At least it has been sunny here in Seattle while we are back; not so on the Central Coast, which seems to have had rain every day and we are not sad at all to miss that, even if we do wish we were on the boat.
Talked to the yard earlier this week and they claim things should be finished up and the boat should be back in the water this coming weekend. I hope so, but it's already been quite a delay and I'm not sure if more time would really matter all that much or not.
Our plan right now is to head out on Friday to Port Townsend, then get a lift from my folks up to Port Hardy on the north end of Vancouver Island. A ferry leaves from Port Hardy Saturday night and puts in at Shearwater on Sunday morning, so we could be on our way again as early as that, or more likely, sometime Monday.
Which way is "our way" is still up in the air. We're constrained a bit by time... I have to be back by the end of July at the latest for business reasons, and Mandy by early August, also for business. That's a month, which sounds like quite a bit, but the complicating factor is that even after the repairs are completed, I am still not sure how far I can trust the boat systems until I have a chance to run with them for a while. All the obvious stuff will be fixed, but salt water is insidious... more could be compromised than we know, and until we do know, we'll have to take it easy and stay in fairly protected waters.
The upshot of that is, if we decide to bring the boat back home, we'll probably have to start south almost immediately, to ensure that we have time to limp it along if other things do turn out to be damaged. That's not the end of the world, there is a lot of neat geography to explore which we zipped past on the way up, but at the same time, having got as far north as we have, it seems a bit of a waste to turn back only to have to cover the ground again the next time we try to get to Alaska.
So our other option is continuing north, and using the remainder of the month to get into the panhandle, then to store the boat there somewhere over the winter and come back to collect it on another trip next year (although we probably can't afford to be away as long next year).
Option Two makes Mandy nervous, but having the boat up on blocks somewhere up there doesn't seem to me to be much different from having it down here somewhere. We weren't going to have time for a lot more sailing this year, anyway.
Internet access being what it is up there, you may not find out where we are headed until we are almost there.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Damage Pictures
You'll find more of these in our Flickr stream (click on the rotating picture panel at left) but I thought I'd put up some of the shots we managed to get while we were hung up in Boat Inlet and during the tow and recovery afterward.
This is from about the point we figured out we weren't going to recover on that tide:
I am exhausted after two attempts to winch us off; the white line stretching from the stern toward the camera is the spare anchor line we were using to pull ourselves off with, first with our spare anchor, and then tied to a tree ashore. Looking at the angle of the boat, it's pretty obvious we were too hung up to keep trying any such heroic measures.
By low tide at 3AM we were high and dry. I hopped off and splashed around to look for damage. All I found was some primarily cosmetic damage at the base and leading edge of the keel:
Everything else was obscured by the large rock we were resting against to starboard. I got a picture of that, too, but it is too dark to make out much.
I went to catch some sleep, only to wake up to this:
Well, it wasn't quite that deep when I first discovered it, but it got even deeper, despite our best efforts pumping and bailing.
The Coast Guard made it back out in their Zodiac about forty to forty-five minutes after I hailed them. We probably spent an hour after that getting both gas-powered pumps going and dewatering the boat. None of us could figure out where the water was coming in from, so we just concentrated on getting her afloat enough to get off the shoals. Once we were more or less upright, they dragged us off stern first... then Mandy spotted the hole in the starboard side. The helmsman, Randy, actually intentionally grounded us again at that point since we had disconnected one of the pumps (which was aboard their boat) and weren't sure if the remaining one could keep us afloat. With some patching, we decided it could, and he backed us out into more open water so we could rig a tow harness from the anchor bitt forward:
Then we started the long tow:
The portable pump ran out of gas once, which I think freaked everyone out but me; I had been expecting it but we were in rough water and it took a bit of time to refill the tank and get it restarted (with probably half the gas going overboard rather than into the pump). I kept the edge off the flooding with our internal bilge pumps, which didn't do too bad keeping up for a little while (we have a 1500GPH Rule in the main bilge and a little 800GPH Rule in the shower sump).
And this is the hole, interior and exterior views:
I thought I uploaded a shot of them tipping the boat sideways on the travel lift to dump all the water out, but I must not have... Mandy found it very amusing, so I suppose we'll post it pretty soon.
Anyway, that's about it. Spent more time bailing than taking pictures, and anyway it was pissing down rain the whole time so there wasn't a lot to see.
This is from about the point we figured out we weren't going to recover on that tide:
I am exhausted after two attempts to winch us off; the white line stretching from the stern toward the camera is the spare anchor line we were using to pull ourselves off with, first with our spare anchor, and then tied to a tree ashore. Looking at the angle of the boat, it's pretty obvious we were too hung up to keep trying any such heroic measures.By low tide at 3AM we were high and dry. I hopped off and splashed around to look for damage. All I found was some primarily cosmetic damage at the base and leading edge of the keel:
Everything else was obscured by the large rock we were resting against to starboard. I got a picture of that, too, but it is too dark to make out much.I went to catch some sleep, only to wake up to this:
Well, it wasn't quite that deep when I first discovered it, but it got even deeper, despite our best efforts pumping and bailing.
The Coast Guard made it back out in their Zodiac about forty to forty-five minutes after I hailed them. We probably spent an hour after that getting both gas-powered pumps going and dewatering the boat. None of us could figure out where the water was coming in from, so we just concentrated on getting her afloat enough to get off the shoals. Once we were more or less upright, they dragged us off stern first... then Mandy spotted the hole in the starboard side. The helmsman, Randy, actually intentionally grounded us again at that point since we had disconnected one of the pumps (which was aboard their boat) and weren't sure if the remaining one could keep us afloat. With some patching, we decided it could, and he backed us out into more open water so we could rig a tow harness from the anchor bitt forward:
Then we started the long tow:
The portable pump ran out of gas once, which I think freaked everyone out but me; I had been expecting it but we were in rough water and it took a bit of time to refill the tank and get it restarted (with probably half the gas going overboard rather than into the pump). I kept the edge off the flooding with our internal bilge pumps, which didn't do too bad keeping up for a little while (we have a 1500GPH Rule in the main bilge and a little 800GPH Rule in the shower sump).And this is the hole, interior and exterior views:
I thought I uploaded a shot of them tipping the boat sideways on the travel lift to dump all the water out, but I must not have... Mandy found it very amusing, so I suppose we'll post it pretty soon.
Anyway, that's about it. Spent more time bailing than taking pictures, and anyway it was pissing down rain the whole time so there wasn't a lot to see.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
tidal emotions
It feels good to be back in Seattle. Of course, I am in my Happy Place, my neighborhood Starbucks, and Scott is in his Happy Place, his basement office. Emotions for Scott and I have been a constant up and down for almost a full week now. The bummer of it is that hitting the rock should have been nothing more than a glitch in the trip. We should have floated off the next day. But the central coast of BC isn't considered "rugged" for nothing. Lately it seems like the positive emotions have had more reasons to ebb than flow. Sorry, all of sailing seems to make for easy and obvious metaphors. If this were aligned with a lunar cycle, I'd say we hit a Spring Tide yesterday. Everything, for me at least, seemed to be at extra high-highs and extra low-lows, with strong currents flowing between them. Well, maybe the highs haven't been as high as the lows were low. Today feels much mellower.
But at least home is comfortable. At least cell phones work and an internet connection is already paid for along with the other household bills, and it always works. And my Starbucks chai is only a few blocks away.
Yet, inside my head and heart, there are still the glimmers of hope. Hope that we will get back on the boat next week, and still manage to eek out a little more of a northerly heading before turning back. Not all options have been explored yet. There may still be time to salvage a good chunk of the trip, if things manage to start looking up. If they actually start the repairs. If they finish when they say they will.
While we are home I can do some marketing and Scott can work on the website, getting it ready for the next stage of hopefully allowing us the boating lifestyle we want. There is never a lack of things to do, that's for sure.
I still think I've learned far too much from all of this to not keep sailing. It would seem such a waste to have a new understanding of so much, then little chance to use it. My appetite has been whet, and I don't expect the desire to be back on the boat to pass swiftly away in any current.
But at least home is comfortable. At least cell phones work and an internet connection is already paid for along with the other household bills, and it always works. And my Starbucks chai is only a few blocks away.
Yet, inside my head and heart, there are still the glimmers of hope. Hope that we will get back on the boat next week, and still manage to eek out a little more of a northerly heading before turning back. Not all options have been explored yet. There may still be time to salvage a good chunk of the trip, if things manage to start looking up. If they actually start the repairs. If they finish when they say they will.
While we are home I can do some marketing and Scott can work on the website, getting it ready for the next stage of hopefully allowing us the boating lifestyle we want. There is never a lack of things to do, that's for sure.
I still think I've learned far too much from all of this to not keep sailing. It would seem such a waste to have a new understanding of so much, then little chance to use it. My appetite has been whet, and I don't expect the desire to be back on the boat to pass swiftly away in any current.
Home for a while
So, we are back in Seattle, probably for about a week. We're very disappointed to have to be here, and a little concerned about what is going on with the boat in our absence, but financially this was our only realistic option for waiting out the repairs.
We had become a little suspicious of the boatyard at Shearwater... although we clearly dropped the ball on hassling the insurer and making sure that all connections were made there, it just seemed to us that things were moving a little more slowly and being made a little more complicated than they needed to be. Some of this we wrote off to culture... we had read that things were a little more laid-back up there and you had to be patient (although their pricing certainly doesn't give them any disadvantage to taking a few extra coffee breaks a day!). And some of it we wrote off to the remoteness of the place and the fact that things have to be shipped in, and so on, and so forth. But there was just kind of a lot of "Ah, it's late, we'll talk about it tomorrow. Or Monday" going on that may be cultural or otherwise innocent, but at the same time doesn't fail to pad their yard fees.
We heard from a fellow cruiser who had put in there and who had built his own fiberglass boat that the bulk of the repair on ours could be accomplished in about a day; three or four was what we heard from friends in the States. So when the yard said, "It's not going to be ready to start painting for a week" it sort of solidified the suspicions. Then, from a local, we heard that the yard has something of a reputation for that sort of thing and that insurers who have dealt with them before tend to have them do a quick patch and then ferry the boat elsewhere for the final repair work.
Of course, they can certainly charge what they like and take as long as they want, they are the only option inside 300 miles, and they have us over a barrel. We couldn't communicate with our adjuster sufficiently from there to talk about other options, and as they had already approved the repair work there, we decided to just let them go on it. It's disappointing to be losing so many unnecessary days from a vacation that was very difficult to arrange in the first place, but when you get down to it, the whole thing was our own damn fault, and this is a risk you run sailing in remote places.
I suppose what is hardest for us is that this part of the process is turning out to be more difficult and painful than the actual wreck was, and the more so because it really shouldn't be. But things only got harder after we got the boat in the yard and it's extremely frustrating to have no options and watch both time and money being eaten up to no end other than lining pockets.
So we'll try to take advantage of however long we are back in town to catch up on business matters and try to make a little money, and we'll worry about how long is left in our vacation window when we finally get word that the hull is done. We're not even positive that will conclude things; I checked the engine and electronics over as best I could, but it's still possible that something else is significantly broken, and we won't know for sure until it's back in the water. We'll just have to figure out what to do then.
We had become a little suspicious of the boatyard at Shearwater... although we clearly dropped the ball on hassling the insurer and making sure that all connections were made there, it just seemed to us that things were moving a little more slowly and being made a little more complicated than they needed to be. Some of this we wrote off to culture... we had read that things were a little more laid-back up there and you had to be patient (although their pricing certainly doesn't give them any disadvantage to taking a few extra coffee breaks a day!). And some of it we wrote off to the remoteness of the place and the fact that things have to be shipped in, and so on, and so forth. But there was just kind of a lot of "Ah, it's late, we'll talk about it tomorrow. Or Monday" going on that may be cultural or otherwise innocent, but at the same time doesn't fail to pad their yard fees.
We heard from a fellow cruiser who had put in there and who had built his own fiberglass boat that the bulk of the repair on ours could be accomplished in about a day; three or four was what we heard from friends in the States. So when the yard said, "It's not going to be ready to start painting for a week" it sort of solidified the suspicions. Then, from a local, we heard that the yard has something of a reputation for that sort of thing and that insurers who have dealt with them before tend to have them do a quick patch and then ferry the boat elsewhere for the final repair work.
Of course, they can certainly charge what they like and take as long as they want, they are the only option inside 300 miles, and they have us over a barrel. We couldn't communicate with our adjuster sufficiently from there to talk about other options, and as they had already approved the repair work there, we decided to just let them go on it. It's disappointing to be losing so many unnecessary days from a vacation that was very difficult to arrange in the first place, but when you get down to it, the whole thing was our own damn fault, and this is a risk you run sailing in remote places.
I suppose what is hardest for us is that this part of the process is turning out to be more difficult and painful than the actual wreck was, and the more so because it really shouldn't be. But things only got harder after we got the boat in the yard and it's extremely frustrating to have no options and watch both time and money being eaten up to no end other than lining pockets.
So we'll try to take advantage of however long we are back in town to catch up on business matters and try to make a little money, and we'll worry about how long is left in our vacation window when we finally get word that the hull is done. We're not even positive that will conclude things; I checked the engine and electronics over as best I could, but it's still possible that something else is significantly broken, and we won't know for sure until it's back in the water. We'll just have to figure out what to do then.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
And then the adventures taper off
This is just a quick update; we have to hustle and catch the water taxi over to Bella Bella in a few minutes.
After having a lot of missed connections with the insurance people last week, and some miscommunications with the boat yard, we're only just now discovering that the boat won't, even optimistically, be ready until sometime late next week. Had we known that before the weekend, and also that the insurance would not cover our lodging expenses while we can't be aboard the boat, we would have cut and run sooner. But as it is, we're just coming to all these realizations this morning, and we're getting the hell out of Shearwater. None too soon; everyone is nice, but we've seen them all far too often and frankly so much cheeriness is starting to get on our nerves while we're stuck here.
So I got us on a flight this afternoon to Vancouver, and we'll try to get to Seattle by tonight. I hope. I need a shower.
It's severely disappointing for both of us, since we had a limited amount of time in the first place, and other things were cutting into it already, and now we find that we may not have enough to keep going, to say nothing of getting the boat home. So; no decisions yet, we're just in very glum moods. Watching the Princess Cruise Line ads on the big screen here in the bar isn't helping much.
Well, more later, I imagine, unless the plane crashes, which doesn't seem all that unlikely at this point.
After having a lot of missed connections with the insurance people last week, and some miscommunications with the boat yard, we're only just now discovering that the boat won't, even optimistically, be ready until sometime late next week. Had we known that before the weekend, and also that the insurance would not cover our lodging expenses while we can't be aboard the boat, we would have cut and run sooner. But as it is, we're just coming to all these realizations this morning, and we're getting the hell out of Shearwater. None too soon; everyone is nice, but we've seen them all far too often and frankly so much cheeriness is starting to get on our nerves while we're stuck here.
So I got us on a flight this afternoon to Vancouver, and we'll try to get to Seattle by tonight. I hope. I need a shower.
It's severely disappointing for both of us, since we had a limited amount of time in the first place, and other things were cutting into it already, and now we find that we may not have enough to keep going, to say nothing of getting the boat home. So; no decisions yet, we're just in very glum moods. Watching the Princess Cruise Line ads on the big screen here in the bar isn't helping much.
Well, more later, I imagine, unless the plane crashes, which doesn't seem all that unlikely at this point.
Friday, June 13, 2008
adventures abound
Shearwater, the place we were towed to and can keep us (hostage) for as long as they choose, is an odd little place. It isn't exactly a town, but kind of a marina village. I think I've seen most of the locals at least twice already, and many of them even more. Everyone else seems to be sailors or power-boat yachters. It is sort of like Northern Exposure, but with fewer moose and more Bald Eagles, and transient boaters.
The B&B we are at is run by a British woman, and the place has certain British flare, and an odd culture mix eclecticism.
Slowly, things are looking up. Just to feel better about something this afternoon, I cleaned off the pilot berth (the highest point the water had come) and laid all the wet things out around the boat, and cleaned scrubbed the berth. It is the only clean part of the boat right now. Everything is covered in silt and dirt and salt, or still sitting in salt water. The frustrating thing is that we can't run our freshwater while we are on the blocks, so nothing can be cleaned with fresh water until we are back in the water. And, water here is not potable, so we can't refill after we do use what we've got. I don't even know where the nearest potable water is at. (Our B&B runs off a rainwater system and set a jug of drinking water out the door today while I was napping.)
We can't even empty our full bilge in the yard, so the water on the boat has to stay there until we get put back in the drink. The floorboards are swollen and grossly dirty, but nothing can be done for them at this time but listen to the squishing water under them when they are walked on.
All of our clothes are wet, except the single set we had in a dry-bag, but it seems of little use to wash and dry the rest yet when the locker they were stowed in will be cut apart when the fiberglass work begins, and there is no other dry place to put them yet. Our lodging is too far away to take them to in the meantime. We stuffed them all into plastic bags so the rest of the boat can dry out around them. If they mildew, their next stop is the laundromat anyway. Today was spent trying to empty filled storage containers of water to prohibit further rust on tools, and other small feel-good tasks.
We seemed to have lost our Dewalt drill, possibly overboard, since it was out on deck before we even grounded, trying to drill the pin out for the transmission level so we could cotter-pin a new one in place. It was out on deck, and since it was dark, it may have just been lost in the heeling-over during the night. Oh well. Other electronics are shot, as well, like the Dremel and multi-meter. Most of the stuff will dry and be fine, however. Everything else is going on the list for the insurance adjuster. I have no idea what will be covered at this time, however.
Still it seems a little surreal. I can't believe we sunk our boat. It seemed inevitable that a trip this size would have adventure of some kind, yet I was continually surprised that things could continue to escalate in the way they did. I always thought that if you sunk a boat, you must have hit something and sunk it, not hit something, waited 4 hours or so, then punctured the boat as it tipped onto a rock, then waited another few hours before you knew you punctured it, then sunk it by the water rising above you with the tide and not you "sinking" down into it. I hadn't realized how good it is to sink a boat by having the water rise above it until we were being towed over water hundreds of fathoms deep back to Shearwater and realized that if the borrowed pump quit during the trip, the boat would be unrecoverably sunk. At one point, from Grant's boat, I thought Insegrevious was getting lower and lower into the water. Grant, however, assured me it was because the Coasties were towing faster then the boat's hull speed and that was the reason it was lowering. We pulled up alongside it and I could see that it wasn't so bad after all. In fact, the Coasties said it would be a 4-hour tow, but once we hit open water they picked up speed (and worry) and kicked it up, so I'm sure we arrive in less than 3 hours.
Yet, there is much to be thankful for. Scott and I both kept our heads throughout, and stayed calm, and, with help, got things taken care of. He may say he didn't learn anything, but I learned lots and lots, and I think he probably did, too. And I don't feel too bad about it, either. Stuff like this happens. You don't know if it will happen in your first big trip out, or after 40 of trips, but it does happen. This time is was to us.
I was surprised today when he told David that we'd still make it to Alaska. His optimism sneaks up on me sometimes. At this point, I'd thought it would be a trip to central British Columbia. But if we can still make it to Alaska, well, then that's a good thing!
Oh, and I haven't mentioned yet that I've seen 5 Orca Whales. The first one scared the crap out of me. I was at the helm, under motor and auto-pilot, crossing Queen Charlotte Sound. I'd been watching for ever-present dead-heads, when suddenly there was one directly in front of me, about 50-60 feet directly in from of the bow. I ran to disengage the auto-pilot. We were in heavy swells, so everything was in sight, then out of sight again, but I couldn't spot the huge log I'd just seen until it resurfaced, and blew water straight up through her blow-hole, now about 30 yards so starboard. Scott was resting in the companionway when I shook him violently and scream-whispered, "A whale! A whale! A whale! To starboard!" He wasn't thrilled with the awakening I'd just given him. But I had fun watching the whale for another hour or so. We saw one more that day, then two the next day, then another the following day.
Very cool.
The B&B we are at is run by a British woman, and the place has certain British flare, and an odd culture mix eclecticism.
Slowly, things are looking up. Just to feel better about something this afternoon, I cleaned off the pilot berth (the highest point the water had come) and laid all the wet things out around the boat, and cleaned scrubbed the berth. It is the only clean part of the boat right now. Everything is covered in silt and dirt and salt, or still sitting in salt water. The frustrating thing is that we can't run our freshwater while we are on the blocks, so nothing can be cleaned with fresh water until we are back in the water. And, water here is not potable, so we can't refill after we do use what we've got. I don't even know where the nearest potable water is at. (Our B&B runs off a rainwater system and set a jug of drinking water out the door today while I was napping.)
We can't even empty our full bilge in the yard, so the water on the boat has to stay there until we get put back in the drink. The floorboards are swollen and grossly dirty, but nothing can be done for them at this time but listen to the squishing water under them when they are walked on.
All of our clothes are wet, except the single set we had in a dry-bag, but it seems of little use to wash and dry the rest yet when the locker they were stowed in will be cut apart when the fiberglass work begins, and there is no other dry place to put them yet. Our lodging is too far away to take them to in the meantime. We stuffed them all into plastic bags so the rest of the boat can dry out around them. If they mildew, their next stop is the laundromat anyway. Today was spent trying to empty filled storage containers of water to prohibit further rust on tools, and other small feel-good tasks.
We seemed to have lost our Dewalt drill, possibly overboard, since it was out on deck before we even grounded, trying to drill the pin out for the transmission level so we could cotter-pin a new one in place. It was out on deck, and since it was dark, it may have just been lost in the heeling-over during the night. Oh well. Other electronics are shot, as well, like the Dremel and multi-meter. Most of the stuff will dry and be fine, however. Everything else is going on the list for the insurance adjuster. I have no idea what will be covered at this time, however.
Still it seems a little surreal. I can't believe we sunk our boat. It seemed inevitable that a trip this size would have adventure of some kind, yet I was continually surprised that things could continue to escalate in the way they did. I always thought that if you sunk a boat, you must have hit something and sunk it, not hit something, waited 4 hours or so, then punctured the boat as it tipped onto a rock, then waited another few hours before you knew you punctured it, then sunk it by the water rising above you with the tide and not you "sinking" down into it. I hadn't realized how good it is to sink a boat by having the water rise above it until we were being towed over water hundreds of fathoms deep back to Shearwater and realized that if the borrowed pump quit during the trip, the boat would be unrecoverably sunk. At one point, from Grant's boat, I thought Insegrevious was getting lower and lower into the water. Grant, however, assured me it was because the Coasties were towing faster then the boat's hull speed and that was the reason it was lowering. We pulled up alongside it and I could see that it wasn't so bad after all. In fact, the Coasties said it would be a 4-hour tow, but once we hit open water they picked up speed (and worry) and kicked it up, so I'm sure we arrive in less than 3 hours.
Yet, there is much to be thankful for. Scott and I both kept our heads throughout, and stayed calm, and, with help, got things taken care of. He may say he didn't learn anything, but I learned lots and lots, and I think he probably did, too. And I don't feel too bad about it, either. Stuff like this happens. You don't know if it will happen in your first big trip out, or after 40 of trips, but it does happen. This time is was to us.
I was surprised today when he told David that we'd still make it to Alaska. His optimism sneaks up on me sometimes. At this point, I'd thought it would be a trip to central British Columbia. But if we can still make it to Alaska, well, then that's a good thing!
Oh, and I haven't mentioned yet that I've seen 5 Orca Whales. The first one scared the crap out of me. I was at the helm, under motor and auto-pilot, crossing Queen Charlotte Sound. I'd been watching for ever-present dead-heads, when suddenly there was one directly in front of me, about 50-60 feet directly in from of the bow. I ran to disengage the auto-pilot. We were in heavy swells, so everything was in sight, then out of sight again, but I couldn't spot the huge log I'd just seen until it resurfaced, and blew water straight up through her blow-hole, now about 30 yards so starboard. Scott was resting in the companionway when I shook him violently and scream-whispered, "A whale! A whale! A whale! To starboard!" He wasn't thrilled with the awakening I'd just given him. But I had fun watching the whale for another hour or so. We saw one more that day, then two the next day, then another the following day.
Very cool.
Random updates and backstory
The bed and breakfast we have moved to is quite nice, and has an excellent view north out over the bay. It is about ten minutes walk up the hill from the marina and shipyard. As Mandy says, there are pluses and minuses to being further away.
We spent an hour or so on her this morning, laying things out to dry, emptying water out of various places not previously discovered, and salvaging what we could. One benefit to the B&B is that it has a kitchen, so we were able to get some food off and save our perishables. On the whole, however, there isn't much we can do until the shipyard staff does their thing—they'll need in and out and while they are helping us dry out with a heater and wet/dry vacs, we won't be able to get everything sorted out and tested until we're back in the water. Right now, we're still waiting for some information from the insurance company.
Everyone is extraordinarily sympathetic here; “Oh, we've run up on the rocks before too,” said our B&B host, and the Coasties gave me a brief tour of the shipyard pointing out the other vessels they have hauled in this year, mostly commercial fish boats.
Mandy is feeling more grim today and I am about the same as before. I am confident the hull can be made good as new, or better, but it's an open question what damage might have been done to the engine. I'm not clear on what the insurance will or won't cover, either.
It's finally stopped raining and the sun is out, which certainly helps from the drying-out perspective. But there are a lot of things we want to rinse with freshwater and re-dry as well, so another day of rain might not have been altogether bad. On the plus side, they can do the glasswork out in the yard if it's dry... otherwise, they want to remove the mast and take her into the shop, an old airplane hangar left over from when this was a WWII seaplane patrol base. I'm not keen on taking the mast down; it's one thing, at least, I know is undamaged after all the excitement and I would like to keep it that way.
Speaking of excitement; the day before we went on the rocks, we had an energetic afternoon out on Queen's Sound, splashing about in the leftover swells and wind from a low which had just passed through, with the idea that we would cut outside the channels and get a good straight day or two of clear sailing up toward Prince Rupert. The result was everything you expect open ocean sailing to be: blue skies, big waves, spray, breakers, fun stuff. Only I didn't get to enjoy it much because I spent most of the time heaving over the side like a lubber.
The incident confirmed something I have suspected for a while, which is that I don't get seasick very easily, but when I do, it is quite severe. I find myself almost incapacitated with weakness, which simply is unacceptable on a two person boat. Mandy gets sick easily (although, above deck and at the helm the whole time, she did not on that day) but then she pukes and can function again. I keep heaving the whole time, getting weaker and weaker even after my stomach is empty.
The worst part is that I had done everything I could think of to head off the very possibility this time: I had a good filling meal, took anti-nausea medication, didn't move around much or suddenly after we got into the swells. But I did have to go below to don some gear, and that's when it started, and after that it was all downhill.
This is tremendously disappointing to our aspirations to sail more and farther; it's just too risky for one of us to be that far gone. Mandy probably wouldn't have lasted another hour or two in those seas, and what if she went overboard or something (although I made her clip in with a safety line as soon as she took the helm)? Although I enjoy all of this quite a lot (apart from vomiting and wrecking the boat) I'm beginning to wonder if I am cut out for it.
At any rate, we ended up cutting back into Kildidt Sound, a beautiful little place we would not otherwise have seen on the coast of Hunter Island, and then back into Fitzhugh Sound via Nalau Passage. We kept north up Fitzhugh as we had the days before and then cut up Lama Passage and through Seaforth Channel to where we eventually got in trouble in Boat Inlet.
We stopped, coincidentally, for lunch here in Shearwater on the way and ran into a solution to a mystery while we were here. The S/V Spirit, belonging to David and Jo out of Helena, MT, was also at the dock, and we stopped and chatted with them for a while. Turns out they have two other friends who are heading north with them who they had somehow lost a week ago, but who also are named Scott and Mandy. Sometime after we finished talking with them and left, we heard a hail on the radio: “Amanda Grace, Amanda Grace, Amanda Grace, this is Spirit calling.” It's a very familiar hail; we've been hearing it randomly for a week, but it took hearing it again to out two and two together: Spirit has been David and Jo, and they are looking for their friends Scott and Mandy, no doubt aboard the Amanda Grace.
We ran into David again this morning at the laundromat and gave him most of our sordid tale; we'll get together over drinks later probably. They had seen the yacht being towed in and heard the story (the whole town knew about the entire thing, in shocking detail, before we were even out of the slings of the travel lift. I had forgotten that about small towns) but hadn't realized it was us.
I had not realized until this afternoon that it was Friday, and they don't work weekends here. I had heard that the pace is a bit slower than city folk are used to, and it is, and I'm trying to adjust... although I notice that they don't charge any less for the time than those faster folks back in the city do. Hopefully the insurance will cover everything, or that's what I am clinging to in order to stay happy and confident. So, we have another three days at least up on the hard... an enforced vacation from our vacation, I suppose. But there is plenty that we can do aboard, checking the engine, drying things out, cleaning up, and that should keep us occupied for a while. Not to mention washing and drying every single item of clothing to our names here.
Internet connection is really terrible and quite expensive, so we probably won't get a lot more updates out until we leave.
We spent an hour or so on her this morning, laying things out to dry, emptying water out of various places not previously discovered, and salvaging what we could. One benefit to the B&B is that it has a kitchen, so we were able to get some food off and save our perishables. On the whole, however, there isn't much we can do until the shipyard staff does their thing—they'll need in and out and while they are helping us dry out with a heater and wet/dry vacs, we won't be able to get everything sorted out and tested until we're back in the water. Right now, we're still waiting for some information from the insurance company.
Everyone is extraordinarily sympathetic here; “Oh, we've run up on the rocks before too,” said our B&B host, and the Coasties gave me a brief tour of the shipyard pointing out the other vessels they have hauled in this year, mostly commercial fish boats.
Mandy is feeling more grim today and I am about the same as before. I am confident the hull can be made good as new, or better, but it's an open question what damage might have been done to the engine. I'm not clear on what the insurance will or won't cover, either.
It's finally stopped raining and the sun is out, which certainly helps from the drying-out perspective. But there are a lot of things we want to rinse with freshwater and re-dry as well, so another day of rain might not have been altogether bad. On the plus side, they can do the glasswork out in the yard if it's dry... otherwise, they want to remove the mast and take her into the shop, an old airplane hangar left over from when this was a WWII seaplane patrol base. I'm not keen on taking the mast down; it's one thing, at least, I know is undamaged after all the excitement and I would like to keep it that way.
Speaking of excitement; the day before we went on the rocks, we had an energetic afternoon out on Queen's Sound, splashing about in the leftover swells and wind from a low which had just passed through, with the idea that we would cut outside the channels and get a good straight day or two of clear sailing up toward Prince Rupert. The result was everything you expect open ocean sailing to be: blue skies, big waves, spray, breakers, fun stuff. Only I didn't get to enjoy it much because I spent most of the time heaving over the side like a lubber.
The incident confirmed something I have suspected for a while, which is that I don't get seasick very easily, but when I do, it is quite severe. I find myself almost incapacitated with weakness, which simply is unacceptable on a two person boat. Mandy gets sick easily (although, above deck and at the helm the whole time, she did not on that day) but then she pukes and can function again. I keep heaving the whole time, getting weaker and weaker even after my stomach is empty.
The worst part is that I had done everything I could think of to head off the very possibility this time: I had a good filling meal, took anti-nausea medication, didn't move around much or suddenly after we got into the swells. But I did have to go below to don some gear, and that's when it started, and after that it was all downhill.
This is tremendously disappointing to our aspirations to sail more and farther; it's just too risky for one of us to be that far gone. Mandy probably wouldn't have lasted another hour or two in those seas, and what if she went overboard or something (although I made her clip in with a safety line as soon as she took the helm)? Although I enjoy all of this quite a lot (apart from vomiting and wrecking the boat) I'm beginning to wonder if I am cut out for it.
At any rate, we ended up cutting back into Kildidt Sound, a beautiful little place we would not otherwise have seen on the coast of Hunter Island, and then back into Fitzhugh Sound via Nalau Passage. We kept north up Fitzhugh as we had the days before and then cut up Lama Passage and through Seaforth Channel to where we eventually got in trouble in Boat Inlet.
We stopped, coincidentally, for lunch here in Shearwater on the way and ran into a solution to a mystery while we were here. The S/V Spirit, belonging to David and Jo out of Helena, MT, was also at the dock, and we stopped and chatted with them for a while. Turns out they have two other friends who are heading north with them who they had somehow lost a week ago, but who also are named Scott and Mandy. Sometime after we finished talking with them and left, we heard a hail on the radio: “Amanda Grace, Amanda Grace, Amanda Grace, this is Spirit calling.” It's a very familiar hail; we've been hearing it randomly for a week, but it took hearing it again to out two and two together: Spirit has been David and Jo, and they are looking for their friends Scott and Mandy, no doubt aboard the Amanda Grace.
We ran into David again this morning at the laundromat and gave him most of our sordid tale; we'll get together over drinks later probably. They had seen the yacht being towed in and heard the story (the whole town knew about the entire thing, in shocking detail, before we were even out of the slings of the travel lift. I had forgotten that about small towns) but hadn't realized it was us.
I had not realized until this afternoon that it was Friday, and they don't work weekends here. I had heard that the pace is a bit slower than city folk are used to, and it is, and I'm trying to adjust... although I notice that they don't charge any less for the time than those faster folks back in the city do. Hopefully the insurance will cover everything, or that's what I am clinging to in order to stay happy and confident. So, we have another three days at least up on the hard... an enforced vacation from our vacation, I suppose. But there is plenty that we can do aboard, checking the engine, drying things out, cleaning up, and that should keep us occupied for a while. Not to mention washing and drying every single item of clothing to our names here.
Internet connection is really terrible and quite expensive, so we probably won't get a lot more updates out until we leave.
Something Broke
So, before I get started, I want to reassure everyone that Mandy and I are fine and indeed are the very picture of health, and the boat is still more or less in one piece and somewhat floatable. We're in Shearwater, on the north BC coast, probably for a few days, but have very limited communications capability, so please don't try calling, and e-mail may be a while in being answered.
We lead into this unfortunate turn of events with the classic failure cascade: a number of small, inconsequential, seemingly unrelated things going wrong in sequence which compound one another into outright catastrophe.
In this case, it started with the transmission lever.
I had just dropped sails shortly after sunset, as we rode the dying winds into a narrow, protected inlet a few hours north of Bella Bella on the Central BC coast. As is our practice, I had started the engine prior to pulling the sails down, just to make sure that it DID start and to give it a little time to warm up before using it for anything. It ran fine, as it has been the whole trip.
However, when I pushed the gear shift lever into "forward" the whole thing broke right off in my hand; the screw connecting the lever to the bar going into the binnacle had sheered off even with the bar, leaving no purchase whatsoever to shift with. It had, however, gone into forward gear prior to breaking, so I had some headway; this, at least, was different from the scenario which sprang immediately into my mind, which is a cold nightmare based on the last time this happened, which didn't involve the lever breaking, but rather the cable snapping inside the binnacle, and didn't shift into gear at all, and didn't take place in a remote Canadian wilderness with clear navigable waters ahead, but rather mid-way beneath the open leaves of the Fremont Bridge. But that's another story.
At any rate, with steerageway from the prop and nothing in front of our mast, I wasn't too worried; I call for Mandy on deck and had her fiddle with the bar for a while, but neither she nor I could get purchase with any of our tools to lever it back into neutral, or to reverse, which we needed to properly set our anchor for the evening. My thinking at that point was that we would simply continue to motor into the anchorage, slowly, and pitch the anchor over at first without setting it; that would glue us in place at least for a while to work on a fix, and the cove we were in was extremely protected and safe enough to sit on an unset anchor for a while.
So; my next concern was that it was night, and the entrance was very narrow, and several rocks were noted prominently on the chart. I had already threaded my way past several, but I put Mandy on the bow to watch for any uncharted or misplaced boulders. The two prominently marked with asterisks on the chart were both at the starboard side of the channel, so I hugged the port side... failing to notice the less prominent color gradation (particularly with the dim lighting) to port which marked shoal waters.
Nonetheless, I had one eye on the depthsounder, and it didn't look suspicious; it was holding at around 7 feet, which isn't a lot of clearance for a boat which draws 5'5", but which was the controlling depth marked on the chart, and thus expected. So I was a little surprised when Mandy hollered back from the bow, "What depth are we at?"
The answer, provided seconds later as we ground up onto the rocks at one and a half knots, was "Not enough."
Here is where the failures began to compound; distracted by the transmission problem, we hadn't sufficiently heeded our course in the first place. And now aground, our first and best option, reversing immediately, was unavailable.
We grabbed the boat hook and ran forward to try to pole off. That didn't work. Next, we rigged our spare anchor at the stern and Mandy rowed it out a hundred yards astern, in clear water, so we could attempt to kedge off. Winching the anchor in instead simply cleared a vast channel of leafy green seaweed from the bottom, finding no purchase and returning a veritable salad as the anchor came back over the side. Next, Mandy simply rowed the line across the narrow channel and tied it to a sturdy tree instead, but by this time, we were listing badly on the falling tide and were hard, hard aground, and nothing was getting us off.
I had been concerned from the outset that our list was to starboard, as was the remaining open water of the channel, and that the tide was due to fall more than ten feet that night. If our keel stayed on the rock it was on, we risked tipping over entirely into the empty water to starboard. So, as I had Mandy off rowing about, I was freshening up our ditch bags: waterproof bags we had prepacked with some vital items, to which I added more flares, our handheld radio, batteries, food, flashlights, additional clothes... anything I could think of. And I got on the radio and put out a "Pan-Pan" call; a step below a Mayday, pan-pan is a request for non-urgent help, or for assistance which may be required to prevent a situation from becoming urgent.
I got an immediate response from Prince Rupert Coast Guard, who used their powerful transmitter to put out a marine assistance request for any nearby boats to come to our aid, and tasked the Bella Bella rescue crew to respond to our location. They were about forty minutes out and they were all the help I expected; this far north, it's unusual for anyone to be very nearby.
By the time the Coast Guard Zodiac showed up, it was clear that there was in fact a boulder to starboard which would prevent our overturning that night, and we were too hard aground for them to pull us off without significant damage at that point, if in fact they could get us off at all. After some discussion, we all agreed that we were secure for the night and that we would simply have to wait for high tide in the morning to refloat us, at which time we would try to kedge off again. Mandy hauled back all the ditch bags I had sent to shore with her, and tried to get to sleep in the V-berth.
I stayed up until 3AM, low tide, and hopped off to take a look around; my next big concern was that somehow the rudder was also hung up or damaged. It was not, however, and the only apparent damage was largely cosmetic scraping at the base of the keel. The hull/keel join we had patched when we hauled out and painted in April was still solid--no signs of stress whatsoever. I was feeling pretty optimistic after the walk-around; we were supported solidly and although morning high tide might not be enough to lift us off, there was another later in the afternoon which almost certainly would. I didn't have much doubt that we would be able to get ourselves free, and most likely continue directly with our trip. I went back aboard and curled up in the pocket formed by the 45 degree tilt of the starboard settee and tried to catch some sleep before an 0830 wake-up to catch the rising tide.
I instead woke around 6 with the insistent cold lapping of water at my lower back; the boat was flooded up to the level of the settee.
I hopped up and woke Mandy. After my inspection the night before, the water was a particularly rude shock: the hull hadn't appeared to have been breached at all. I had closed all the thru-hulls or plugged those in seemingly risky locations without valves in order to prevent water somehow entering them before we were floating upright again... I wasn't too worried about this, however, as nothing similar had happened at the geometries we had dropped at, and it seemed likely we would rise at the same angles. My immediate conclusion, then, was that the keel was somehow stuck and those seemingly safe thru-hulls were beneath the surface now and downflooding, or that something else had failed, possibly the rudder shaft as we came somewhat upright.
I broke out our manual pump and a bucket, and sent Mandy flying ashore with the drybags yet again. She also plugged the remaining thru-hulls; but the water level continued to increase. Worse luck, the starboard side was also where our electric bilge pumps emptied... they would be useless.
I got on the horn to Prince Rupert Coast Guard again and got an icy feeling in the pit of my stomach as I failed to raise them after three calls. I switched my battery selector to chain both banks to increase my transmit power, but with the mast tilted low and our antenna with it, coverage was bound to be bad. Finally, I managed to get a response, but it was very broken and I could only hope they were copying me better than I was them.
They came back after an interminable amount of pumping and bailing to announce that the Bella Bella boat was on its way back out again. Mandy came back aboard, and there was nothing for it but to bail at that point--the boat was too full of water even when we first noticed to easily find the source of the leak, and all we could do was try to keep upright until the Coast Guard, with their powerful gas-powered pumps, could arrive.
We did, and they did; but to everyone's surprise, the 80-litre per minute pump was able to only barely keep up with the flooding. A lot of water was coming in, and none of us could figure out from where. The Coast Guard crew hailed a Fisheries Patrol boat and had them pick up another pump and run it out... another half hour of agonizing bailing and intense concentration trying to figure out where the water was coming from. We would gain on it for a while, come more upright, then suddenly take on more and sink again. It was baffling.
Finally, with the second pump operating, we managed to get ahead of the flow and, clearly concerned, the Coasties rigged a towing harness and yanked us none to gently off the shoals.
I was feeling pretty good at getting off, with an apparent minimum of damage to the underbody, still thinking that the problem had been some sort of quirky downflooding from some thru-hull which should, now that we were off the rocks and upright, be above the waterline.
Then Mandy spotted the gaping hole in our starboard side.
We got some loose junk stuffed into it; the Coast Guard rescue specialist, a fellow named Paul who had also been out the night before, asked if we had a tarp, which we did, but then it wasn't clear how to rig it to patch the hull. I had some 5-minute, underwater setting epoxy aboard, for just this purpose, and we broke it out and cut a patch from the tarp... but then, stupidly, set it inside against the hull, where the pressure kept the epoxy from setting against the hull. We should have done it on the exterior, difficult as that might have been. But the epoxy was all gone and we were managing to keep the stream down to where one pump could manage it, and the Coasties, now past the point where they were bothering to pretend this was nothing outside their ordinary day or nothing to be overly concerned with, immediately got underway towing us back toward the boatyard at Shearwater; our only real hope, the closest travelift which could pull our hull clear of the water.
Another boat from nearby had appeared as we were being pulled off the rocks; Tesuji, a converted fishing smack owned by a fellow named Grant who was cruising nearby and heard the calls and decided to standby. This was a good call on his part; the Coast Guard had only an open Zodiac, their main station lifeboat having had an engine go down the day before, so he was able to take Mandy aboard and let her warm up as she began to get hypothermic.
It was raining to beat hell and the Coasties were motoring fast and the leaking increased as we left protected waters and started pounding through the ocean swells. I had my hands full trying to keep the hole plugged; and the single gas pump that was left aboard was no longer keeping up, and I was forced to run our own bilge pump to keep the water level down.
I'm not even sure how long the tow was; I just know it was depressing covering all the same ground I had sailed up the day before in reverse. I just shifted between checking the water level, patching the hole, watching the tow line, and checking the hand-held GPS.
The yard had the travel lift ready and in place by the time we got there and we drifted right in and they picked Insegrevious right up and finally, it was over.
What seems clear now is that when the boat settled to starboard in the night, there was some unseen prominence on the rock on which it impaled itself. Because it was hidden atop the rock, I didn't see it on my 3AM survey, and while I checked the locker that the gash (an ugly, unclean, splintered thing perhaps two feet in diameter; although the total opening is not that large) was in when trying to locate the leak, I concentrated on the thru-hull in that location, and missed the hole behind other floating junk. The reason we would get ahead and then suddenly take on more water was likely that the hole was mostly plugged by the rock that made it when we were flooded and heavy, and then came open as we pumped out and bouyancy lifted us off it.
Over, then, except that we have a lot of work ahead of us, and an uncertain future. We're in a cramped hotel room at the Shearwater Marina Resort right now; we had some food, got warmed up, and Mandy called the insurance agent. The people here are wonderful; from Grant, to Paul and Randy, the Coast Guardsmen who responded this morning, to Al the boatyard manager and Rick the "best fiberglass guy on the coast," everyone has been terrific to us. This morning, they're moving us up to a B&B with a hot tub, no less.
But it's quite a blow, nonetheless. I am happy that we are both safe, and that in the end the damage to the boat appears rather minimal--two feet is not a huge patch, and happily not much more than our clothes and tools were soaked... the electronics were largely spared by fate of location, and while the engine was partially immersed, I have reason to believe it was not significantly or permanently damaged. If it ever stops raining, the interior may even dry out someday.
I'm glad we were able to work together successfully and not give up, and to keep afloat long enough for help to arrive. I think Mandy probably though I as giving up any number of times through the night; but I rather thought of it as preparing to not give up on the next phase of the struggle. We never feared for our own safety. I was confident we could get easily ashore if she went down and that we had enough to survive with and to hail rescuers if need be, even if I had to hike over to the main channel to do so. At the same time, it was a roller coaster of being confident in our chances at keeping afloat, and then being certain we were going to have to pull ourselves ashore.
But the blow isn't what went well, it's that it happened at all. Of anyone I know, I am perhaps the most cognizant, and even over-cautious about those failure cascades that lead to these circumstances, and yet when faced with one, I was unable to break myself out of its clutches. If the events of the previous day, which I'll go into later, hadn't already suggested that I am a rank amateur who is clearly not cut out for this business of sailing, this would certainly have called my base competence into question. A lot of people have bad luck; very few of them sink their boats. And this wasn't bad luck, but bad judgement, which is certainly disappointing and perhaps unforgivable. Do we learn from such events? Perhaps, but there is certainly a limit on what one may learn compared to what damage one may comfortably tolerate to one's self, loved ones, and possessions.
I am not sure that I learned much new, at any rate, which is the real disappointment. While unquestionably an adventure, most of what I did wrong, I knew was wrong already. Yet I did it anyway; and risked myself and the girl I love the most, while not even consciously considering those risks.
At any rate, it's been a long couple of days. The boat is safe, we are safe, and tomorrow we'll face the butcher's bill and find out whether or not we may continue in such time as we have left.
We lead into this unfortunate turn of events with the classic failure cascade: a number of small, inconsequential, seemingly unrelated things going wrong in sequence which compound one another into outright catastrophe.
In this case, it started with the transmission lever.
I had just dropped sails shortly after sunset, as we rode the dying winds into a narrow, protected inlet a few hours north of Bella Bella on the Central BC coast. As is our practice, I had started the engine prior to pulling the sails down, just to make sure that it DID start and to give it a little time to warm up before using it for anything. It ran fine, as it has been the whole trip.
However, when I pushed the gear shift lever into "forward" the whole thing broke right off in my hand; the screw connecting the lever to the bar going into the binnacle had sheered off even with the bar, leaving no purchase whatsoever to shift with. It had, however, gone into forward gear prior to breaking, so I had some headway; this, at least, was different from the scenario which sprang immediately into my mind, which is a cold nightmare based on the last time this happened, which didn't involve the lever breaking, but rather the cable snapping inside the binnacle, and didn't shift into gear at all, and didn't take place in a remote Canadian wilderness with clear navigable waters ahead, but rather mid-way beneath the open leaves of the Fremont Bridge. But that's another story.
At any rate, with steerageway from the prop and nothing in front of our mast, I wasn't too worried; I call for Mandy on deck and had her fiddle with the bar for a while, but neither she nor I could get purchase with any of our tools to lever it back into neutral, or to reverse, which we needed to properly set our anchor for the evening. My thinking at that point was that we would simply continue to motor into the anchorage, slowly, and pitch the anchor over at first without setting it; that would glue us in place at least for a while to work on a fix, and the cove we were in was extremely protected and safe enough to sit on an unset anchor for a while.
So; my next concern was that it was night, and the entrance was very narrow, and several rocks were noted prominently on the chart. I had already threaded my way past several, but I put Mandy on the bow to watch for any uncharted or misplaced boulders. The two prominently marked with asterisks on the chart were both at the starboard side of the channel, so I hugged the port side... failing to notice the less prominent color gradation (particularly with the dim lighting) to port which marked shoal waters.
Nonetheless, I had one eye on the depthsounder, and it didn't look suspicious; it was holding at around 7 feet, which isn't a lot of clearance for a boat which draws 5'5", but which was the controlling depth marked on the chart, and thus expected. So I was a little surprised when Mandy hollered back from the bow, "What depth are we at?"
The answer, provided seconds later as we ground up onto the rocks at one and a half knots, was "Not enough."
Here is where the failures began to compound; distracted by the transmission problem, we hadn't sufficiently heeded our course in the first place. And now aground, our first and best option, reversing immediately, was unavailable.
We grabbed the boat hook and ran forward to try to pole off. That didn't work. Next, we rigged our spare anchor at the stern and Mandy rowed it out a hundred yards astern, in clear water, so we could attempt to kedge off. Winching the anchor in instead simply cleared a vast channel of leafy green seaweed from the bottom, finding no purchase and returning a veritable salad as the anchor came back over the side. Next, Mandy simply rowed the line across the narrow channel and tied it to a sturdy tree instead, but by this time, we were listing badly on the falling tide and were hard, hard aground, and nothing was getting us off.
I had been concerned from the outset that our list was to starboard, as was the remaining open water of the channel, and that the tide was due to fall more than ten feet that night. If our keel stayed on the rock it was on, we risked tipping over entirely into the empty water to starboard. So, as I had Mandy off rowing about, I was freshening up our ditch bags: waterproof bags we had prepacked with some vital items, to which I added more flares, our handheld radio, batteries, food, flashlights, additional clothes... anything I could think of. And I got on the radio and put out a "Pan-Pan" call; a step below a Mayday, pan-pan is a request for non-urgent help, or for assistance which may be required to prevent a situation from becoming urgent.
I got an immediate response from Prince Rupert Coast Guard, who used their powerful transmitter to put out a marine assistance request for any nearby boats to come to our aid, and tasked the Bella Bella rescue crew to respond to our location. They were about forty minutes out and they were all the help I expected; this far north, it's unusual for anyone to be very nearby.
By the time the Coast Guard Zodiac showed up, it was clear that there was in fact a boulder to starboard which would prevent our overturning that night, and we were too hard aground for them to pull us off without significant damage at that point, if in fact they could get us off at all. After some discussion, we all agreed that we were secure for the night and that we would simply have to wait for high tide in the morning to refloat us, at which time we would try to kedge off again. Mandy hauled back all the ditch bags I had sent to shore with her, and tried to get to sleep in the V-berth.
I stayed up until 3AM, low tide, and hopped off to take a look around; my next big concern was that somehow the rudder was also hung up or damaged. It was not, however, and the only apparent damage was largely cosmetic scraping at the base of the keel. The hull/keel join we had patched when we hauled out and painted in April was still solid--no signs of stress whatsoever. I was feeling pretty optimistic after the walk-around; we were supported solidly and although morning high tide might not be enough to lift us off, there was another later in the afternoon which almost certainly would. I didn't have much doubt that we would be able to get ourselves free, and most likely continue directly with our trip. I went back aboard and curled up in the pocket formed by the 45 degree tilt of the starboard settee and tried to catch some sleep before an 0830 wake-up to catch the rising tide.
I instead woke around 6 with the insistent cold lapping of water at my lower back; the boat was flooded up to the level of the settee.
I hopped up and woke Mandy. After my inspection the night before, the water was a particularly rude shock: the hull hadn't appeared to have been breached at all. I had closed all the thru-hulls or plugged those in seemingly risky locations without valves in order to prevent water somehow entering them before we were floating upright again... I wasn't too worried about this, however, as nothing similar had happened at the geometries we had dropped at, and it seemed likely we would rise at the same angles. My immediate conclusion, then, was that the keel was somehow stuck and those seemingly safe thru-hulls were beneath the surface now and downflooding, or that something else had failed, possibly the rudder shaft as we came somewhat upright.
I broke out our manual pump and a bucket, and sent Mandy flying ashore with the drybags yet again. She also plugged the remaining thru-hulls; but the water level continued to increase. Worse luck, the starboard side was also where our electric bilge pumps emptied... they would be useless.
I got on the horn to Prince Rupert Coast Guard again and got an icy feeling in the pit of my stomach as I failed to raise them after three calls. I switched my battery selector to chain both banks to increase my transmit power, but with the mast tilted low and our antenna with it, coverage was bound to be bad. Finally, I managed to get a response, but it was very broken and I could only hope they were copying me better than I was them.
They came back after an interminable amount of pumping and bailing to announce that the Bella Bella boat was on its way back out again. Mandy came back aboard, and there was nothing for it but to bail at that point--the boat was too full of water even when we first noticed to easily find the source of the leak, and all we could do was try to keep upright until the Coast Guard, with their powerful gas-powered pumps, could arrive.
We did, and they did; but to everyone's surprise, the 80-litre per minute pump was able to only barely keep up with the flooding. A lot of water was coming in, and none of us could figure out from where. The Coast Guard crew hailed a Fisheries Patrol boat and had them pick up another pump and run it out... another half hour of agonizing bailing and intense concentration trying to figure out where the water was coming from. We would gain on it for a while, come more upright, then suddenly take on more and sink again. It was baffling.
Finally, with the second pump operating, we managed to get ahead of the flow and, clearly concerned, the Coasties rigged a towing harness and yanked us none to gently off the shoals.
I was feeling pretty good at getting off, with an apparent minimum of damage to the underbody, still thinking that the problem had been some sort of quirky downflooding from some thru-hull which should, now that we were off the rocks and upright, be above the waterline.
Then Mandy spotted the gaping hole in our starboard side.
We got some loose junk stuffed into it; the Coast Guard rescue specialist, a fellow named Paul who had also been out the night before, asked if we had a tarp, which we did, but then it wasn't clear how to rig it to patch the hull. I had some 5-minute, underwater setting epoxy aboard, for just this purpose, and we broke it out and cut a patch from the tarp... but then, stupidly, set it inside against the hull, where the pressure kept the epoxy from setting against the hull. We should have done it on the exterior, difficult as that might have been. But the epoxy was all gone and we were managing to keep the stream down to where one pump could manage it, and the Coasties, now past the point where they were bothering to pretend this was nothing outside their ordinary day or nothing to be overly concerned with, immediately got underway towing us back toward the boatyard at Shearwater; our only real hope, the closest travelift which could pull our hull clear of the water.
Another boat from nearby had appeared as we were being pulled off the rocks; Tesuji, a converted fishing smack owned by a fellow named Grant who was cruising nearby and heard the calls and decided to standby. This was a good call on his part; the Coast Guard had only an open Zodiac, their main station lifeboat having had an engine go down the day before, so he was able to take Mandy aboard and let her warm up as she began to get hypothermic.
It was raining to beat hell and the Coasties were motoring fast and the leaking increased as we left protected waters and started pounding through the ocean swells. I had my hands full trying to keep the hole plugged; and the single gas pump that was left aboard was no longer keeping up, and I was forced to run our own bilge pump to keep the water level down.
I'm not even sure how long the tow was; I just know it was depressing covering all the same ground I had sailed up the day before in reverse. I just shifted between checking the water level, patching the hole, watching the tow line, and checking the hand-held GPS.
The yard had the travel lift ready and in place by the time we got there and we drifted right in and they picked Insegrevious right up and finally, it was over.
What seems clear now is that when the boat settled to starboard in the night, there was some unseen prominence on the rock on which it impaled itself. Because it was hidden atop the rock, I didn't see it on my 3AM survey, and while I checked the locker that the gash (an ugly, unclean, splintered thing perhaps two feet in diameter; although the total opening is not that large) was in when trying to locate the leak, I concentrated on the thru-hull in that location, and missed the hole behind other floating junk. The reason we would get ahead and then suddenly take on more water was likely that the hole was mostly plugged by the rock that made it when we were flooded and heavy, and then came open as we pumped out and bouyancy lifted us off it.
Over, then, except that we have a lot of work ahead of us, and an uncertain future. We're in a cramped hotel room at the Shearwater Marina Resort right now; we had some food, got warmed up, and Mandy called the insurance agent. The people here are wonderful; from Grant, to Paul and Randy, the Coast Guardsmen who responded this morning, to Al the boatyard manager and Rick the "best fiberglass guy on the coast," everyone has been terrific to us. This morning, they're moving us up to a B&B with a hot tub, no less.
But it's quite a blow, nonetheless. I am happy that we are both safe, and that in the end the damage to the boat appears rather minimal--two feet is not a huge patch, and happily not much more than our clothes and tools were soaked... the electronics were largely spared by fate of location, and while the engine was partially immersed, I have reason to believe it was not significantly or permanently damaged. If it ever stops raining, the interior may even dry out someday.
I'm glad we were able to work together successfully and not give up, and to keep afloat long enough for help to arrive. I think Mandy probably though I as giving up any number of times through the night; but I rather thought of it as preparing to not give up on the next phase of the struggle. We never feared for our own safety. I was confident we could get easily ashore if she went down and that we had enough to survive with and to hail rescuers if need be, even if I had to hike over to the main channel to do so. At the same time, it was a roller coaster of being confident in our chances at keeping afloat, and then being certain we were going to have to pull ourselves ashore.
But the blow isn't what went well, it's that it happened at all. Of anyone I know, I am perhaps the most cognizant, and even over-cautious about those failure cascades that lead to these circumstances, and yet when faced with one, I was unable to break myself out of its clutches. If the events of the previous day, which I'll go into later, hadn't already suggested that I am a rank amateur who is clearly not cut out for this business of sailing, this would certainly have called my base competence into question. A lot of people have bad luck; very few of them sink their boats. And this wasn't bad luck, but bad judgement, which is certainly disappointing and perhaps unforgivable. Do we learn from such events? Perhaps, but there is certainly a limit on what one may learn compared to what damage one may comfortably tolerate to one's self, loved ones, and possessions.
I am not sure that I learned much new, at any rate, which is the real disappointment. While unquestionably an adventure, most of what I did wrong, I knew was wrong already. Yet I did it anyway; and risked myself and the girl I love the most, while not even consciously considering those risks.
At any rate, it's been a long couple of days. The boat is safe, we are safe, and tomorrow we'll face the butcher's bill and find out whether or not we may continue in such time as we have left.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Mandy back okay
Although a little queasy after a bumpy ride up; the wind is still blowing like crazy, I imagine the plane got tossed around substantially on the way up from Seattle.
I would have posted sooner, but we have been suffering a lot of power outages up here. Last night it was out for most of the night, and today again for several hours. Word on the street is a transformer blew last night, but no one knows what is going on today. It's back now, but I wouldn't be surprised if it goes out again at any time.
We'll be pulling out in the morning. Please no one freak out if you don't see anything here for a few weeks; there is nothing to speak of between here and Prince Rupert, almost 300 miles north, and we're not going to push getting there, so it will take a while before we have any means of communicating again. If I get a chance tonight and power holds out I'll put up more details about our route, but don't count on anything!
Thursday, June 5, 2008
I don't think this is a good place to suddenly get old
So I go to the store almost exclusively to buy something trivial in order to get some change ("loonies"... every damn machine up here takes loonies, the Canadian 1 dollar coin which I used to think was so cool and wished that an American counterpart would become popular... now I just think that it makes every vending machine more expensive and hard to find change for) for the laundromat... so what happens when I get there? I pay with a credit card. Brilliant.
That sailboat out in the bay is really dragging anchor now. They're probably half a klick from where they started this morning.
That sailboat out in the bay is really dragging anchor now. They're probably half a klick from where they started this morning.
Life in dock
I wasn't really looking forward to sitting in one place so long on this trip, but four days tied up in Port McNeill certainly exposes you to the rhythms of a working lumber town on the north shore of Vancouver Island: an isolated place with a real sense of community.
Each morning the kids from surrounding islands tromp up the float past my windows as they get off the "school boat" which will be back again to collect them later in the afternoon. At the next pier over, seaplanes land and take off all day long, to and from even more remote locations along the central coast. Helicopters, scouts for logging companies, hover over nearby forests. Past the airplane float, a beaten crane overlooks a booming basin, where the massive log booms which will be sent north or south to the vast mills at Prince Rupert or Powell River and Campbell River, are assembled. The beeping sound of the squawk boxes used by the operator and the drivers and tug operators sound across the water all day long. Fishing boats duck in and out of the fuel dock, dodging seaplanes both ways.
So town passes right by our boat here, but the boat harbour is interesting enough. There are mostly Americans here at the recreational floats, most of us headed north and holed up until this weather system blows through. It's supposed to get worse before it gets better, but it's bad enough right now. I just hopped outside to help a 60+ foot motor yacht land on the leeward side of the outer-most float. The harbourmaster had first directed him to an inner float, but it became clear to everyone almost immediately that he wasn't going to get into a slot to leeward without bashing into a whole lot of other boats nearby first. It's like trying to dock a barn--all that area above the water line just gets shoved around by the wind, no matter how big the bow-thruster is.
So the harbourmaster pointed him to the outer float so at least he wouldn't smash anyone else up in the process. After about five runs at it, he finally got in close enough for six or seven of us to help warp him in the rest of the way. However, he's at the same spot where the "school boat" usually comes in at, so I need to be sure to be home for the show this afternoon when it comes in. The captain isn't going to be pleased, I am sure; on the other hand, she is probably better equipped to bring her vessel in with this wind than the skipper of the motor yacht.
At any rate, it's fun to meet your neighbors in such circumstances. You certainly hear a lot of interesting trivia and critiques; it also makes you wonder what they said about you when you were bringing your boat in.
Still, for all the difficulty and derision the 60 footer faced, he came off better than the 40+ foot sailboat which is anchored out several hundred yards past the breakwater... from here right now it looks like a regular rodeo ride out there. I wouldn't mind a little embarrassment if it meant getting out of that for the evening.
Each morning the kids from surrounding islands tromp up the float past my windows as they get off the "school boat" which will be back again to collect them later in the afternoon. At the next pier over, seaplanes land and take off all day long, to and from even more remote locations along the central coast. Helicopters, scouts for logging companies, hover over nearby forests. Past the airplane float, a beaten crane overlooks a booming basin, where the massive log booms which will be sent north or south to the vast mills at Prince Rupert or Powell River and Campbell River, are assembled. The beeping sound of the squawk boxes used by the operator and the drivers and tug operators sound across the water all day long. Fishing boats duck in and out of the fuel dock, dodging seaplanes both ways.
So town passes right by our boat here, but the boat harbour is interesting enough. There are mostly Americans here at the recreational floats, most of us headed north and holed up until this weather system blows through. It's supposed to get worse before it gets better, but it's bad enough right now. I just hopped outside to help a 60+ foot motor yacht land on the leeward side of the outer-most float. The harbourmaster had first directed him to an inner float, but it became clear to everyone almost immediately that he wasn't going to get into a slot to leeward without bashing into a whole lot of other boats nearby first. It's like trying to dock a barn--all that area above the water line just gets shoved around by the wind, no matter how big the bow-thruster is.
So the harbourmaster pointed him to the outer float so at least he wouldn't smash anyone else up in the process. After about five runs at it, he finally got in close enough for six or seven of us to help warp him in the rest of the way. However, he's at the same spot where the "school boat" usually comes in at, so I need to be sure to be home for the show this afternoon when it comes in. The captain isn't going to be pleased, I am sure; on the other hand, she is probably better equipped to bring her vessel in with this wind than the skipper of the motor yacht.
At any rate, it's fun to meet your neighbors in such circumstances. You certainly hear a lot of interesting trivia and critiques; it also makes you wonder what they said about you when you were bringing your boat in.
Still, for all the difficulty and derision the 60 footer faced, he came off better than the 40+ foot sailboat which is anchored out several hundred yards past the breakwater... from here right now it looks like a regular rodeo ride out there. I wouldn't mind a little embarrassment if it meant getting out of that for the evening.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
The stove battle
I engaged our Dickinson Lofoten diesel heater again today in our running battle over whether or not it will light and stay lit as designed, and I think I may have scored a hit.
Since we're tied up and steady and I had nothing else going on today I decided to take the damn thing apart yet again to try some new tactics to get it to feed fuel reliably into the burner pan. To recap the problem briefly, what has been happening is that, regardless of the setting, fuel may or may not flow from the tank into the stove. It seems almost random when this occurs; sometimes it won't even flow enough to light in the first place, other times it will light just fine and go out after ten minutes, and others it will go for hours before stopping.
I had suspected that a float mechanism, designed to cut the supply off if too much was in a secondary feeder tank, was the culprit; it seemed redundant to me and unnecessarily complex, and since every way I could test the valve itself seemed to indicate it was working properly, I wanted to remove the float and see what happened.
What happens is that the valve still works properly, but the secondary tank quickly fills up and overflows through an overflow line. So the float had to go back in; but in disassembling it I noticed that the little pin mechanism which works to cut the flow when the float is up had some corrosion at the tip. My current theory is that the corroded bit was sticking in the "closed" position even when the float itself fell open. So, I cleaned off the corrosion as best I could and reassembled the thing.
Unfortunately, all the monkeying around and testing had flooded the burner pan and I didn't dare light it. Apparently the best way to clear it is to take a full roll of toilet paper, which happens to be about the size of the chamber, and dunk it in to absorb the fuel. Well; I'm not one to waste a roll of toilet paper so cavalierly, so I'm just going to let some of it evaporate off until I actually need the thing again, and we'll see what happens then.
Even if it does work, it will probably be a while before I trust it. And the pin is still not in great shape; it could stick again. The best thing to do would be replace it, but I should have figured it out back in Vancouver, where the manufacturer is based--I doubt I'll find a dealer up here. If it continues to be an issue, though, I may try to Dremel up a replacement out of a cotter pin or something.
Since we're tied up and steady and I had nothing else going on today I decided to take the damn thing apart yet again to try some new tactics to get it to feed fuel reliably into the burner pan. To recap the problem briefly, what has been happening is that, regardless of the setting, fuel may or may not flow from the tank into the stove. It seems almost random when this occurs; sometimes it won't even flow enough to light in the first place, other times it will light just fine and go out after ten minutes, and others it will go for hours before stopping.
I had suspected that a float mechanism, designed to cut the supply off if too much was in a secondary feeder tank, was the culprit; it seemed redundant to me and unnecessarily complex, and since every way I could test the valve itself seemed to indicate it was working properly, I wanted to remove the float and see what happened.
What happens is that the valve still works properly, but the secondary tank quickly fills up and overflows through an overflow line. So the float had to go back in; but in disassembling it I noticed that the little pin mechanism which works to cut the flow when the float is up had some corrosion at the tip. My current theory is that the corroded bit was sticking in the "closed" position even when the float itself fell open. So, I cleaned off the corrosion as best I could and reassembled the thing.
Unfortunately, all the monkeying around and testing had flooded the burner pan and I didn't dare light it. Apparently the best way to clear it is to take a full roll of toilet paper, which happens to be about the size of the chamber, and dunk it in to absorb the fuel. Well; I'm not one to waste a roll of toilet paper so cavalierly, so I'm just going to let some of it evaporate off until I actually need the thing again, and we'll see what happens then.
Even if it does work, it will probably be a while before I trust it. And the pin is still not in great shape; it could stick again. The best thing to do would be replace it, but I should have figured it out back in Vancouver, where the manufacturer is based--I doubt I'll find a dealer up here. If it continues to be an issue, though, I may try to Dremel up a replacement out of a cotter pin or something.
Random nautical observations
I can appreciate as well as anyone that there simply isn't enough room below-decks for everything that one might want to take along on an extended trip, but most other sailboats we run into seem to have their decks a lot more cluttered than ours. I've done everything possible to avoid having to lash stuff to the rails or safety lines, both for performance (less disorganized windage and weight) and safety (nothing for lines to catch on, nothing extra to trip on). So what's the deal? Am I paranoid or does no one else care about such things?
Another oddity I have noticed is how people tie up to floats here. Most floats we are familiar with back in the States have cleats installed, and it's pretty well-defined how you properly secure a line to a cleat (although what one does with the tail of that line is another matter subject to great personal variance). Here, though, most floats simply have rails along them, and the methods which are used to secure lines to them are inconsistent at best. I had been using a straightforward clove hitch but that's a pain in the ass if you have a long dockline because you have to pass the end around the rail so often. I gave it up after securing someone else's boat last week and watching them re-tie it. Now, I will typically re-tie my own mooring lines if I'm going to be somewhere for any length of time anyway, simply so I know it's done the way I want, but I have to admit I was a little hurt. It was a perfectly good clove hitch, it wasn't going anywhere!
So partly because of that and partly because it's a pain to tie, I switched to a simple slipped bowline. A bowline, I figured, no one could argue with; it's the most secure, and most common, of knots and the one which just about every boater should know and recognize.
So yesterday I helped a guy tie up his fifty foot motor yacht, and that's what I used. Again, good solid knot, it's not going anywhere. But afterward, I saw him untie it, and then re-secure the line with what amounted to a bunch of simple overhand knots! And it occurred to me that is frequently what I see; a lot of ugly, messy overhand knots tied around the dock rails.
Now, I had always understood that this was undesirable, or at least less desirable, than a good bowline or hitch for a number of reasons. One, it isn't as strong. Two, it's more difficult to untie. While in most circumstances this is just a matter of convenience, it's also a safety issue: marina fires are not unknown or even infrequent. I think in the last five years in Seattle alone there have been three or four significant fires. We just saw one in Tacoma earlier this year. So there are times you want to be able to get loose quickly, without wasting any time messing about with ungainly shoelace-style knots. I think my slipped bowline fits the bill without being difficult to tie or insecure. But again, am I just being paranoid and is everyone else doing it right?
Another oddity I have noticed is how people tie up to floats here. Most floats we are familiar with back in the States have cleats installed, and it's pretty well-defined how you properly secure a line to a cleat (although what one does with the tail of that line is another matter subject to great personal variance). Here, though, most floats simply have rails along them, and the methods which are used to secure lines to them are inconsistent at best. I had been using a straightforward clove hitch but that's a pain in the ass if you have a long dockline because you have to pass the end around the rail so often. I gave it up after securing someone else's boat last week and watching them re-tie it. Now, I will typically re-tie my own mooring lines if I'm going to be somewhere for any length of time anyway, simply so I know it's done the way I want, but I have to admit I was a little hurt. It was a perfectly good clove hitch, it wasn't going anywhere!
So partly because of that and partly because it's a pain to tie, I switched to a simple slipped bowline. A bowline, I figured, no one could argue with; it's the most secure, and most common, of knots and the one which just about every boater should know and recognize.
So yesterday I helped a guy tie up his fifty foot motor yacht, and that's what I used. Again, good solid knot, it's not going anywhere. But afterward, I saw him untie it, and then re-secure the line with what amounted to a bunch of simple overhand knots! And it occurred to me that is frequently what I see; a lot of ugly, messy overhand knots tied around the dock rails.
Now, I had always understood that this was undesirable, or at least less desirable, than a good bowline or hitch for a number of reasons. One, it isn't as strong. Two, it's more difficult to untie. While in most circumstances this is just a matter of convenience, it's also a safety issue: marina fires are not unknown or even infrequent. I think in the last five years in Seattle alone there have been three or four significant fires. We just saw one in Tacoma earlier this year. So there are times you want to be able to get loose quickly, without wasting any time messing about with ungainly shoelace-style knots. I think my slipped bowline fits the bill without being difficult to tie or insecure. But again, am I just being paranoid and is everyone else doing it right?
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
A soft landing...
After all that fuss from last night and this morning, it's gratifying to be tied up in Port McNeill now. It was a bit of a squeeze getting in--five or six other boats arrived about the same time--but I have power and no need to worry about dragging anchors or floating lumber. And both the harbourmaster and the other transient boat crews around me are friendly and helpful. My next door neighbor, pictured at left (from Elkhorn, WI), came in with a little extra ballast that we noticed as we were helping him tie up... a rather large rock had become wedged in his Bruce anchor the previous night in Port Neville. I've heard of that happening before, and seen pictures, but this was the first time I had run into anyone who it actually happened to. Apparently it held just fine, though. Good thing he had a windlass, I'd have died trying to haul that thing up by hand.
Internet service is a little hard to come by here, so I may not be on very much. The marina has a "give one/get one" library though, so I'm going to unload some of Mandy's frou-frou books and pick up some real reading material as long as I am here.
This is definitely a working town; there may be a lot of tourists around here, but this isn't the tourist playground that Campbell River is. Port McNeill has a utilitarian cast to it, and while it's comfortable and a damn sight better than hanging out in the middle of nowhere for a week, it's a bit bleak as well.
The Laundromat, however, where I am typing this, is a wonder. I hear it's the nicest one on the North Coast and I believe it. First TV I have seen in a month (CNN, of course)! They're talking American presidential politics, as were, oddly enough, the Canadians having lunch in Subway behind me.
I haven't found a bookstore yet and there may not be one. I'll have to hope there is a decent enough selection at the harbourmaster's office... here at the laundry matt, it's all Harlequin romances. Did you know they have a Nascar series? I don't know if there is a hidden demand among bored housewives for car racing themed romance novels or if they are going after the masculine market now.
Well; I'm going to head back to the boat and watch "Master and Commander" again, and have a shower, and get to bed early... I'm all worn out.
A rough start...
Far from being able to sleep in, though, I was awake at about 5:30 as usual in these latitudes. Even with the grey skies, the V-berth lights up at that hour, and I decided to take the time to get the stove lit so when I felt like actually getting up for real, it would at least be warm.
I had the usual hassle getting the damned thing going, or worse if anything, and then I looked outside. The wind was still blowing like crazy, and as I looked out the aft hatch, I saw that my stern was within about twenty feet of the lee shore. That was far closer than it should have been even considering the extra rode I let out. And I knew that it was not even low tide yet--that wouldn't happen until 8AM. All I could think was that perhaps the log that got tangled up in the anchor line the night before had yanked it out; I had been fortunate, then, that it reset leaving me even twenty feet of clearance. But it was tight.
I hopped up and turned on the depthsounder. It went from 12 feet to 7 feet as I watched. The boat, we figure, draws about six feet. A foot, with waves coming in a foot high, is not enough clearance; and would definitely not be enough if I stayed through the low tide.
I shut the stove off, got dressed, and got the engine started. This was the thing that I had worried about when anchoring here--having to get off, alone, with the wind pushing me back toward shore. With two people, this is managed by having one person at the helm powering slowly into the wind while the other hoists the anchor, which can take some time and effort. The person at the helm can juggle the throttle, however, to balance the boat and prevent it either going back and aground, or running forward over the anchor line. However, I had to somehow keep off shore, haul in the anchor, and avoid running over the anchor line at the same time (which would foul the propeller and leave me in a desperate situation).
I bought a little time by hauling in hard on the anchor line, which had the effect of pulling me away from shore, at least until I was right over the anchor itself. Then it was all about muscling it up as fast as possible before I drifted back down, a task made harder by the anchor being fouled with about twenty pounds of kelp. I didn't make it all in one go; I had to cleat the anchor off, run back and power forward a bit, then work on the anchor again, a couple of times before I got it up and secured. By that time, my bow had drifted around and was pointing in shore. I couldn't motor forward without grounding; yet putting the engine astern would swing me in place at first, potentially taking the delicate rudder closer to danger.
I compromised by giving a little throttle astern to start the swing, then switching to forward and giving it a lot to try to get to deeper water. I had a few heart-stopping moments when the depthsounder went down below five feet--theoretically, a point where we would be well aground. Thank god for mis-calibration and a light boat; we didn't hit anything and I got out of the cove okay.
I hoisted the sails as soon as I was able, even though it's a pain single-handed. The boat rides better in wind and waves with sails up, however. I had not, due to the speed of my departure, had a chance to stow everything adequately, so there was a lot of banging below as things fell and broke. Still, a little discipline paid off--everything important was in its normal place before I had gone to bed the night before, and nothing major was damaged.
After that it was just a cold, wet slog up the coast toward Port McNeill.
I had the usual hassle getting the damned thing going, or worse if anything, and then I looked outside. The wind was still blowing like crazy, and as I looked out the aft hatch, I saw that my stern was within about twenty feet of the lee shore. That was far closer than it should have been even considering the extra rode I let out. And I knew that it was not even low tide yet--that wouldn't happen until 8AM. All I could think was that perhaps the log that got tangled up in the anchor line the night before had yanked it out; I had been fortunate, then, that it reset leaving me even twenty feet of clearance. But it was tight.
I hopped up and turned on the depthsounder. It went from 12 feet to 7 feet as I watched. The boat, we figure, draws about six feet. A foot, with waves coming in a foot high, is not enough clearance; and would definitely not be enough if I stayed through the low tide.
I shut the stove off, got dressed, and got the engine started. This was the thing that I had worried about when anchoring here--having to get off, alone, with the wind pushing me back toward shore. With two people, this is managed by having one person at the helm powering slowly into the wind while the other hoists the anchor, which can take some time and effort. The person at the helm can juggle the throttle, however, to balance the boat and prevent it either going back and aground, or running forward over the anchor line. However, I had to somehow keep off shore, haul in the anchor, and avoid running over the anchor line at the same time (which would foul the propeller and leave me in a desperate situation).
I bought a little time by hauling in hard on the anchor line, which had the effect of pulling me away from shore, at least until I was right over the anchor itself. Then it was all about muscling it up as fast as possible before I drifted back down, a task made harder by the anchor being fouled with about twenty pounds of kelp. I didn't make it all in one go; I had to cleat the anchor off, run back and power forward a bit, then work on the anchor again, a couple of times before I got it up and secured. By that time, my bow had drifted around and was pointing in shore. I couldn't motor forward without grounding; yet putting the engine astern would swing me in place at first, potentially taking the delicate rudder closer to danger.
I compromised by giving a little throttle astern to start the swing, then switching to forward and giving it a lot to try to get to deeper water. I had a few heart-stopping moments when the depthsounder went down below five feet--theoretically, a point where we would be well aground. Thank god for mis-calibration and a light boat; we didn't hit anything and I got out of the cove okay.
I hoisted the sails as soon as I was able, even though it's a pain single-handed. The boat rides better in wind and waves with sails up, however. I had not, due to the speed of my departure, had a chance to stow everything adequately, so there was a lot of banging below as things fell and broke. Still, a little discipline paid off--everything important was in its normal place before I had gone to bed the night before, and nothing major was damaged.
After that it was just a cold, wet slog up the coast toward Port McNeill.
A long night...
The predicted southeasterly gales came up around 5PM last night and I guessed correctly that the island just to my south was close enough to shield me from the worst of the wind. The halyards were making a racket but I had a lot of rode paid out and the anchor was holding just fine. Since it was dark and cold and blowing, I had some dinner and went to bed, planning to move on later in the afternoon with the second ebb of the day. The gale, however, had some consequences which I had not foreseen.
Around 2AM I woke up to a banging sound on the hull. It was more than just the slapping of the anchor line you hear sometimes when the wind shifts--it was something large and insistent coming through over the pattering sound of the rain on the deck over my head.
I got up and grabbed the spotlight and bounded out the hatch to see what was going on. It was rainy and cold and dark and miserable. Off in the distance, out in the strait I could see a dim green jewel marking some tug's bow light. No other boats were nearby, at least none running their lights. I turned on the spotlight and moved up onto the foredeck to see what the banging was, which I could still hear.
These waters are in the heart of some of the greatest forests in North America, and logging is one of the major industries, and towing log rafts and booms from where the trees are cut to where they are processed is the favored method of transportation. Consequently, you spend a great deal of time when sailing avoiding drifting bits of wood and trees in the water which have got loose from these big operations at some point.
I did not realize, however, that it would still be necessary to dodge floating trees while resting at anchor.
The banging sound was a 20 foot log pounding insistently against the starboard bow, driven on by the waves and wind. As I raised the spotlight to look around, I saw that the cove I was in was almost carpeted with every bit of floating wood, seaweed, trash, and tree flushed out of Johnstone Strait by the storm. Some of the logs were 30 feet long, nearly the length of the boat. And it occurred to me, then, that all the driftwood and such which litters the beaches nearby so artistically had to pass through my spot to get there at some point. That point was apparently going to be tonight.
I ran back and grabbed the boat hook. In the distance, the tiny green speck became brilliant as some bored watchstander, jarred awake by my own spotlight stabbing about, tried to see what was going on from the tug. but he could no more make me out at that distance than I had been able to make him out, and the light soon diminished to the green point again.
I spent the next couple of hours fending off logs, including one bad boy which got tangled up in my anchor line. I tried to get the stove going so I could at least duck in and get warm from time to time, but it's been particularly finicky the last few days and won't start and stay lit without about a half hour of constant babysitting. So I stayed on deck and kept at it until the wind subsided and the spotlight revealed no more floating junk to windward.
Then I crawled back in my berth looking forward to sleeping in and having time to fiddle with the stove in the morning.
Around 2AM I woke up to a banging sound on the hull. It was more than just the slapping of the anchor line you hear sometimes when the wind shifts--it was something large and insistent coming through over the pattering sound of the rain on the deck over my head.
I got up and grabbed the spotlight and bounded out the hatch to see what was going on. It was rainy and cold and dark and miserable. Off in the distance, out in the strait I could see a dim green jewel marking some tug's bow light. No other boats were nearby, at least none running their lights. I turned on the spotlight and moved up onto the foredeck to see what the banging was, which I could still hear.
These waters are in the heart of some of the greatest forests in North America, and logging is one of the major industries, and towing log rafts and booms from where the trees are cut to where they are processed is the favored method of transportation. Consequently, you spend a great deal of time when sailing avoiding drifting bits of wood and trees in the water which have got loose from these big operations at some point.
I did not realize, however, that it would still be necessary to dodge floating trees while resting at anchor.
The banging sound was a 20 foot log pounding insistently against the starboard bow, driven on by the waves and wind. As I raised the spotlight to look around, I saw that the cove I was in was almost carpeted with every bit of floating wood, seaweed, trash, and tree flushed out of Johnstone Strait by the storm. Some of the logs were 30 feet long, nearly the length of the boat. And it occurred to me, then, that all the driftwood and such which litters the beaches nearby so artistically had to pass through my spot to get there at some point. That point was apparently going to be tonight.
I ran back and grabbed the boat hook. In the distance, the tiny green speck became brilliant as some bored watchstander, jarred awake by my own spotlight stabbing about, tried to see what was going on from the tug. but he could no more make me out at that distance than I had been able to make him out, and the light soon diminished to the green point again.
I spent the next couple of hours fending off logs, including one bad boy which got tangled up in my anchor line. I tried to get the stove going so I could at least duck in and get warm from time to time, but it's been particularly finicky the last few days and won't start and stay lit without about a half hour of constant babysitting. So I stayed on deck and kept at it until the wind subsided and the spotlight revealed no more floating junk to windward.
Then I crawled back in my berth looking forward to sleeping in and having time to fiddle with the stove in the morning.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Not much to report
I'm just hanging out on the hook here, trying to stay warm and
ploughing through the onboard library at an alarming pace.
ploughing through the onboard library at an alarming pace.
Yesterday was overcast and cold all day and I had a heck of a time
getting the stove to light and stay lit. Eventually it did, though,
and after that it was warm enough, but still boring.
Today is better—there are still clouds, but they are high and thin so
I am getting some sunshine and it's warm enough to be outside a bit
on deck working on things, which I have. It's been very quiet the
last day or so. The mega-yacht which had occupied the outer part of
the bay weighed anchor and departed yesterday afternoon, and there's
been no boats in the vicinity since. I can see down into Johnstone
Strait and see the larger boats and tugs passing by, but they are all
business and unlikely to come my way.
The better weather today is not supposed to last through evening.
The forecast is calling for rain and a wind shift of gales from the
southeast. I am hoping that I am sufficiently covered in my nook. I
chose it for protection from the prevailing northwesterlies, but by
chance there is also an island close to my southeast. If the wind is
truly from the SE I should be okay, although I'll swing unfortunately
close to shore on the island NW. If it's from directly east I could
be in for a rough evening.
On the other hand, the forecasts haven't been right with respect to
winds more than half the time, either in force or direction, and it's
almost always been less than predicted, so with a good set on the
anchor and the potential shelter of the island, I imagine I'll be okay.
I'm reading "The Command of the Ocean: A Naval history of Britain,
1649 – 1815" and it makes me want to either watch "Master and
Commander" again or weigh anchor and venture out into the Strait to
board a northbound liner and take her a prize. Successful captains
made a lot of money doing so before navies started to care more about
advancing national strategy than lining their sailor's pockets, and
it strikes me as an excellent way to both prevent boredom and finance
the cruise. Can you imagine what I could get for a modern luxury
liner in an Admiralty Prize Court?
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