving us rudely. It was the first, (or maybe the second) solid wave smack (which sent things flying that had never moved before) that changed the mood aboard. Rather than going for a pleasant sail, I was holding on, knuckles white, calculating every 3-4 minutes just how many more hours more we had to travel.
As the weather worsened my sea sickness kicked in and my anxiety built. I’m tired of drama – and getting booted around by weather we didn’t sign up for pretty much pushed me past my limit. Sick (and relieved we had extra helping hands aboard), I curled up in our bunk with Maia and Charlie and tried to pretend I was in Paris. I felt the boat rattle and shake in the gusts then watched as our hatch would submerge under each breaking wave. Feeling detached, I watched as a trickle of water steadily streamed in. Occasionally I wondered if I should get a bucket or a towel to catch the water that was soaking the bed. But then I would think about the sounds – how loud and violent sounding it all was, and would forget I should be managing the leak.
Eventually we reached the lee of Santa Cruz. The wind was now a steady 40 knots, with gusts that blew our voices away, but we could see boats clustered in close, hunkered down as they waited out the gale. It was time to start the diesel so we could motor upwind and set our anchor and celebrate our arrival.
When our motor didn’t start one morning in Morro Bay Evan looked it over and discovered the starting motor was beyond repair. With our sailing weekend planned and a one-day weather window to get around Point Conception a few days away we ordered a replacement starter from an online company. The cheap piece of crap worked a charm – for 5 starts. Now, on the 6th start, when it really mattered, the engine wouldn’t turn over.
We sail fast in 40 knots of wind and the southern end of Santa Cruz is really short. At speed we’d be out the other side and into unprotected seas in a matter of minutes. Val depowered the already reefed sail, while Evan got our auxiliary outboard running. But we began to drift downwind and off the island, while our outboard’s thrust (which can normally push us at 4 knots) was no match for the wind.
Tacking into 40+ knots, in a cat, really doesn’t work that well. But Mark did his best and steered us in as close to shore as he could. Before we could blow away Ev let out all of our anchor rode and we all held our breath as the anchor caught, then dragged in a gust, then, as the sun set in a warm orange glow, seemed to catch again.
Gale force winds roared through our ringing. In the higher gusts the boat would thrum and the mast would vibrate. The spray reached our boom and hurt Evan’s face as he readied our hurricane anchor, to be dropped, should we start to drag. All of us stared out the window trying to judge if we were dragging or holding while eating our Thanksgiving turkey silently. My mouth was so dry I couldn’t swallow.
All night long we took turns sitting up, watching the radar and GPS and the lights from the boats around us, trying to judge as we rocked in the 3' wind waves and surged in the gusts if our anchor had slipped and we were about to find ourselves hurtling downwind in the now 20’ seas.
We had one gallon of gas for the outboard. We only use the engine for manoeuvring in tight quarters. We burn one gallon of gas an hour. Under optimal conditions we had gas to get us four miles. This was the problem we were confronted with in the morning when the promise for a weekend of good weather turned into a endlessly announced statement that an unstable and unexpected weather system meant we could expect continued gale force winds from the NW to be quickly followed by 35 knots of wind from the NE – a direction we had no protection from and that changed our uncomfortable predicament to a dangerous one.
We’re getting really sick of stuff breaking. And I’m getting paranoid and superstitious. It’s rubbed off on Maia. And when she found the banana Mark’s mum had packed as a snack, she snatched it away and hurled it over the side – chastising our guest for bringing such a dangerous item aboard.
Banana-free we began to formulate a plan, several plans. We called around the anchorage for gas and found a boat called Windward that not only had five gallons to spare, but who offered to deliver it. They arrived soaked but as they filled our tank they reminded me of all the best parts of being on the sea. They had been up all night too – on the radio, talking a boat in distress through the stormy night, as a coast guard helicopter lit the way with a search light.
When they realized we didn’t know the waters or what our plan should be they gave us additional options – and when the wind lay down enough from the NW, before it was scheduled to rise from the NE they led us (and another boat) back across the channel into Ventura. Where, in the dark, with an engine that’s made for calm harbours and that had submerged when we attempted to use it in the steep seas, the harbour patrol met us and led us to the safety of a dock.
We ate a late dinner that night and were giddy, high and grateful in that rare, I-survived kind of way. And today, two days later, we’re planning our next hop down the coast.
Bananas are banned.
November 16, 2009
Damn Bananas!
“When exactly are we leaving?” She asked as she eyed the bunch in my hand. I assured her we would finish the bananas before pulling up anchor. After all, everyone knows that bananas are bad luck on a boat.
We’d been waiting for the right weather window. And when it came on Friday the 13th, we stayed put. We’re not superstitious people, but why invite trouble?
So we headed out at first light on Saturday morning; out through the sloppy swell that seems to live at the mouth of every harbour. The cat was sick, I was green, Maia stared intently at the horizon and Evan looked grim – it was a typical start to a passage.
The sail south was exuberant. The sky was clear and bright, the wind was in the 15-25 range and seas were hitting 10 ft. We were occasionally clocking 12 knots as we leapt from wave to wave. Even though queasy I still had the urge to cheer, which I did, silently, in my head, while slumped at the settee. Evan and Maia looked like they might have been silently cheering too. I’m not sure where the cat had crawled, but he was probably not cheering.
We kept on like this. For hour after hour the wind would propel us up a wave then the swell would catch us with a bang and hurl us down the breaking crest. It was loud, rough, unsettling and exciting. The sort of thing you try to convince yourself you’re enjoying because you’re sure you should be, but it’s all a bit too dramatic.
Slowly the wind eased. Not all at once – but with a rise and a fall. In the dark night the wave crash and the surfing sensation became less predictable and our motion felt less like hurtling forward and more like wallowing side to side. The speed on the GPS dropped to 3 knots and at midnight we decided to motor.
At 3am I was off watch and asleep. I woke when something hit my hull, just under my shoulder. I jumped out of bed when something went bang at the stern. I joined Evan in the cockpit and we stared at our rudder.
Our rudders are designed to kick-up when we hit something. A concept that is great in theory, but often annoying in practice. Once the rudder is clear of debris you carefully lower it back into position and tension it with a rope. But this time the rope had snapped. The rudder was swinging freely behind us, and because the rudders are linked together, it was impossible to steer.
I think I’ve mentioned that things always go wrong at 3am, on moonless nights, in sloppy conditions. Our rudder would have been simple to fix in a calm harbour. Ev would have tied a new rope in place and tensioned it. But when waves are lifting your stern, hurling it aside and burying it in cold foam, crouching on the lowest step, reaching into a tiny crevice that is often submerged in deep swell, while a heavy rudder tries to crush your arm, as you attempt to tie a one-handed knot – well, it’s hard.
I felt sick and helpless as I watched Evan get battered and buried by the phosphorescent waves, under a silky starlit night, where Orion glowed more brilliantly than I’d even seen. As I tried to help, and tried not to throw-up, I wished we were somewhere else, anywhere else. But I also knew life on the ocean is like that: moments of unbearable beauty and utter shittyness all mixed up in a way that you can’t divide them apart.
I felt oddly calm – knowing we weren’t in danger - that if this fix didn’t work another would.
We had options.
Evan worked his way through options 1-4 as methodically as you can when you’re clinging to the back of a boat that’s trying to hurtle you into a cold black ocean. After an hour, the rudder was secure enough that we could steer. We crawled back inside. Evan changed into dry clothes and we both sat silently on the settee for a while - uncertain what to feel.
That fix lasted until 8am, when the temporary rope broke and Evan got to do it all again, in daylight.
That fix lasted until 8am, when the temporary rope broke and Evan got to do it all again, in daylight.
They’ll make good banana bread.
September 21, 2009
Best Laid Plans...
This is a truism that works for just about everybody, but when you’re out cruising it’s even truer…
Pretty much the first thing that every offshore sailor learns is not to plan. Yes, you need a general idea of where you want to go and when you might like to get there but if you insist that the two things (the where and when) need to coincide, you’re asking for trouble, or at the very least an uncomfortable trip.
This is why we’re still in Coos Bay. A place we never intended to stop, and that really never warranted a week or more out of our lives, but that has kind of grown on us.
Departure number two was cancelled when we decided that a rather benign sounding weather report had a sinister undertone to it. Neither of us was really sure what the problem was, but there was something hinky about the lack of information on the after midnight part of the report. In other words – the weather was fine, we were nervous.
But today, today is perfect. A high has filled in. The sky is bright blue. The winds are whispering in the lightest, most gentle fashion. The seas are barely swelling and it’s all scheduled to stay this way. It’s all we can ask for when embarking on a trip south with an unreliable rig.
So we started doing our predeparture stuff early in the morning: Downloading a few podcasts to listen to on night watches (why not use the midnight hour to get a bit smarter?); cooking a few underway meals; tiding up the boat and overhauling the diesel heater (just in case the nights are chilly…)
I was down in the galley wondering why my milk (for scalloped potatoes – always soothing for sensitive, slightly seasick tummies) had a black film on it, while Evan was cheerfully vacuuming out the built-up soot from the heater. Then I looked up and gazed through a grey haze that was reminiscent of the coal fogs in England that followed the Second World War (gotta love the information gleaned from a podcast…) I asked Evan if the vacuum was working and he insisted the haze was caused by smoke, likely by something I was cooking.
I wasn’t cooking.
The vacuum hadn’t liked sucking up soot and in protest it pulverized the oily carbon and sent it out in a cloud of sticky, fine, black nastiness that coated every surface of the boat's interior, including the cat, who was leaving cute little black footprints everywhere he went as he tried to avoid black lung.
Considering we’re at a dock, which has ample fresh water and a laundry facility with the cheapest machines we’ve yet to encounter, our decision was made for us. We stayed. We turned on the podcasts I had painstakingly downloaded (on the slowest connection imaginable!) and began to scrub, and scrub and scrub. And then scrub some more.
The moral (there’s always a moral) is not what you think. Sure plans are always subject to change, and the best laid plans oft go awry, and life is what happens when you’re busy making plans… But I’m not about to give up making plans - because they're important. They get you from A to B and then motivate you push on to C even when B has cheap beer, and easy anchorages, and nice people. They inspire you and give you the feeling that you’re really living and experiencing all that life offers the very best way you know how. Plans are what assure you that you're not just scratching the surface of life, that you're getting down into the juicey bits, and savouring the parts that really make it all worthwhile.
No, the moral isn’t about not making plans and not having goals, it’s simply about letting goals go when they don’t work out. It’s about enjoying the podcast while you clean the boat and then using the free afternoon to head out for icecream after doing laundry. It's about not regreting the moments you didn't get and the sights you didn't see. It’s about believing that weather windows will come again and that you’ll leave tomorrow.
July 28, 2009
Bumping and Banging
Sailing successfully is all about having the right skills. We’d like to think it’s about having the right boat and the best equipment – and often those will get you through. But in the toughest moments it comes down to knowing how to do things right. All that boring basic seamanship stuff.
This came up for us over and over this week.
We’re the first to admit our skills are a bit rusty – but we do have them. When we sail, we check the weather report and have all the sails set to go before heading out. When we anchor, we always anchor with an eye to who’s around us and as though it’s going to blow.
For example - rust at the end of the rainbow is best avoided.
This came in handy in Nanaimo
Then came the lightening squall.
We sat steady through the chaos of boats piling up on each other. But then, one big power boat tried to smash our dreams. He was on the bow – doing something with the anchor, while she stood on the bridge deck flapping her arms.
We were directly down wind.
It took the shouted advice of the boats around them (I sort of just screamed ‘don’t you dare hit us!!’ rather than offering direction) for her to sort out to turn on the engine and steer the boat.
They really ought to have known how to control a dragging boat.
Our basic rule is there are no plumbers (or mechanics, or electricians) at sea. And we need to know how to take care of our boat and ourselves. I probably rely on Evan far too much for all these things – but we are pretty good at trouble shooting together – which is why we now know the water tank we thought was leaking (think huge repair job) was actually a leaking hose clamp (leak is now checked off on the to-do list).
This week also included the repair of a lost alternator bolt while we were underway (Ev found the bold but not the nut and had to retap the bolt to fit a metric nut). A sheared a bolt on the outboard engine bracket. A *really, really* clogged holding tank and a bit of computer grumpiness.
And while it seems like we had a sucky week of repair after repair – this is pretty much expected on a newly launched boat.
At least I keep telling myself that.
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