North Carolina / Washington, DC Loop

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I’m no longer in my comfort zone. I won’t say that I was uncomfortable, but rather exhilarated, enlivened. Wind speed steadily had freshened to an average 30 knots. There were gusts. In fact having been hand steering in them since breakfast time, I got so that I could anticipate those gusts and the wave sequences too. They came in cycles. During the lull when the wind seemed to moderate, the feeling became one of relative calm. But that wind always returned and blew with certainty.

This storm wasn’t part of the picture in Marsh Harbor Sunday, 17 January when I sailed for home.  An upper atmospheric disturbance came ashore over the Pacific Northwest the trough strengthening as it moved southeastward and on the 21st a weak low-pressure over central Texas had spawned. The next day a new low-pressure area began to develop over the coast of the Carolinas as the former storm tracked North and East to become a 2016 named Winter Blizzard Storm — Jonas. The worst aspects of the manifestation was from Hatteras, NC and way North along the Mid-Atlantic all well documented by CNN breaking news for those tuned in. This main assault: missed it by that much.

The biggest eye-opener for me was the confirmation that you can’t fight mother nature. Which is to say, that it is easier to go with the flow! It would have been impossible to sail to windward. The boat just wouldn’t have gone. She would have just layed down and taken a beating. With daylong wind from the South and anticipating the westerly wind shift, it was my advance desire to make my way slightly North-Westward and avoid close hauled sailing later on.  Good idea which I tried, but was poor to execute. Running with the wind was happiness. Maneuvering left or right was a tight confine. The one direction killed boatspeed bringing waves and wind to bear and the other was certainty of a crash jybe. Just ride with it and experience the spectacle. The wave swells were high enough that it seemed like the boat (mast and all) disappeared in the bottom of the troughs. When riding back up the crest you were on top of the world. Those wave crests looked like they wanted to fall over and break like surf but they never did. They boiled up and collapsed upon themselves. The froth was whipped and picked up by wind to become driven spray. The best view was aft. Large waves form a train as they roll toward, under, and past the bow. But it was hard to turn ’round and watch in slow motion. Brief side glances were possible, into the stinging windborne drops.

There was very little rain and the clouds were not ominous or threatening. The reader absorbing this over short span of time raises feelings of fear but the main brunt stretched for 6 hours; plenty of time for this sailor to accept, settle in, and cope for the duration.

By dusk, the gale had abated. The angry seas diminished after frontal passage and the winds would soon shift to a western flow. Hungry for some supper and needing rest I hove to and went below.

Typical view at days end… however to be transparent: This was my sunset on 21 January — the night before the blow. Red Sky at Night; Sailors’ Delight. Right??

I’d quipped during verbal narratives on my travels that Talmid’s self steering control affectionately nicknamed Otto Pirate,  was indispensable and that it would be hard luck as a solo sailor to be without it. Well, that happened.

As it turned out it wasn’t my worst nightmare after all. Never having actually hand steered this boat while sailing before, the autohelm is used most [all] of the time, it wasn’t too bad.

The actual 7/16″ SS Pin  — that crystallized and snapped in two and disabled Otto.

Pin fastens the Raymarine M81132 type 2 (long) linear drive rod end to the tiller arm. There can be some tremendous forces exerted. The image depicts a [intact] typical setup. I never would have suspected the beggar would fail.  I will order a spare and while at it, preemptively replace the other adjustment bolts that hold cable tension.

So, there were long hours behind the wheel but Talmid tracks straight and true. I got into the swing of it and found it enjoyable. There were many mile to go however and when you have eating or sleep needs for instance the only way is to heave to. I had to do this a lot; although I had some very long stints at the helm.

I cut a piece of twisted nylon rope and fashioned a short line knotted at both ends to serve as replacement for the pin which worked until my knots failed or the rope chafed through. I re-did and decided that I was asking too much. I reserved usage for calm and smooth sea such as when motoring.  Unfortunately, the only such conditions occurred during the last 12 hours of the voyage but still I was grateful to have Otto.

• Keep the water out of the boat
• Keep the people in the boat
• Keep the boat moving

These are basic adages, useful for staying out of trouble, but modern boaters desire many of the comforts that technologies offer. A boat’s electrical system and its management is integral. Consider what items might become unavailable without it. I have a list in my head because one learns to play “what if” scenarios and plan for contingencies and prepare backups.

Without electricity, for example, you lose the ability to heat/cook food. This is because the CNG fueled galley stove has an electric solenoid valve at the supply tank that is safety mandated to help prevent accidental gas leakage from becoming deadly. This valve is powered to the open position which means that without — it’s shut. Cooking fuel not accessible.

The boat does have storage batteries and these are isolated so that if one goes the other is backup. The engine, when running, has a generator.  So, imagine my shock (no pun intended) when all went dark. Not literally; it happened to be the middle of the afternoon. But it also happened to be the middle of the big wide open ocean miles and miles from land. There was a thump noise and my first observation was that the steering autopilot was offline. Further investigation revealed that the navigation chart plotter and associated electronic aids were down. Going below I discovered that lights, radios, pumps all via the panel could not be switched on. The diesel auxiliary could not be started. There was no power whatsoever. Total loss!

I began a futile search for some sort of Main Circuit Breaker… knowing that there wasn’t one. I opened the master electrical panel to see what I could see. I felt like the driver disabled roadside opening the hood of his car looking in thinking he’d see something obviously wrong but only staring into unknown complexity. I crawled over the diesel into a small space under cockpit deck to go hands on with the batteries. Nothing obvious there either until I stumbled upon the culprit.

Checking security of the battery cable connections I found one awry. Not apparent by eye, a cable was loose and the problem obscured by black electricians tape. This wiring, a crucial common ground, had separated from its terminal lug. The original solder joint had failed. The black tape held the cable near but the detachment prevented the circuit. I removed the tape and with Leatherman stripped insulation to reveal more  copper. This bare wire was inserted at terminal junction under the other lugs and the whole shebang secured. This was a bandaid fix but I was back in business and on my way in short order. Upon arrival at my island destination I endeavored to replace the offending terminal lug. I didn’t trust the bandaid to get me back to home port. After learning at the auto parts supply that these items were available only on prefabricated [short] cables I visited a hardware store and found a grounding cable clamp that gave me the idea for a MAcGyver fix. I stripped insulation from another cable and siamesed the two so as to share a good terminal lug. This was still ugly but secure. Happily restored, the electrical system held together on return voyage and meals were served hot — and the electronics worked, lights, and toilet. Yep. It’s electric too!

Somewhat unpleasant, it affects some people more than others. With concerns, as I was always the one in the SaturdaySki Bus who usually succumbed, I found out a few things. 

The nervous system when receiving conflicting inputs from eyes, inner ears and other sensors triggers a reaction one and the same, believing that the body has injested poison.  God bless it.  

The body has adaptive powers, thankfully and the queasiness eventually dissipates or so they encourage. In my case, and this is considered par for the course, about 48 hours.  I tried using a Prescription Scopolamine transdermal patch behind the ear which seemed to help somewhat but the honest cure is to endure.  The body becomes used to and adjusts to the motion. On day 3 offshore, I had my sea legs finally. In fact I could perform normal task like reading or galley work without concern. 

At one point I faced an advanced real test: Our boat, assuming a significant angle of lean while on port tack spilled the contents (gravity rules) of a bookcase shelf on the high side clear across the saloon to the other. That would be our beer bottle(s) meant for celebration at journeys end… (Don’t Drink WHILE Boating) and some of them were smashed during the crashing transfer. It was middle of the night, cabin lights dim, and imperative that the broken shards be disposed of. The space reeking like a frat house on a Friday Night, was hot and humid and still halfway on its ear – –  motion on. Since I had improperly stowed the goods I took to the mop up and survived the ordeal. It was after task that I realized that I hadn’t been phased. 

So there’s hope for those of us who don’t automatically take to seafaring. BTW, when Calling to Neptune over the side. Direct things well away or at least be ready with a wash sown bucket follow up. The contents of ones stomach reacts with the [fiberglass] gel coat and it’s a bitch to buff out after the fact!

After 4 (uneventful) days offshore, we motored the arrival for the last mile or so in late afternoon sun. The desire was to find and secure our berth in the marina before losing the light.  In this pursuit we were on track and feeling good about all that we had accomplished during our long sail. Fenders deployed, mooring line pre-rigged; we eased past the last channel marker before turning in. The marina is very tight quarters for maneuvering and with a light skiff with outboard coming out of our lane I needed to delay in order to allow him to exit. Selecting neutral and then reverse was the proper action but then surprise. Ineffective reverse. Transmission problem? Our trajectory is aiming us at a transient catamaran moored to a side dock and we are still making way. Reverse gear is making a dreadful sound and although speed is next to nothing we bounce off of the cat. About to ricochet off the fuel dock behind us I select forward gear and surprise, it too is gone. How could this happen? We were all good for days and then at this critical juncture — hell handed to me in a hand basket. How can this be? This was not the grand finale I foresaw.

[damage: apart from my pride — this crease in a shroud turnbuckle on the other boat]

So, a glorious conclusion was not to be and instead turned into a story to tell. Luckily there was neither wind nor adverse current and having rubbed up against the fuel dock and with the very limited propulsion, I was able to get a line on and secured. We called it a day and spent the night. I just needed to check one thing. I stripped my shirt, and donned a skin diving mask and went over the side. I wanted to have a look at the prop and discovered that there was nothing wrong with the engine or transmission…

[fishnet encounter]

The prop was fouled. Evidently the netting debris had wrapped up on the shaft and aft of the prop blades but when reversed slid forward to tangle and gum up the works. Too big a job for my Leatherman, to deep, dark, and I can’t hold my breath that long, a Diver was called and he cleared the mess that you see here.

Who would know? The takeaway is check your brakes (reverse in this case) before entering the traffic pattern.

I had heard this old adage. I knew it. I learned it (again) the hard way. I had made my way aft and arrived at the port side winch which had my full attention. Knees were fully bent in the squat position and balancing on both feet. At the same moment that I reached out for the jib sheet the boat rolled. My hands came up with air and I tumbled over backwards feet out in front. Hard corners of the companionway hatch met the back of my scull with a wallop,
that I won’t forget…and neither will my crew — imagining various recovery scenarios and outcomes!

Hardheaded that I am, I knew I was okay. Only the scars remain.

Lesson learned: …which may derive from the days of sailing ships, when working high in the mast rigging and before the advent of modern safety harnesses; it was an essential precaution that each sailor should hold on with one hand at all times, while working with the other.

This gave rise to the idiom “one hand for yourself, one for the ship” This saying remains excellent advice.