Category Archives: Sailboats

Post Vacation Projects: Cabinetry

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During our vacation, I started a list of items that I wanted to address on the boat. When I am on the boat for days at time, The unfinished or poorly maintained parts of the boat start to wear on me. I am far from a perfectionist, but there are definitely some items on the boat that could be improved.

My first project involved building a cover for the wiring and antenna cable that runs along the compression post. I seem to recall this being left undone when we installed the table and cabinet on the saloon bulkhead.

Unsightly cables by the compression post and  along the bottom of the bulkhead.  I just never got around to fixing this. After a while we just ignored it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some time ago Melissa found some teak battens by the marina gate. Those turned out to be perfect for this project. I mounted them on a one by four and attached the whole assembly to the compression post via some nifty hinges from Home Depot.

New Cable Covers

The teak battens made great covers for the electrical cable running up to the mast.

With the hinges installed, this is essentially a very skinny door. This allows me to access the cables for maintenance. Maybe I could store some very skinny item inside.

Nifty flush mounted hinges make the panel lay even with the compression post and turn the cover into a small door for access or limited storage.

Besides the hinges, I had all of the materials on hand which greatly appeals to my inner cheapskate. And it feels really good to have that project taken off the list.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation, An Essay

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It might have looked like this, but it didn’t.

It was a dark and stormy night.

This is only partly true, but I love the way it sounds and I’ve always wanted to lead with that sentence. Consider it foreshadowing.

Readers who are familiar with the geography of this area may have read our recent post The Luxury of Time and realized we had begun the story in the middle, that is, that we were already halfway home when that story began. This, then, is the story of the day before that night; a day which shall be known forever as ‘the longest day in eternity’, until it is usurped by a day even longer.  Especially when on a sailboat, having a schedule is terrible. Time, as they say, is the enemy. And for us, the Universe always conspires to keep us in the San Juans just a little bit longer, no matter how much we plan in advance.

This chart will keep us all organized in the telling. Match the letter to the corresponding part of the story. It’s easy.

After a lovely sail on Friday down the west coast of San Juan Island, looking for whales (but being there too early in the day, as usual) Mike and I were headed to the south end of Lopez Island, ready for an early start across the strait the following morning. You see, we had PLANNED to have two full days to get home. It would be a little hurried, but not too bad. We never seem to get to the south end of the islands quickly. I guess that’s because we’re really never ready to leave.

We were just west of Cattle Pass about 5 miles looking at a lovely sunset. (A) The wind had died, leaving us no choice but to crank up the trusty Westerbeke. And that’s when things began to really get interesting. The word ‘interesting’ in this context  means something UNplanned, something that will need to be dealt with, something that will keep us from our stated goal of getting home in a timely way. That’s because the Westerbeke, a work horse engine if there ever was one, decided just at that moment that it needed a new starter solenoid. It communicated this by responding with a decided ‘click’ when we tried to start the engine. Click. Click. Click. Try again. This time push real fast. Clickclickclick!  Nope.

I looked at Mike and he had that look on his face that he gets when things begin to go wrong. It’s a look that combines irritation with thoughtfulness and manly self-control.  That’s when I decide to simply enjoy the scenery and keep quiet so he can think. In a way, it made poetic sense to me that this would happen. I mean, every other part of the engine has been rebuilt. It has been extremely reliable. This is the last piece. So of course, it had to go out on us during the trip.

On these trips to the islands, if we are going to have any kind of trouble, it’s going to happen on the leg home. And because we always go home the same way, it’s destined to happen on the west coast of San Juan Island.  Our boat knows that we don’t really want to leave the islands. It tries to keep us there, whatever the cost.

Be honest. You’d stay here, too.

While Mike tinkered and swore,  I began to think about our relationship with various starters over the years. There was the old Cutlass convertible that we used to start with a screwdriver, jumping the solenoid. Worked like a charm. Then there was the starter in the Ford Fairlane that stranded us in Salt Lake City at Christmas time, just before we got married. Mike took that one apart on the hotel room floor with a cheap set of tools and blind faith. Such are the stories of a long marriage. And they build a kind of trust in one’s spouse over the years. A firm knowledge that things will work out, that we can handle ourselves well, and that we are unfailingly resourceful. And so our interesting trip home began.

We wanted to go thataway. But it was not happening. Not at all.

No wind, no engine, strong tidal currents in that area. Big rocks on the shore.  These conspire to create a situation that cannot be dealt with by sitting passively by, beautiful sunset notwithstanding. Mike began to tinker with the solenoid, looking for a way to bypass that piece and jump start the engine. He assures me that diesel engines are not rocket science, that they need fuel, air, and spark (to get started, thank you very much , Tate) and that’s pretty much it. It was the spark that was missing from the equation and if anyone knows electrical stuff it’s Mike. He took stuff off, put stuff on, made me push buttons, said ‘DAMN!’ a few times. By the time he started throwing tools into the bilge I knew he had just about had it.  The sun was going down, and just sitting there at the mercy of currents wasn’t an option. We had to get going somehow.

He put the little two horse Honda engine onto Puddler, tied her close to the stern of the boat, cranked the motor, and began pushing. The thing about that part of the islands is that there is no place to anchor. If you are on the south western side, you have few choices. We had about 1 1/2 gallons of gasoline for the Honda, so keeping fingers firmly crossed I steered Moonrise and we began to head toward Cattle Pass at about 3.5 knots. The tide was with us and this was a huge bit of good fortune as Cattle Pass is downright dangerous when your are trying to go against the tide. According to the tide tables, we had almost two hours to get well clear of the pass before the tide turned. Our stated goal at that point was to find a safe anchorage for the night and we knew we would find this in Griffen Bay. When faced with impending doom, we find it’s important to keep the short term goal clearly in the foreground of your thinking.

Feeling pretty smug, we chugged along at a right good clip and rounded the pass. The night was dark, though, if not stormy,  and it was fortunate we’d been in those waters before. We knew where to go. (And, of course, we had paper charts and a GPS).  The combination of smugness and fatigue, and being in a rush to beat the tide proved to be our undoing.  I tried to take the shortest route possible to get into the bay. (Hey, I was tired and getting cranky. I wanted my bed.)  I chose a course that sent us right through an uncharted garden of huge bull kelp. And the night was too dark to see it until we were upon it. My smugness vanished. (B)

Now, kelp is lovely. It flows so gracefully in the water. It provides food and protection for critters. But it eats sailboats alive. We were well and truly stuck in the kelp just north of Goose Island (an island no one could ever miss because if you can’t see it you can surely smell it). Mike was unable to use the Honda to push us through because the kelp would wrap around the little prop and pull it right off. The only thing was to try to kedge ourselves out of the situation. Out came the extra anchor, the one Mike almost didn’t bring because we ‘probably wouldn’t need it’. By this time it was midnight. Nothing I enjoy more than being stuck in kelp with no engine on a moonless night downwind of Goose Island. It’s more fun that you can shake a stick at.

I attached the line to a winch on Moonrise and Mike rowed the anchor out past the kelp. I winched Moonrise toward the anchor and we made a little progress. We repeated this dance a couple of times, which takes much, much longer to do than it does to write. By the 4th time it was clear the the tide was turning and Moonrise was being pulled backwards into the kelp again. This would have been pretty discouraging, but soon we realized that if we just waited, we’d be free of the kelp with the help of the sea and we could go on our way around the corner to our safe harbor. And this came to pass. Victory was ours against the massive kelp. I’d like to post photos of this part of the story, but it was dark, and besides, Mike gets pissed off when I start taking photos at tense moments. Even though I usually think to do it. Can I help it if multiple parts of my brain operate at once?

Thanks to the sturdy Puddler and our little Honda, we anchored at about 2:30 AM in Griffen Bay (C) in about 15 feet of water, close to shore. The night was fine. We were safe, Moonrise was safe, and the next day we’d carry on to Friday Harbor where we would find services. I cooked a hot dinner and we went to bed.  I had a ridiculously good night’s sleep. Mike, of course, did not. His mind was working the problem all night.

We awoke early to a lovely day, fair winds, and a big Coast Guard boat anchored close by. Makes me wonder what we looked like on their radar as we waded through that kelp the night before.

Our Coasty neighbors. Who knows what nefarious they thought we were doing in that kelp?

Fresh wind gave us a great sail into Friday Harbor (E) where we were warmly welcomed by the good people at Friday Harbor Marine. They offered us a slip and talked to Mike about a possible cheap fix to limp us home. You’ve got to love a business that could milk you for every dollar you have because you are at their mercy, but they don’t.  If you are going to be stranded someplace, you could do worse than Friday Harbor. I walked up the hill to buy a few things for dinner so I wouldn’t have to cook.

Mike thought he had a fix that would work, but as the day wore on I saw that he was getting more and more frustrated and discouraged, not to mention just plain tired. He started talking about maybe leaving the boat in Friday Harbor and us taking a ferry back to the mainland, then having to come back and get the boat. All I could think was how much that was going to cost us not only in actual dollars, but in time and hassle. And for such a simple problem. (And the story of the Ford Fairlane, stuck in a garage in Salt Lake City, came to mind once more…)

It’s hard to be stressed out about being stranded in Friday Harbor. That sailboat in the middle of the photo belongs to our new diesel mechanic friend. He lives on it. Sweet!

Let me just say that at this point the only thing making this a stressful situation was the issue of time. There it is again! If Mike hadn’t been pushed for time, this would have been nothing more than an inconvenience. We could have hung out at the dock in Friday Harbor, had the thing rebuilt, enjoyed our time there, and been on our way. Life would have been interesting, but not stressful. And my husband would have had a good night’s sleep.

I thought having a fresh set of eyes looking at the problem would be worth the cost at this point. I just did not want to leave Moonrise behind. It felt somehow wrong.  Fortunately our new friends at Friday Harbor Marine knew just the guy. Brent Huntington is one awesome diesel mechanic, and a pretty nice guy as well. Plus, he is a sailor. Within 1/2 an hour he and Mike had worked out the solution to the problem. (And he told us about his other gig as a captain for Sailfast Adventures. What a life!)

Sometimes it pays to have someone else to scratch heads with.

Trusty Westerbeke once more full of life, we headed back to Cattle Pass to cross the strait. It was already late in the day and we had at least 30 miles to go. But the day got REALLY interesting when we approached the pass. The tide was going out, but a gusty 20 knot wind was against it creating the huge haystack waves for which this pass is famous. And they come from multiple directions.  Again, time is the greatest enemy in the world when you are sailing. We couldn’t wait so off we went, knowing we’d just have to gut that part out and that as soon as we were out of the pass the wind would be on our starboard beam and we’d have a great sail across the pass. (G)

And this was true. What was also true was that the wind picked up to about 25 knots and the waves were, in a word, big. They positively roared. They were directly on the starboard beam.  And once again, we were crossing the strait at night. What is it with our karma that we’ve crossed this thing at night so many times? You cannot be complacent with waves like we had. You have to steer the whole time, working the waves to keep the boat on an even keel. I don’t mind being heeled over at 20 degrees, but I get a little annoyed when she lays over to 30 very often. We don’t really have the appropriate size sails for weather like this so keeping the boat balanced takes effort. Moonrise does have two reefs on the main, but still the main would have been too large with that weather, so we were sailing with only a very reefed jib and using the engine to keep the boat moving through waves and balanced. It was truly that dark and stormy night! We crossed in record time for us, sailing into Port Townsend at around 9:30.

I’d like to say that the day ended there with a nice quiet anchorage and a good night’s sleep, but that would be a lie. We went on to witness that sailboat on the rocks that same night. Still, it made for an interesting day/ night combo, and we learned, once more, that we can be resourceful. We learned how to use our extra anchor to kedge ourselves out of kelp. We learned to push our big boat with our little boat. More than that, we learned, once again, to rely on one another and to get out of a ‘situation’ and into safety.

Actually, now that I think about it, what we really learned is that we should move to the islands. That would solve all of these problems right away.

Cliche sunset shot.

 

The Luxury of Time

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Mike enjoying the feeling of having plenty of time to relax.

What is the difference between an interesting day and a stressful day when you are on a sailing vacation? I submit to you that it is this: TIME. When people are rushed for time, bad things happen. And then, when bad things happen, our stress level goes skyrocketing. When stress levels go up our pre-frontal cortex, the part of our brain that is responsible for our logical thinking and good decision making (our executive function), goes bye-bye. And then the fun really begins. Let’s repeat that for the visual learners among us:

Feeling pressed for time –> bad things happen –>loss of brain function–>whole shit ton of fun

Get it? The difference between a stressful day and an interesting learning experience where you feel really engaged with life on the water is having to be somewhere by a certain time and/or not taking the time to think things through. We know it, and yet we still have jobs to go home to, so each time we take our summer cruise, we know we are basically asking for trouble. And the universe complies willingly.

As is our usual way, Mike and I sailed across the Strait of Juan de Fuca at sunset. Really, we must just love to do this because we always find a way to sail across in the dark. No big deal. We had great wind and waves; really, really great as in 25-30 knots directly on the beam, and seas that crashed into the cockpit in a rather exciting way. We had a lot of practice steering the boat with the waves,  keeping them from hitting us square on the beam. About every fourth one was a monster with lots of cresting and foaming at the mouth and delicious rumbling. Fabulous. It was not cold, and it was not raining. These are two good things and all I can really ask of the weather gods in this area. We were happy, even if going home. Moonrise was in her element.

We made record time, for us, in the crossing of the strait, making about 7 knots per hour overall. Terrific! We were feeling so good that once we pulled into Port Townsend, we decided we’d ride our wave of good luck and keep going to Port Ludlow to anchor for the night. I mean, what could possibly happen?

We always take the shortcut through the Port Townsend “ship” canal on these trips. It’s a very narrow channel and the water runs swiftly through it so the timing has to be right.

The narrow Port Townsend ‘Ship’ Canal

We entered the channel at around 10:00 pm at the tail end of the flood. We’ve been that way many times before, are aware of the channel markers, and the tide was getting close to flat. The night was clear and bright so we could see pretty well. We had just gone underneath the bridge when Mike said, ‘Melissa!! Is that a sailboat coming our way near the shore?’   Now it takes more than that to get my attention. But his voice sounded really alarmed when he raised it further and said, “Are they outside the channel markers? Melissa, that boat is too close to shore! What’s going on?? What are they doing??”. Then I understood his panic.

Here was a beautiful sailboat, clearly outside the channel markers and close to the rocky shore, coming in our direction. We began hailing them on the radio to warn them, but no one answered. I flashed our spotlight at them, and the flashlight as well, trying to get their attention.

And then they were on the rocks. Hard.

It’s actually a gut wrenching experience to watch a fellow sailor sail his boat right up onto the rocks. There is a sick feeling that is pretty hard to describe. The boat, a 1966 Kettenburg 41, was headed to the Port Townsend Wooden Boat festival. Now it was sitting perched on the very top of two rocks.

We turned Moonrise around, anchored on the edge of the deeper water close to the channel marker (which is unlit at night, by the way), and Mike rowed Puddler over with our extra anchor to try to help kedge them off the rocks. Because I’m a ‘girl’ and not as strong as Mike, I got to stay with Moonrise. I’m not complaining, but REALLY!  I mean, it was dark! I could barely see the action. Have you ever tried to use binoculars in the dark? Well, it doesn’t work. Plus, as a genuine, card-carrying psychotherapist, I could have pulled out my fancy tricks for reducing trauma and maybe helped the guy save what was left of his executive function in this situation. But someone had to keep Moonrise safe and the current was about to shift.

This is the kind of boat that went aground. Such a lovely sailboat!

It was their really good fortune that no one was hurt and the boat was not taking on water.  The captain was on the boat with his 20 year old son, an inexperienced sailor. I think it may have been his first time on the boat, poor kid.

Mike set both our kedging anchor and one supplied by the vessel’s owner. The owner began hauling away on the winch and I saw the boat move a bit, but not enough. Still, there was hope and I found myself holding my breath and visualizing that boat just splashing off the rocks, free again.  Meanwhile, the owner had already contacted the Coast Guard and they were sending a Vessel Assist boat. This is where it gets interesting, and not in a good way.

When Vessel Assist arrived, Mike and the owner had the two anchors deployed off the stern of the boat (which faced the shore), and the current was swift. The boat was still hard on the rocks, very close to shore. Between the two anchor lines stretching out into the water, the depth of the water around the vessel, and the swiftness of the current, I knew it would take a thoughtful approach to get the boat off the rocks without a lot of additional damage.

It was too dark to take photos of the action. So here’s a photo of Puddler and another pretty boat at moonrise in Narvaez Bay. A soothing counterpoint to the story.

A thoughtful approach is just what did not happen, more’s the pity. The Vessel Assist boat approached the Kettenburg from the stern (the side closest to shore), attached a towing bridle to the boat, and jerked that boat off the rocks hard and fast. From where I was standing on Moonrise, it looked like the boat had literally jumped off the rocks.  I guess if the only goal is to get a boat back in the water as fast as possible, they did a good job of that. But had it been my vessel I don’t know what would have been more upsetting: grounding the boat in the first place, or being further manhandled in that fashion. At least the boat was floating again.

Back in the water, the Kettenburg motored up to Moonrise and rafted on while Mike was working with the Vessel Assist boat to recover our anchor. The boat owner had released his own anchor and planned to return the next day to retrieve it. I had a chance to see his beautiful boat, lovingly kept for many years and to talk to him. He was from Seattle and while he had traveled that channel before, he didn’t see the channel marker in the dark. One minute he was in deep water, the next minute he saw us flashing lights at him and looked at his GPS just in time to hit the rocks. Poor guy. It could happen to any of us and I truly felt for him.

I wondered where Mike was and what was taking so long. He was very, very tired having sailed across the strait and then having spent some hours rowing Puddler against a nasty current, loaded with anchors. I was worried he was having trouble getting back to Moonrise. I looked for him and could see him struggling against the current.

That’s when the loud cursing began. I won’t repeat it here, but suffice to say that the old adage about ‘cursing like a sailor’ is very true. And it was not Mike. He doesn’t know all those words, much less use them. No, the vessel assist guy was yelling and cursing a blue streak.

Because he had wrapped our anchor rode around his own prop!

He was well and truly stuck with no engine and no steerage. And to add insult to injury,  Mike had to go back and hand him his own knife to cut our anchor line free from his boat. He used Mike’s knife, then accidentally dropped it in the water. He gave Mike a knife from the Vessel Assist boat, but it’s not a pocket knife like Mike always carries. Oh well.  Goodbye, Mike’s knife. Goodbye extra anchor and rode.

Guess who pulled the Vessel Assist boat out of danger? Moonrise. Mike rowed their towing bridle to our boat, we hooked them up to our stern cleats, Mike hauled up our anchor, and I put Moonrise into gear. Mindful of not ramming them into the unlit channel marker, we pulled them into deep water and we handed them off to the Kettenburg to tow back to Port Townsend. We were more than ready to be finished for the evening, get anchored in a safe harbor, and get a good night’s sleep before the 12 hour motor boat ride back to Tacoma the next day. We were exhausted. We anchored right there in Oak Bay; not exactly protected, but safe and available. I never really felt the rolling from ship traffic.

After a day like that, one night’s sleep at a rolly anchorage  is not enough. My poor husband. We were exhausted by the time we got home.

We hope the Kettenburg’s owner was able to work a deal with Vessel Assist so he won’t be out too much money for this misadventure. You know: ‘You saved my behind and in return I saved yours. Now we’re even.’ That would be good.

If we look at this situation in light of my original theme, that time is what makes the difference between an interesting and challenging situation, and a stressful situation where things go badly, I think you can see my point. This vessel, while high and dry on the rocks, was in no danger. No one was injured, and the boat was not taking on water. If the stress of ramming up onto the rocks had not stolen the pre-frontal cortex of the boat owner (and believe me, I can’t even imagine how horrible he felt) he might have decided to simply spend the night on the boat and wait until the next day to assess the situation in the light of day. No one, including us, bothered to check the tide tables to see if the tide would be higher the following day. A higher tide would have helped float the boat off. Of course, with a boat on the rocks, I imagine one’s first thought must be ‘get it OFF!’.

Furthermore, I believe that had we had a longer time to work on the problem, Mike and the owner may have eventually been able to get that boat back in the water and with less damage than they sustained getting off the quick way. After the boat was pulled off the rocks, I could see how the rocks were situated under the hull, something that would have been apparent by the light of day. I think that by using anchors and Moonrise, after the current had abated a bit, we may have been able to accomplish the task.

Finally, why was the Vessel Assist dude in such a hurry? I mean, it’s his job, not mine, and I am not qualified to  ‘Monday morning quarterback’ his technique, but I cannot for the life of me understand why he didn’t make sure the kedging anchors were put away rather than get between them. That just doesn’t make sense to me. I’m willing to accept the possibility that pulling the Kettenburg off the rocks the way he did was the only possible way to do it. I fully realize that Vessel Assist is an emergency service and that many times their job is extraordinarily difficult, if not downright dangerous. In this case, however, a little more time in assessing the situation might not have come amiss. Perhaps if he had viewed the situation in broad daylight this would have been clear to him, another reason to wait before calling for help.  We might also have retained ownership of our anchor, which is now gone. We could have taken the time to buoy the anchor and retrieved it the next day if we’d had the time to think before cutting the line. At that point, however, what with all the cursing and general yelling taking place and Mike’s level of tiredness,  I think Mike just wanted to be as far away from Vessel Assist as possible. (Come to think of it’s probably a good policy to keep a buoy on that anchor line at all times, just in case.)

This situation also begs a discussion on self-sufficiency. Given enough time to deal with the situation, would the captain of that boat have been able to resolve his own problem without involving the Coast Guard or the Vessel Assist folk? It certainly would have cost him less in the long run if it worked out that way, not to mention giving him a certain amount of self-satisfaction. It is a very heavy boat, so that compromised the situation (and also probably made the difference between a boat that was taking on water and a boat that was still sound because that heaviness comes from really good heavy hull construction). I imagine that had we waited until the next day, the captain would have had several sailors and their boats and anchors to help rather than just Mike. Few sailors would have kept going seeing the boat on the rocks like that. Sailors like to help other sailors get their boats back in the water. Take a look at this post on Zero to Cruising. 

Someone is sure to mention traveling at night. This situation clearly shows the risks we take when we travel at night, even in waters we know well. Mike and I are guilty of traveling at night and it is always the time factor that forces that decision. We know the risks and remain extraordinarily cautious during those times. For instance, when sailing through Port Townsend’s waters, someone stands on the bow looking for boats anchoring with no anchor light, far out from shore. (It happens more than I can believe.) So far, we’ve been lucky. This captain was local and was experienced. He’d owned this vessel for many years. Apparently he let his guard down just long enough to get in trouble. Also, his son, while 20 years old, was not experienced, meaning the captain was basically single-handing the boat. I don’t know what his day had been like up until then, but there’s usually a reason why people are traveling at night and I’d be willing to bet it almost always has something to do with a time schedule.

I am hopeful that should Mike and I ever find ourselves in a similar situation, we would be able to ascertain whether we, indeed, have an emergency that threatens life or vessel, or whether we have what amounts to an inconvenience, even if costly. If everyone is safe and sound, and the vessel is safe for awhile, then perhaps we can take the luxury of time to be able to think clearly about what to do next. I can only hope we are able to hang onto our brains long enough to make that assessment.

Post script: We are hoping the owner of the vessel will email us some photos of the damage. If he is willing, we’ll post them so we can all learn from them. We are not publishing his name or the name of his vessel to protect his privacy. We sincerely hope he gets his boat repaired quickly and easily so it can grace the waters around here once more.