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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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?