Memory Test

Calm first nite of the year, at anchor in Blind Bay

Operating any boat requires that you have a good memory.  Just think about all the things and procedures that you have to keep in mind just to get off the dock.  The bigger the boat, the more systems.  The more systems, the more that needs to be kept in mind.

So here's a partial list from Eolian's "ready for sea" list:

• Forward head items stowed or put in sink
• Pictures laid flat in safe locations
• Refrigerator door pinned
• Galley counter cleared of loose items
• Wine glass rack closed
• Aft head items stowed or put in sink
• [...]

 And for the first time off the dock for the year, those lists held in memory might be a little fuzzy.  And they are longer... because the boat is still in "winter configuration".

When we first got Eolian we had an actual written checklist that we used when getting ready to leave the dock.  And we used it religiously for a long time, years in fact.  But after more than a decade moored in the same place, the list became, well, a hassle.  We remembered everything, right?

Fast forward to the first time off the dock in the first spring in Cap Sante marina.  We went thru the normal "first time off the dock" list that starts with:

• Take off the winter fenders and take them up the dock to the Suburban
• Take off the winter-doubled docklines
• Check the water tanks for water sufficient for the planned trip (Eolian holds 300 gallons - trips less than a couple of weeks don't require full tanks)
• Check the fuel tanks (as above)
• [...]

 And then we started the engine, checked for water discharge, discussed what strategy to use when backing out of the slip given the current wind, checked for traffic in the waterway, and removed all but the bow and stern lines.  I released the stern line, got aboard and put the transmission in reverse.  At the same time Jane released the bow line and also climbed aboard.

I have learned that the best strategy to use when backing out of the slip is to advance the throttle "with authority" (as Art of Phoenix Rising used to say) - it minimizes the prop walk - and then put the transmission in neutral.  All went as planned.  For about a half a second.  And then the bow swung wildly to starboard, heading for the other boat that shares our slip.  As soon as this happened, I switched the transmission to forward and cranked the wheel to stop the boat's movement.  Thankfully, there was no contact with anything.

Then a brief burst in reverse to correct for my panicked over-correction.   Another half second of reflection brought home the conclusion:  we still had a dockline on somewhere.  And at that same moment, Jane spotted the offending line - led from the starboard bow.

With that line removed the rest of our undocking was uneventful, albeit drenched with adrenaline.  

What happened?

Here's the deconstruction of the event.  In all the years we were at Shilshole, our slip opened to the south - the direction the prevailing winter storms come from.  Of course we had a line led from the boat to the end of the finger slip, but there was no way to run a line from the other side of the boat to anything.  But at Cap Sante, our slip opens to the north.  This means that we can have two lines running upwind from the bow to the dock - one to our finger pier and one to a cleat on the dock proper. 

Guess which line we missed.

Yeah, that one.

So we failed the memory test, both of us did.  Or I should say that we passed the memory test with flying colors, but memory alone was insufficient.  An alert, conscious, complete final check would have revealed that we had left a line on, a line that we had never used in any previous year.  So, now there is a final item on the checklist, right before "release the docklines and engage the transmission":

• Be present in this moment, not thinking about 30 seconds down the line.  Make a final, calm, complete check of everything, uncolored by the excitement of getting off the dock.

Will we remember this new item?  And not let it become so routine that we are just going thru the motions?

I hope so.

---

Years ago when I was a kid, I used to read Flying magazine. I particularly enjoyed a long-running series of articles entitled "I Learned About Flying From That." Each article was written by a pilot, who humbly admitted to having made a mistake, and then having lived, told about it in the hopes that others would not have to make the same mistake. I thought then that it was a good format, and I still think that now. This series of postings is my attempt to recreate that article series with a new subject and new technology.

(If you would like to help others to learn from your mistakes, please send your article to: WindborneInPugetSound at gmail dot com)

Memory Test

PO Recursiveness

In the past I have repeatedly referenced the Previous Owner with some disdain.  In fact I have attributed most of the problems we have dealt with aboard Eolian to the Previous Owner. 

However, astute readers of my previous post will have noticed something:

• I whined about the use of silicone rubber as caulking under the caprail
• I last exposed the caprail to daylite in 1998.

Yes, embarrassingly,  it is true.  That was me - I put that silicone rubber there.  I have become my own Previous Owner.  If you own your boat long enough, this is inevitable.  You will eventually have to face your own repairs, made by a younger, less experienced version of yourself.

In the 16 years we have been responsible for Eolian's care, I have learned some things.  No, that's inadequate.  I have learned A LOT.  And the inappropriateness of silicone rubber is one of those things.  While I may have whined about our Previous Owner using silicone rubber for simply everything (liquid duct tape?), I was guilty of bringing this nasty stuff aboard too.

But that is one of the purposes of this blog - to keep others from making the mistakes I have made.

Learnings:

• Leave the silicone rubber ashore (except where explicitly required - by Beckson for installation of their ports for example).
• Hubris can result in embarrassment

---

Years ago when I was a kid, I used to read Flying magazine. I particularly enjoyed a long-running series of articles entitled "I Learned About Flying From That." Each article was written by a pilot, who humbly admitted to having made a mistake, and then having lived, told about it in the hopes that others would not have to make the same mistake. I thought then that it was a good format, and I still think that now. This series of postings is my attempt to recreate that article series with a new subject and new technology.

(If you would like to help others to learn from your mistakes, please send your article to: WindborneInPugetSound at gmail dot com)

PO Recursiveness

I learned about sailing from that: Close the front hatch!

Yesterday afternoon while we were sailing back from Bainbridge Island, in a lovely 12 kt close reach, I had to dodge a container ship.  Now that is not notable - we frequently have to take a bearing on these big ships and decide if we need to alter course.

What was unusual yesterday was that the ship (one of the Hanjin Chinese freighters) was really hauling a**...  she seemed to be making at least 20 kt, but I do not know for sure.  What I do know is that she was trailing a prodigious big wake.  In fact, it was the biggest wake I have ever seen on Puget Sound down by Seattle in going on 20 years of sailing here.

As this breaking monster began rolling toward us, I found myself constantly revising my estimate of how large it was, going from "No problem", to "That looks pretty big...", to "Uh oh...".  I sent Jane below to check our state of readiness for a big 'un.  While she was down there,  I revised my estimate once again, now to "Holy crap!".  I shouted for her to close the front hatch, but there wasn't time for her to get it done before we hit the wake. 

Of course I took it head on.  And it was a monster.  Estimates under such conditions are notoriously difficult to make - but if I had to come up with a number, I'd say that the wake wave was 10 feet high.  Our bow got submerged with green water running up to the cabin.  The water that the impact raised into the air was caught in the wind and flung right at the front hatch, which was still in the "Scoop Water" position.  There was a cacophony of crashing sounds from down below.

Bottom line?  No injuries, although that certainly was a real possibility.  No real damage - the worst was that our (dry) homemade pasta made good its escape and was all over the floor.  And everything in the forward cabin was drenched with seawater.

There was one other boat close enough for us to watch as it encountered the wake - we got to check the condition of his keel.  No barnacles.

Eolian is a large boat.  We escaped relatively unscathed, but I can easily imagine injuries on a smaller vessel - and there were a lot of them out on the Sound on such a nice day.  Don't these guys have a speed limit?  Aren't they supposed to have a pilot on board?  Are they immune from the "You are responsible for the damage your wake does" clause?

Learnings:

• Even on a nice sailing day, a container ship can create "Victory at Sea" conditions.
• Close and latch the front hatch when you are off shore!
• Beware the escape of the homemade pasta
• Regardless of whether the other guy accepts responsibility for his wake, you are responsible for your boat.  Be ready for his wake.

---

Years ago when I was a kid, I used to read Flying magazine. I particularly enjoyed a long-running series of articles entitled "I Learned About Flying From That." Each article was written by a pilot, who humbly admitted to having made a mistake, and then having lived, told about it in the hopes that others would not have to make the same mistake. I thought then that it was a good format, and I still think that now. This series of postings is my attempt to recreate that article series with a new subject and new technology.

(If you would like to help others to learn from your mistakes, please send your article to: WindborneInPugetSound at gmail dot com)

I learned about sailing from that: Close the front hatch!

I learned about sailing from that: A Tale of Two Impellers

Having no idea of its condition, not long after we took possession of Eolian, I changed out the raw water pump impeller.  It needed it.

Then, 480 engine hours (and several years) later, I changed it again.  The impeller was little worse for the wear, looking almost new.  I threw it in the spares box and installed a new one I had just bought for the purpose.

Today I pulled out that impeller, after 230 hours of operation.  Now, there's a lesson here for everybody.  The impeller was in poor shape - three of the vanes were cracked (but none missing, thankfully - I don't have to disassemble the heat exchanger to find lost vanes).  There were a few small chunks missing from the bottom surface, small enough to have passed thru the heat exchanger.  After less than half the operating time.

Why the early failure?

When I compared this impeller closely to the one I had taken out 230 hours ago, one thing stood out clearly:  it was about 1 mm taller.  When the water pump  cover was tightened down, the impeller got a compression load that the older one never saw, and one the pump was apparently not designed to sustain.  Further, the pump cover showed significant signs of erosion, probably caused by the excessive compression load.

It turns out that the too-tall impeller was a Johnson Pump "equivalent" for the Jabsco impeller.  "Equivalent" in the sense of "approximate".

The learnings from this experience:

• When changing out a part, be certain to compare all relevant dimensions of the new one to the one being replaced. 
• If you have a non-standard part installed, change it out as soon as possible.
• Non-standard parts can cause consequent damage far beyond their value

The pump still works OK, but it's not delivering as much water as it used to.  I surmise that the erosion on the cover plate is preventing a good seal with the impeller, allowing leakage internally from the high pressure side back to the low pressure side. 

Rather than just replace the cover plate, I have ordered a SpeedSeal cover plate - something that has been on my todo list anyway, ever since Livia blogged about theirs.   So there is a silver lining to this story.

---

Years ago when I was a kid, I used to read Flying magazine. I particularly enjoyed a long-running series of articles entitled "I Learned About Flying From That." Each article was written by a pilot, who humbly admitted to having made a mistake, and then having lived, told about it in the hopes that others would not have to make the same mistake. I thought then that it was a good format, and I still think that now. This series of postings is my attempt to recreate that article series with a new subject and new technology.

(If you would like to help others to learn from your mistakes, please send your article to: WindborneInPugetSound at gmail dot com)

I learned about sailing from that: A Tale of Two Impellers

I learned about sailing from that: Backing up while anchoring

Anchor:  It connotes solidity, security, safety, strength.  When it fails, something fundamental goes out of you.

Being blown off your anchor is frightening.  It seems that babies and bad storms all come at 3 AM, so if your anchor drags, you'll be drifting towards shore, while trying to get the sleep out of your brain at 3 AM, in the dark, in a storm.

Having been blown off our anchor twice in our previous boat (the anchor was appropriately sized for the boat, but it was too light to really bite into the bottom), I have a healthy fear of this prospect.  And when we hauled our anchor up in Port Madison after a calm night and found that it was embedded in a tangled ball of chain, that fear arose again.  Since it had been a quiet nite, there was no problem... but we had been anchored to a pile of chain - not an anchor.

One way to make sure that it doesn't happen is to be moving backward when the anchor kisses the bottom.  You see, if you are stationary, then the anchor hits the bottom and immediately gets a pile of chain deposited on it.  Generally this will foul it in some way, and you'll have one of those situations where you depend on something to be trustworthy, but when push comes to shove (or pull), it lets go, at the worst possible moment.

And it took quite a while, hanging off the bowsprit with the boathook, to untangle things.  Thankfully, that was the worst of the problems.

Learnings:

• Always have the boat moving astern when the anchor touches down.  We now have a system - Jane waves to me from the bow when we have veered enough chain to reach the bottom.  I need to have the boat moving astern by then.
• Always be sure that the anchor is well and truly hooked.  The rode should come taut with the sternward motion.
• Do not leave the boat unless you are certain that the anchor is hooked.  This seems like a silly, obvious thing to say, but we have seen more than one captain drop the hook, jump in the dinghy and head for shore before the boat had hardly stopped moving.  On at least two such occasions, the boat was not hooked, and ended up drifting down the anchorage, collecting insurance claims, like seaweed on a drift log.

---

Years ago when I was a kid, I used to read Flying magazine. I particularly enjoyed a long-running series of articles entitled "I Learned About Flying From That." Each article was written by a pilot, who humbly admitted to having made a mistake, and then having lived, told about it in the hopes that others would not have to make the same mistake. I thought then that it was a good format, and I still think that now. This series of postings is my attempt to recreate that article series with a new subject and new technology.

(If you would like to help others to learn from your mistakes, please send your article to: WindborneInPugetSound at gmail dot com)

I learned about sailing from that: Backing up while anchoring

An exclusive secret society

Sitting around and talking with others on the dock, I am, once in a very great while, able to step outside life and listen to the conversations flowing around me... How to transit  Deception Pass.  Where to anchor in Friday Harbor.  Threading the needle into Fisherman's Bay on Lopez Island.  Crossing the shelf at Port Ludlow in the fog.

These are actual subjects discussed in very recent conversations here on the dock.  I feel privileged and blessed to have been granted the experience to be a part of these conversations.  It's an exclusive society with very few members compared to the population at large.  In fact, it is largely unknown to the population at large... it is a secret society of the seaworthy, and I feel privileged to be a member.

An exclusive secret society

I learned about sailing from that: Small places

It was 1998, and I was living aboard Eolian by myself - Jane was still over in Spokane with Adam, he in his senior year of high school. I was on a mission of exploration, trying to find out everything about Eolian that I could, and in particular, what was all the "stuff" in all of the compartments (it is a rare boat that does not come with an assortment of surprises stored away in hidden places, compliments of the Previous Owner).

I had pulled up the floorboard that covers the space by the mainmast step. There was all kinds of "stuff" in there! A spare prop, an anchor, a grappling hook... and what is that behind the prop? Well, from my position, lying on the floor with the upper half of my body more or less down into the compartment with a flashlight, I couldn't quite tell.

So I slithered a little more forward and was almost able to reach the prop. But not quite. Just a little bit more...

Uh oh... Too far!

Now I was over-balanced, with more of my body down in the hole than on the floorboards above. And with no way to back up. It was like a Chinese finger trap, every move I tried made things worse, ending up with me farther and farther into the compartment, headfirst.

I was alone on the boat, and there was no one around to hear me shout for help.

I finally stopped struggling, and managed to quell the rising panic. I'm not sure how long I hung there, with my hands too far from the bottom of the compartment to push myself back out. It certainly seemed like long enough, with my body blocking the light from above (and the air!), seeing with only a flashlight, and the blood rushing to my head, trying to figure a way out of this trap. I had visions of Jane coming to the boat 6 months later, only to find my skeleton dangling half in and half out of the hole.

Eventually I came up with the plan to rearrange the contents of the compartment, stacking the things I could reach on top of those I couldn't, until I had a platform high enough to use to push myself back up out of the hole. It worked.

Learnings:

• This is the reason that in industrial settings there is the concept of a "Confined Space" and a "Confined Space Permit". You may not enter a Confined Space without a permit, and the permit requires various safety considerations, usually including someone to pull you out if necessary. This certainly constituted a Confined Space.
  
• Always consider the whole job before starting - including provisions for retreat.
  

---

Years ago when I was a kid, I used to read Flying magazine. I particularly enjoyed a long-running series of articles entitled "I Learned About Flying From That." Each article was written by a pilot, who humbly admitted to having made a mistake, and then having lived, told about it in the hopes that others would not have to make the same mistake. I thought then that it was a good format, and I still think that now. This series of postings is my attempt to recreate that article series with a new subject and new technology.

(If you would like to help others to learn from your mistakes, please send your article to: WindborneInPugetSound at gmail dot com)

I learned about sailing from that: Small places

Opposite corners

On Monday, I got to compare notes about sailing and life on the water with someone from the opposite corner of the country:  Tampa/St Petersburg, Fla.  (Yes, I still like and use the 3 letter state abbreviations.)

A lady that works with Jane and her Florida-based father (and a reader of this blog!) came aboard to see Eolian, and to discuss how sailing differs between the PNW and Fla.  Here's a partial list from that discussion, in no particular order (did I leave anything out Chuck?):

• Chuck thought it was delightfully cool here.  How delightful our temps are is apparently colored by where you have spent the last little while.
• No swim platforms; no swim platform showers - Easy access to the water from the boat and vice versa is de rigeur in Florida.  One swims in Florida because it is delightful, and because it is a way to escape the heat.  Boating life there is living on and in the water.  But entering the waters of Puget Sound can be a life-threatening experience.
• Cockpit enclosures - the majority of boats here sport full canvas cockpit enclosures.  In Florida, the enclosure is typically a bimini - just the top, without the side curtains.  You need a place to go to get out of the sun.
• Tides - The tidal range here is large - it can be as much as 16 feet, while in Florida it is minuscule by comparison.
• Currents - That tidal range drives some prodigious currents in the PNW - currents which do not exist in Florida.
• Barnacles - Even with bottom paint, boats need to be frequently cleaned of freeloading sea life in the warm Florida waters - Chuck said every 6 months I believe.  While up here, with the boat hull essentially in a refrigerator, not so much.  We seem to be on an every-3-years haulout schedule.
• Heaters - Boat heaters are as common here as boat air conditioners are in Florida.  And boat air conditioners are as scarce here as boat heaters are scarce in Florida.
• Bugs - Insect life abounds in Florida.  We have no screens on the ports and hatches on Eolian - we don't need 'em.
• Anchors - The Danforth anchor is a lot more common in Florida than here - there are lots of sand bottoms there, and Danforths work well in sand.
• Sailing season - Chuck was interested to find that, on Eolian anyway, our season seems to run from late April to early October.  He thought it would be longer.
• Hurricanes - We don't have 'em, in Florida they do.  In fact, during hurricane season, people are apparently glued to the Weather Channel the whole time, sweating the track predictions.
• Anchoring - Florida is home to some of the most inhospitable municipal anchoring regulations in the country.  Not so here.  Yet.
• Shoreline development - Sadly, this seems to be the same everywhere.  The working waterfront in America is being sold off to The Developers for the construction of condominiums.  Slip space is getting harder to find everywhere.  Yet the boat manufacturers are continuing to make and sell boats - where will they be moored?  Have we reached the point where for every new boat manufactured, one must be destroyed somewhere to release a mooring for it?

It was an entertaining and eye-opening discussion. 

Opposite corners

I learned about sailing from that: Check your systems before you need them

This post is not about some long-ago event, from 30 or 40 years ago when we were just starting to be sailors. The events here occurred this morning, when we should have had the benefit of long experience. But hubris gets the best of everyone from time to time, and this weekend it was our turn.

The trip this weekend was our first of the year. Events and weather had postponed it until now, and we were anxious to be off the dock for a quick over-nighter to Port Madison. Despite the desire to be off, we waited until afternoon to throw off the lines, spending the morning getting Eolian ready to go, after her winter hibernation.

Everything went well and we had a wonderful evening meal, despite it being chilly and spitting rain on me while I BBQ'ed. The morning too was idyllic, as we were planning to dock back at the marina (about 90 minutes away) at slack water, which would occur at 13:30.

About 10:30, we checked the NOAA weather forecast, and found that the 20+ kt winds which had previously been forecast to arrive in the evening, now were expected in the afternoon. We decided to get ready and leave, reasoning that docking in the tail end of the tide change was preferable to docking with a 20 kt tailwind.

At 11:00, we were ready. I had the engine running, Jane was at the bow with the washdown hose at the ready, and I was below at the chain locker, ready to flake the incoming chain.

Jane keyed the windlass, and then: well, then NOTHING. The windlass was an inert lump of metal, and nothing we could do would persuade it to run. I wished then that I had just bumped it at the dock, to be sure that it would run when needed, after sitting all winter.

So we hoisted the anchor by hand. This is not an easy task, since Eolian's primary anchor rode is 3/8" chain, and the anchor is a 66 lb Bruce. That is a lot of weight. We were quite fortunate tho, because:

• We had started to leave an hour earlier than planned - thus we had an hour of slack in our schedule.
• We were in 14 feet of water, with only 75' of chain out. This means that we did not have much to retrieve, and that only 14' of it was suspended at any time.
• There was no wind
• There was a vanishingly small current
• There were no other boats around us - meaning that during that period after breaking out the anchor, but while we were still retrieving it, we didn't have to worry about drifting into trouble

I don't think things could have conspired to make it any easier on us. We got the anchor back on board, and the rest of the trip continued our good luck - it began to rain just after we were tied up and had closed the boat up.

Learnings:

• Test all systems, at least at the beginning of the season, before you need them. Make the test at a time and place of your choosing - one where time and circumstance do not require the test to succeed.
• If a failure occurs, be prepared to change your plans.

We got out of this one way too easily. In any other expected circumstance, the consequences could have been much more severe.

---

Years ago when I was a kid, I used to read Flying magazine. I particularly enjoyed a long-running series of articles entitled "I Learned About Flying From That." Each article was written by a pilot, who humbly admitted to having made a mistake, and then having lived, told about it in the hopes that others would not have to make the same mistake. I thought then that it was a good format, and I still think that now. This series of postings is my attempt to recreate that article series with a new subject and new technology.

(If you would like to help others to learn from your mistakes, please send your article to: WindborneInPugetSound at gmail dot com)

I learned about sailing from that: Check your systems before you need them

I learned about sailing from that: Always have a backup plan!

This is a guest column, written by Mike & Rebecca aboard s/v Katana. This is an expanded version of the original post, written specifically for Windborne in Puget Sound.

---

If ever there was a time when circumstances aligned to cause us problems, the first day moving our boat this season was it.

Although launch day was calm and uneventful, including the mast stepping which followed (I won't mention the lightning storm that began just as I was tightening the rigging), the wind had picked up considerably the next day. As more boat launches were scheduled, we told the marina owners that we would get there early and move our boat a few slips down the dock to make way.

Our boat's engines had sat without running for just shy of 6 months and thus I was a bit apprehensive about how well they would perform. Because of this, we let the engines run at idle for a good 15 minutes before casting off to move the boat. At this point the winds were blowing from our stern quarter at a good 20 knots. Nothing we hadn't experienced before, but we did make a note of it and considered how it would affect the boat's movement.

Strangely, the marina yard was, just then, empty. If one of the staff had have been around, or even one of the other boat owners, there is a good chance that I would have asked him to stand by on the dock to catch a line as we made our approach to the new slip. But again, docking with just the two of us was something we had done many times in the previous season, so we didn't bother going to look for help. With me at the helm, Rebecca cast off the lines as we had planned.

Almost from the beginning it didn't work out quite as we had hoped and Rebecca had to move quickly to even get on the boat. The wind took hold, causing us to accelerate and almost instantly we were being blown across the water towards the adjacent dock. No problem... I'll just shift the engines into reverse. Problem! They both stalled! Fortunately, with only a few feet to spare, I was able to restart them quickly and shift to reverse. This stopped our forward motion but again, the wind had moved us off course and we were now past the slip that we initially intended to dock in. As this was very early in the season, the entire dock was virtually empty, and thus we rapidly decided to make way into the next slip. Again the engines stalled and we were blown past it. This wind-blowing-engine-stalling process repeated itself until we had moved from the very first slip in the dock all the way out into the bay. At this point I had visions of our engine problems allowing us to be taken right across to the opposite shoreline! No problem... we have a sailboat. We'll just raise our sails to control our motion. Problem! The sails had not yet been rigged! OK, still no problem... if we really get into trouble we'll just drop our anchor. Another problem. Even the anchors had not yet been set! They were stored below, as they had been all winter, instead of being fixed on the bow, ready to deploy, as they normally are.

Was there a happy ending? Yes, what could have been a disaster for us resolved itself favorably. We ultimately got the engines running and were able to maneuver ourselves back to our desired slip. Although the docking process was ugly to say the least, the boat made it there without a scratch (thanks in part to the rubber bumpers on the corner of the dock and to Rebecca's aggressive fending-off).

Lessons learned:

• The first lesson, and one that was drilled into us from our first sailing course, is to not let Mother Nature get one up on us. Although we had considered the wind's effect on our movement, we failed to pay it enough heed.


• Although we had anticipated that we may have had engine issues, we failed to test them fully prior to casting off. We should have.


• Why didn't we seek help when all it would have taken is a quick walk to find one of the marina staff, or even easier, a quick call on the radio to the office? I would have to say that we (I) let our ego take over. We shouldn't have to ask for help to move our own boat, should we? Yes, given the circumstances, asking to have someone stand by would have been prudent, and it sure would have been helpful.


• What about the sails and the anchors? This could be one of the biggest lessons. We had no backup plan. No fail-safe. There always needs to be a backup, and if possible, a backup to that backup.

Good fortune was actually with us that day because we were able to have some important lessons driven home to us without it costing us any money. That isn't often the case!

Mike and Rebecca
s/v Katana
http://www.zerotocruising.com

---

Years ago when I was a kid, I used to read Flying magazine. I particularly enjoyed a long-running series of articles entitled "I Learned About Flying From That." Each article was written by a pilot, who humbly admitted to having made a mistake, and then having lived, told about it in the hopes that others would not have to make the same mistake. I thought then that it was a good format, and I still think that now. This series of postings is my attempt to recreate that article series with a new subject and new technology.

(If you would like to help others to learn from your mistakes, please send your article to: WindborneInPugetSound at gmail dot com)

I learned about sailing from that: Always have a backup plan!

I Learned about sailing from that: Carrying the Mainsail Downwind Too Long

I apologize if you have seen this post before. It ended up with the wrong date in Google Reader, and therefore was invisible to anyone who uses that tool to see this blog. As a correction, I am re-posting it and deleting the old version

---

In 2004 we made a trip up to Desolation Sound. Because of the path we chose, we had to cross the Strait of Georgia at its Southern end, and then sail most of its length from South to North. The Strait of Georgia is a large body of water, and can experience some prodigious wind, which can produce significant wind-driven swell.

We will join our log, picking up the thread as we were leaving Silva Bay:

We were excited about crossing the Strait of Georgia.. we both woke up before the alarm, and it was set for 06:00. So we got off pretty early - the log shows 06:40. We motored out of Silva Bay and into the Strait, and found a 10 kt SE breeze. Great! We hoisted all the sails, but soon found that our course was forcing us to choose between the yankee and the mainsail - the main was blanketing the yankee, and it was impossible to keep it filled and stay on course. So we rolled up the yankee.

As the morning wore on, the wind built. It had been forecast as 10-15 kt, but those darn Canadians! After it went over 20 indicated, we had to get more sail off as the boat was getting severely overpowered... steering was becoming difficult. Clipped into the jackline, Jane went forward and gave a mighty effort. To no avail.

Now, Eolian's mainsail is 391 ft²- a 1XX lb woman is simply no match for it when it is full of 20 kt of wind. So - there we were - barreling up the Strait of Georgia, the mainsail winged out, too much sail on the boat and steering becoming more and more difficult. Driven by the rising wind,the swell was rising too, contributing to the steering problem.

What to do?

It was obvious that we needed to turn the boat into the wind to take the wind out of the main. But the swell was high enough now where that was becoming a risk in itself. Here's what we did: I started the engine so the prop thrust would make the turn as quick as possible. Then I tried to time the turn so that we would be most of the way around by the time we were seeing the next crest. This meant that we had to start the turn as a wave was beginning to pass under us.

It worked, more or less. It was a wild ride, but we didn't broach, we didn't dip the boom into the water, and Jane quickly got the main down (hooray for lazy jacks!). But the cabin was a mess. Lots of things got loose from their sea rails and found their way to the floor. Books, for example. It seems like most of the paperback books we had on board were on the floor. However, nothing was broken.

We finally dropped the sails (just the mizzen and stays'l... the two sails I have always regarded as somehow "extra" - and here they had powered us most of the day) and put into Ballet Bay, at the entrance to Jervis Inlet. Even there tho, the wind continued to plague us, swinging us back and forth on the anchor until very late.

Learnings:

• Sailing downwind can be deceptive. Wind speeds are higher than they seem, and you can become lulled into a false sense of the real situation.
• A mainsail full of wind cannot be dropped. A yankee can.
  
• A strategic error was made early in the voyage when we dropped the yankee because it was being blanketed by the mainsail. We should have dropped the main.
• Reduce sail early. It is easier to add sail in a dying wind that it is to get it off in a rising wind.
• When to reduce sail? When the thought crosses your mind. If you are thinking about it, you probably should be doing it.
  

---

Years ago when I was a kid, I used to read Flying magazine. I particularly enjoyed a long-running series of articles entitled "I Learned About Flying From That." Each article was written by a pilot, who humbly admitted to having made a mistake, and then having lived, told about it in the hopes that others would not have to make the same mistake. I thought then that it was a good format, and I still think that now. This series of postings is my attempt to recreate that article series with a new subject and new technology.

(If you would like to help others to learn from your mistakes, please send your article to: WindborneInPugetSound at gmail dot com)

I Learned about sailing from that: Carrying the Mainsail Downwind Too Long

I learned about sailing from that: Single Handing in the Fog

This is a guest column written by Livia aboard SV Estrellita 5.10b. This is an expanded version of the original post, written specifically for Windborne in Puget Sound.

---

I first single handed our 35' Wauquiez Pretorien from Friday Harbor, WA across the Strait of Juan de Fuca to Port Townsend, WA and then on to Edmonds, WA. I was nervous and spent a great deal of time focusing on heavy weather, sail plans, solo anchoring and potential in-boat emergencies.

To avoid solo docking which I had not yet practiced, my husband sailed with me from Sidney BC to Friday Harbor to clear customs and my father arranged to meet me at the docks in Kingston, WA where I would touch-and-go to pick him up before heading into the Edmonds marina. I planned an overnight stop on anchor at Port Townsend.

I left my husband Carol at the customs dock in Friday Harbor after anchoring out overnight in the harbor:


Just South of Friday Harbor in San Juan Channel I saw a fog bank in front of me:


Here is where I went wrong. I should have gone back to Friday Harbor and waited out the fog. Instead, I thought I would go "through it". Of course, there is no "through it". There is more fog.

So with radar, my fog horn, and Navsim electronic charting software I emergency navigated into MacKay Harbor.

Our GPS antenna which had been sporadically losing connection began sporadically losing connection while in the narrowest part of San Juan channel. I could see other boats, mostly small fishing vessels, on radar but my visibility was down to a few boat lengths. I honked my horn at any contact and spent that hour running up and down to the radar screen at the nav table and back to the cockpit.

I used the radar to complement my electronic charts to verify that I was, in fact, where I thought I was in the channel because I could not see the sides. I also used the radar to verify my route through the rocky islands.

You can see my planned route due South and, after anchoring, my new route out of MacKay Harbor:


In addition to radar, electronic charts and my fog horn I also hoisted our radar reflector and called my husband to give him my coordinates and the situation.

Once inside MacKay Harbor I dropped anchor in the relative middle of the harbor without bothering to set it (no wind) and sat in the cockpit reviewing what had happened. I made a time estimate on getting to Port Townsend before dark and decided that if the fog had completely cleared before early afternoon I would peek out of the harbor and if the fog had completely cleared in the Strait of Juan de Fuca I would continue to Port Townsed.

Here is the bank of the harbor from where I dropped anchor in fog:


Several hours later, this is the same view of the harbor as I left it in the sun:


The fog lifted and I crossed the Strait anticlimactically. No wind and a sunny motor to Port Townsend where I dropped anchor for the second time that day by myself. I spent a nice night there and then motored in no wind to Kingston where I did a touch-and-go pick up of my father at Kingston and he helped me dock in Edmonds, WA.

Overall single handing was pivotal. I feel more in control of the boat and a lot more confident in my own skills. Although the fog was an unnecessary risk not to be repeated, it showed me how much I've learned about radar and navigation generally. I have a sense of where and in what conditions I can anchor by myself and at least "un-dock" the boat by myself which I did several times.

Lessons learned:

• If you are in a safe place and there is fog ahead of you, stay put. If you have an avenue of retreat, and there is fog ahead of you, go back to a safe place and wait it out.
• If a safety or navigation item in your boat is in need of repair, either repair it or make sure a good spare is handy. We should have fixed our GPS antenna line earlier and if not, we have a handheld GPS and should have had it handy instead of my having to dig it out while simultaneously doing a dozen other things.
• Don't let stressors (like heavy weather) stop you from thinking clearly about other factors. In other situations this lesson has helped us remember that when we are stressed about a situation, such as docking in a tight spot, that those are particularly good moments to go through all of the safety items needed but not at the top of your mind, such as PFDs, turning down the VHF radio, etc.

---

Years ago when I was a kid, I used to read Flying magazine. I particularly enjoyed a long-running series of articles entitled "I Learned About Flying From That." Each article was written by a pilot, who humbly admitted to having made a mistake, and then having lived, told about it in the hopes that others would not have to make the same mistake. I thought then that it was a good format, and I still think that now. This series of postings is my attempt to recreate that article series with a new subject and new technology.

(If you would like to help others to learn from your mistakes, please send your article to: WindborneInPugetSound at gmail dot com)

I learned about sailing from that: Single Handing in the Fog

I learned about sailing from that: Always carry tools! And spares!

The year was 2001 and we had just left the dock for the San Juan Islands. Not long after killing the engine and raising sail, while Eolian was sailing herself under autopilot, I was walking the decks, enjoying the sun, the wind, and the boat moving thru the water.

Then I heard the splat of the bilge pump discharging onto the passing sea. It didn't run long... but it shouldn't have been running at all. So I went looking. After pulling up the third floorboard, I found the problem - there was sea water dripping off of everything. It seems that one of the sea water hoses on the engine had split, and had sprayed sea water all over everything. The hose was still drooling.

I shut off the relevant sea cock, and cleaned up the salt water to try to avoid corrosion problems. I removed the (short - about 3" long) hose, and went thru the ships stores looking for something to use as a replacement. Nothing aboard would match the approx 1 1/4" dia. Eventually, Jane found a short piece of 1" white plastic head hose that I had bought to use as a chafe guard on the docklines - this was the best we were going to do.

So I fired up the inverter (wonderful invention!) and heated up the heat gun. I softened the plastic hose enough so that I could stretch it over the pipes, but it was a tricky operation. This hose connected two 1 1/4" pipes whose ends were about 1 1/4" apart. This means that the hose had to be bent and slipped over one pipe far enough to get the other end into the gap, and then slid back so that it would go over the other pipe end. The tricky part was that if the hose cooled enough to become stiff, it was unlikely that I could reheat it with the pipe inside it. Moving quickly was paramount. I got it on almost completely and applied the hose clamps again. Starting the engine, it dripped a little, but that was all. In the picture, the black hose is the one that ruptured and the white one is the one I stretched into place with the heat gun.

Later, we pulled into Everett and walked up to the West Marine store near the marina. In the "scrap" bin was a short piece of rubber hose the right size, which they gave us. I installed it and we continued with our voyage.

When we returned, I replaced all the hoses on the engine on the theory that if one had failed, the others were near to failing.

Learnings

• Inspect the hoses on your engine - replace any that appear questionable in any way. Do this at the dock - it is much easier than under way.
  
• Carry tools and supplies to make repairs under way. Be ready to improvise!
  
• You can get an amazing assortment of hoses at an auto parts store. I was able to replumb the engine on Eolian using pieces cut from only two hoses.
• In an emergency, you can reduce the pressure in the cooling system to near zero if you remove the radiator cap (let the engine cool first!). With little pressure, duct tape, or even electrical tape can provide a temporary repair.
  

---

Years ago when I was a kid, I used to read Flying magazine. I particularly enjoyed a long-running series of articles entitled "I Learned About Flying From That." Each article was written by a pilot, who humbly admitted to having made a mistake, and then having lived, told about it in the hopes that others would not have to make the same mistake. I thought then that it was a good format, and I still think that now. This series of postings is my attempt to recreate that article series with a new subject and new technology.

(If you would like to help others to learn from your mistakes, please send your article to: WindborneInPugetSound at gmail dot com))

Note: This material appeared first here as a portion of a larger posting,

I learned about sailing from that: Always carry tools! And spares!

I learned about sailing from that: Be sure the anchor is hooked.

The year was 1986. We had our O'Day 25, Deja Vu III moored on the Chesapeake, at a marina in Tar Cove, not too far south of Baltimore, on the Western shore. On a week's vacation, we did a cruise, destination St. Michaels, on the Eastern shore. It was a great cruise, but this isn't a travelogue.

Upon arriving in St. Michaels, we anchored in the general anchorage, but at the very very far end, almost below a restaurant with outdoor seating, in quite shallow water, perhaps only 6 feet. The O'Day had a retractable centerboard, so shallow anchorages were accessible - she drew only 3 feet with the board up. The anchor was a small Danforth on 100 feet of 1/2" nylon rode.

After securing the boat, we dinghied to shore and the four of us (Jane, and I, and our two children Erica, and Adam) walked all around the harbor. When we had been ashore for perhaps 2 hours, I noticed that the sky was darkening, and the wind was freshening. Jane, ever the perceptive one, asked if I was concerned. I was. So we agreed that they would continue their tour, but that I would dinghy back out to the boat; I would watch for them to be waiting in front of the Whaling Museum, and I would come and pick them up. So, I went back out to Deja Vu.

The concern was justified. The sky turned black and the wind built. I sat nervously in the cockpit, watching. And then sure enough, in a gust the anchor broke out. Now, one of the problems with being anchored in such shallow water is that there is not much water behind you, between you and the big rocks on shore.

I had to do something. I started the outboard, and tried to keep Deja Vu pointed into the wind. But I couldn't really go forward, because the anchor rode, was up there - if I ran over it and got it into the prop, I would be well and truly screwed. So I sat there, steering the bow back and forth, trying to keep it in the eye of the wind, as the wind shifted and tried to blow us ashore. It was a delicate business, since if I got very far off of dead upwind, I didn't have enough horsepower to bring the bow up again. It must have been blowing 30 kt, and it was everything the 8 hp outboard had in it to keep us in place. Meanwhile, the folks having afternoon drinks right above me continued drinking and snacking, silverware and dishes tinkling - I was the afternoon show for them.

I knew I couldn't keep this up forever - eventually a wind shift would catch me out, the bow would fall off, and I'd be on the rocks. I needed to get away from the shore and out into deeper water. But that now useless anchor rode was up there, a trap waiting to be sprung, and I was back at the stern, 100% occupied keeping the bow into the wind. I finally came up with a plan: if I could get to the bow and snag a loop of the anchor line, I could return to the stern with it. Then I could retrieve the anchor, little by little, in the moments when the wind held steady.

Eventually, I got the chance - the wind slacked while holding steady. I bolted forward and brought back a loop of the rode, and got the bow back into the eye of the wind before it returned to full force. In the next minutes, I retrieved the rode, a little at a time. When I could see the anchor hanging in the water off the stern, I went to full throttle continuously, and without the risk of running over the rode, made it out to deeper water. When I was out there, I turned the anchor loose from the stern, and went forward to let out more rode. The anchor caught, and held.

There was applause from the restaurant.

I sat and shook, waiting for the adrenaline to flush from my bloodstream. I saw Jane and the kids on shore - they had watched the whole thing. Eventually the storm dissipated, and I went ashore and got them.

Learnings

• Use an anchor heavy enough to bite into the bottom.
• When you put the anchor down, pull on it with the motor, hard. Be sure it is hooked. Do not leave the boat until you have done this.
  
• Anchoring close to shore gives you very little time to respond if the anchor comes loose.
• Keep an anchor watch in storm conditions - if I hadn't been aboard, we would have lost the boat.

---

Years ago when I was a kid, I used to read Flying magazine. I particularly enjoyed a long-running series of articles entitled "I Learned About Flying From That." Each article was written by a pilot, who humbly admitted to having made a mistake, and then having lived, told about it in the hopes that others would not have to make the same mistake. I thought then that it was a good format, and I still think that now. This series of postings is my attempt to recreate that article series with a new subject and new technology.


(If you would like to help others to learn from your mistakes, please send your article to: WindborneInPugetSound at gmail dot com)

I learned about sailing from that: Be sure the anchor is hooked.

I learned about sailing from that: Running aground

This is a guest column written by my friend Erick over at Erick's Wanderlust Blog, and reprinted here with his permission. See the original at Expensive Weekend: Lessons Learned

---

I wanted to take my parents out to the boat for a post-Christmas sail this previous Saturday. They have seen and been on Windsong, but haven't been out for a ride yet. I had been following the weather conditions for Saturday all week and it looked to be a great day for sailing with 15 knot winds out of the North. That would allow us to beam reach all the way out of the channel so we could start sailing before we even got to the final channel marker. The only issue I really saw was that it would be a chilly day (for us Floridians) with highs in the 50's. High tide would be in the morning when we would head out, but we would have to come back at low tide. However, it would be a +1 foot low tide, which I was told would be deep enough for Windsong to make it through the river with.

I typically have gotten nervous when it comes to taking Windsong out, rightfully so I might add. I am still a rookie with this boat and particularly the area it is in. Especially after breaking down the first time I took her out, I can't help get nervous. But this time I wasn't worried about the engine or anything particular about the boat. I've tuned the engine and performed all needed maintenance on it and it worked like a charm the last outing. But something was eating away inside me the few days leading up to Saturday and I didn't understand it. Some sort of premonition told me it we shouldn't go, but I ignored it and attributed it to my normal nerves. I should have listened.

So we took the 3 hour ride from St. Augustine to Inglis with my parents and their new Boston Terrier pup, Sawx. As we arrived to the dock my nerves had subsided and was ready for a good ride. I performed all the pre-ride checks on the boat and engine and felt pretty confident that Windsong would do well. Shortly after arriving we cast of the docklines and headed up the river towards the Gulf.

Things were going swell all the way up the river, so good in fact that I must have stopped paying much attention to where I was in the channel. We were motoring at roughly 6 knots only a few hundred yards before we reached the inlet when the boat SLAMMED into the river bottom and the bow reared up high out of the water. Thank goodness that no one was standing at the time or they would have gone flying off the boat or hard into something on it. I tried reversing and steering off, but we were stuck as stuck could be. The keel was resting hard on the bottom and would not budge. I sat there shocked and stunned and could not believe what had just happened. I took a moment to collect myself and made sure everyone was ok before I could think of what to do next. I considered kedging off the anchor but I had no way of getting it out far enough to be worthwhile. So I radioed on channel 16 for some help but recieved no ansewer even after a few tries. I eventually called the Coast Guard, which has a station on the river near the boat's dock, and told them my situation. They said that the only thing they could do is refer me to a towing company either Tow BoatUS or Sea Tow. I knew instantly that this was going to be a worse incident than I thought when they asked if I was a member to either. No, I'm not.

For somewhere around $150/year you can be a member of one of these tow companies and use their services when you need. I had considered getting a membership in particular for the overnight passage South that I need to take soon, just as a piece of mind in case things went wrong. But I never figured I would really need it until I finish working on the hard and start to sail a lot. I realized that was that a huge mistake as I spoke to the tow boat captain and got a quote to be hauled off the bottom. It would be $600 just for ungrounding the boat, plus $240/hour for the tow boat to come from Cyrstal River, about an hour and a half away ( you have to pay for their round trip). So the total quote for the haul was roughly $1,300. When he told me this all I could do was close my eyes, swallow my pride and gave him the ok to come get me. Bye Bye huge hunk of savings.

I considered my options while I waited for confirmation on my credit card and everything. We could wait for a boat to come by and hopefully lift us off with their wake. Unfortunately it was a very quiet day on the river and the only boats going by were small jon-boats with barely any wake. When a decent sized boat finally passed and sent wake our way, it only served to bounce the keel up and down on the bottom, not freeing us at all. Since we ran aground near high tide, it was apparent that waiting for the tide to come back in wasn't going to help much either. Plus, high tide wasn't until 8 p.m. and we had no way of getting back to the dock at night. Navigating the river without light was just out of the question.

So after a few minutes the tow company called me back and confirmed the operation and told me they would be here in an hour and a half. Great, by then the tide would be even lower and getting towed off the bottom would be even more difficult. So we sat waiting for that period of time, during which the air only seeming to get colder by the minute. I was so pissed that I made such a bonehead move that I could do little but stare at the distance in disdain for my bad piloting. But how would I have known this ledge was here? It wasn't marked on the charts or on my new GPS as most obstructions were in the river. As some fishing jon-boats rode by and we discussed what happened they all seemed to know that it got shallow there...local knowledge kicks ass if you have it, but I didn't.

I started to fear about the worst case scenario as the tide began to fall. On the port side, closest to shore, we could see that the water was getting shallower pretty quickly as the bottom was clearly visible in the murky water. On the other hand, the water to starboard was much deeper, if only we could get to it. The tow captain mentioned that if he didn't have success trying to pull us off since the tide was too low we would have to wait for it to come back in before trying again. Thus having to wait till all light was gone and we would be stranded there for the night. We were horribly unprepared to stay the night on the boat particularly due to the cold. We had food to last us, but no blankets and barely enough jackets as it was. I know my dad and I could tough it out if we had to, but my mom and the pup were with us and I would feel horrible if she had to go through that. So I thought if worse came to worse, the tow boat could take my parents and the dog back to the dock and I would stay with the boat overnight and wait for the morning high tide. Still, not something I was looking forward to as my first overnight stay on the boat. I would have been left with little more than sail covers as blankets to not freeze the whole night away.

The tow boat showed up right on queue and rafted up next to us. They sounded the area and found the water deep enough for my draft immediately to starboard, so not all hope was lost. But the water had gotten so shallow on the port side that if any of us put our weight over there the whole boat tilted on its keel at a hard angle. So we tied up the tow ropes and they started trying to pull the bow towards the center of the channel. It didn't work too well and only turned the boat a bit towards the channel, grinding the keel on the bottom. At one point the tow rope snapped after pulling so hard.

Things didn't look to bright at this point and the tow captain kept mentioning about possibly having to wait till high tide, my heart kept dropping as the effort kept failing. Eventually we tried a new tactic by using the main halyard attached to a second tow rope (leads to the top of the mast) to try to tilt the whole boat on its side, thus lifting the keel off the bottom as the tow line on the bow would pull the boat to the channel. After much grinding on the bottom and tilting the whole boat so far that the starboard rail was buried under water, it finally got loose off the bottom and we were pulled into deeper water. It took a long time and many different tries at different angles, but we eventually were pulled free. It was incredibly nerve wracking as it seemed like it would never work.

Relief rushed through me and I could do little more than thank God it was all over and we wouldn't have to stay there any longer. I made sure to ask the captain where else in the river I needed to be wary of, and he said that where we went aground was the worst spot. He has apparently pulled many a vessel off of the same ledge, one even a week previous. Good to know I thought, I will avoid that spot like the plague for now on.

The tow captain was friendly and also owns a sailboat. He told me to not get discouraged since pretty much everyone has made that mistake. Unfortunately I made the double mistake of not being a tow member and having to loose a big gob of cash. On top of it all, my brand new hand held VHF radio was clipped to my belt and sometime during the tow when the boat was heeled over and I was holding on for dear life, it got loose and went overboard. I was concentrating on the job at hand and none of us noticed it until we were motoring back to the dock. So the day got even more expensive.

It was a very bad day for me, but I was more relieved than bitter in the end and was glad we got back safely before dark. I felt pretty bad that we took the long drive out there to only have a bad experience, but my parents were positive the whole time and gave me good encouragement. It was a rough lesson learned, but one I was bound to learn one day nonetheless.

---

Years ago when I was a kid, I used to read Flying magazine. I particularly enjoyed a long-running series of articles entitled "I Learned About Flying From That." Each article was written by a pilot, who humbly admitted to having made a mistake, and then having lived, told about it in the hopes that others would not have to make the same mistake. I thought then that it was a good format, and I still think that now. This series of postings is my attempt to recreate that article series with a new subject and new technology.


(If you would like to help others to learn from your mistakes, please send your article to: WindborneInPugetSound at gmail dot com)

I learned about sailing from that: Running aground

I learned about sailing from that: Bitter End of the Anchor Rode

We haven't always had Eolian. Before her, we had Deja Vu III, an O'Day 25, a perfect family boat, and a great platform for learning. And boy, did she teach us. Here is one lesson:

The city of Coeur d' Alene, Idaho puts on a fireworks display on Independence Day, over the waters of Lake Coeur d' Alene (for those of you not from the area, that is pronounced "core duh LANE", and means Heart of the Awl). We, along with about a billion other boaters liked to view the display from our boat, out on the water. So that we could focus on the display and not have to worry about the boat drifting into other boats, we wanted to anchor. But the lake is deep, and we carried only 100 feet of rode, just enough to reach the bottom, You know that means we weren't really anchored, but it did slow the drift enough so that we weren't starting the engine every 5 minutes.

As usual, it was a great display. And as usual for the beginning of July in the Inland Northwest, it was cold. When the fireworks were over, I went forward to release the rode from the bow cleat and retrieve the anchor (no windlass here, and the rope rode was fed out a Nicro ventilator on the bow). But my hands were cold and stiff, and when the rode came off the cleat, it slid thru my unresponsive fingers. Since we had it all out, it was only an instant later when the bitter end zipped over the side.

Learnings:

• Anchors are expensive
• Have enough rode to properly anchor
• Always, ALWAYS attach the bitter end of the rode to the boat

Applying these learnings when we became Eolian's owners, we spooled out all the rode (300' of 3/8" chain on the starboard side, 300' of 1" nylon on the port side) to inspect it. Sure enough, neither rode was attached to the boat.

Eolian's chain locker is divided by a partition, separating the port side from the starboard side. I drilled a 1 1/4" hole in the partition and planned to put the bitter end of the nylon thru it and tie a stopper knot.

But how to attach the chain? And with chain rode there is another consideration. If it were necessary to cut the rode and run (the origin of that expression), how might that be done, in a hurry, and under bad circumstances? Here's what I came up with:

• Pull enough nylon rode thru the hole in the partition to reach all the way out the deck pipe on the chain side, and out onto the bow roller.
• Tie stopper knots in the nylon on both sides of the partition
• Make a rope/chain splice, attaching the bitter ends together

In this way, when all the chain is out, there is a rope pendant on its bitter end which could be cut with a knife, in a convenient location out on the bowsprit.

Thankfully, we've never needed it.

---

Years ago when I was a kid, I used to read Flying magazine. I particularly enjoyed a long-running series of articles entitled "I Learned About Flying From That." Each article was written by a pilot, who humbly admitted to having made a mistake, and then having lived, told about it in the hopes that others would not have to make the same mistake. I thought then that it was a good format, and I still think that now. This series of postings is my attempt to recreate that article series with a new subject and new technology.


(If you would like to help others to learn from your mistakes, please send your article to: WindborneInPugetSound at gmail dot com)

I learned about sailing from that: Bitter End of the Anchor Rode

I learned about sailing from that: Wind vs. Current

Years ago when I was a kid, I used to read Flying magazine. I particularly enjoyed a long-running series of articles entitled "I Learned About Flying From That." Each article was written by a pilot, who humbly admitted to having made a mistake, and then having lived, told about it in the hopes that others would not have to make the same mistake. I thought then that it was a good format, and I still think that now. This series of postings is my attempt to recreate that article series with a new subject and new technology.

(If you would like to help others to learn from your mistakes, please send your article to: WindborneInPugetSound at gmail dot com)

---

It had been a long day.

We anchored on the south shore of Hope Island in a narrow finger of water 2-3 fathoms deep. This little channel runs part way along this shore, surrounded by depths of 2 feet or less. We were anchored near the east end of the "deep" channel. The eastward tidal current in the area had us facing west. We chose this spot because a gale was forecast in the Strait of Juan de Fuca (just to the west of us), and we would be sheltered from the worst of it here. We were tired and went to bed a little after dark.

At 22:30, we were awakened with the howl of wind in the rigging. It had arrived, and indeed we were protected from the worst of it. We were seeing 10-15 kt, with the occasional gust to 25, all out of the west. So far the plan was working, but neither of us could sleep so we sat in the saloon or the cockpit, keeping watch and talking quietly. By 23:30, we were both quite tired, and things had not changed - the wind continued at about the same strength from about the same direction, and the anchor continued to *not* move. I think we may have both dozed off.

Suddenly, Jane said, "We're loose!" I bolted to the cockpit and sure enough, we were sideways to the wind and facing the island. I started going over in my mind what we would have to do - when a boat is sideways to the wind, it is drifting, and there wasn't much deep water to the east of us. But as I watched, I realized that despite our unusual attitude, Eolian was not moving. My next thought was that we had *already* run aground... but the depth sounder showed 12 feet of water (we draw 6). I was stumped. As I sat there, groggy from the sudden awakening, Eolian shifted some more, and soon the wind was coming over the *stern* at 25 kt. Now this was truly weird! I went forward and checked: yes, we still had the anchor, and the rode was streaming aft from the now east-facing bow. Strangely, it was nearly slack most of the time. Did I dare start the engine? Getting 3/8" chain wrapped around the prop would not be good at all...

It must have taken me an hour in my muddled state to figure it out: the tide had changed, and Eolian was ignoring the wind and trying to position herself pointing into the now westward-flowing tidal current. In effect, the wind and tide were nearly canceling each other out. Finally, I started steering her in the tidal current, and was able to reliably get her pointing either north or south, but she wouldn't stay there. It dawned on me, at last, that once she was sideways, I would need to steer *backwards* if I wanted her to go farther around. So I got her pointed at the island (the way to turn so that the anchor chain wouldn't get wrapped around the keel), and held her there until a gust pulled/pushed her a little farther around. I spun the wheel around the other way, and voila! Eolian was pointed into the wind again. Things quieted down (she's much more streamlined with the wind coming over the bow) and there was no more radical heeling and slewing around. I found that if I kept the rudder hard over to port, she was in a meta-stable situation. Eventually I became satisfied that we weren't going to go aground, and that Eolian would continue to point more or less westward, into the wind. I went back down into the saloon, where Jane and I talked quietly, and then more quietly. I think we fell asleep at about 04:30, and we awoke from our uncomfortable sleeping positions at 06:30, as light was returning to the sky.

We made preparations to get underway after a cup of coffee. The anchor was *really* hooked  - it came up with a ball of mud 2 feet in diameter which took quite a while to hose off.

Learnings

• When wind and tide compete, things can get very strange indeed.
• 25 kt of wind is equivalent to 2 kt of tidal current, in its effect on the boat
  
• We didn't have anywhere near enough red lights available. You need your night vision!
  
  
  
  • Set up a red light at the nav station.
  • Get a red light flashlight
  • Get a red light headlamp
  
  
  
• The 1,000,000 candlepower spotlight was handy to evaluate our position relative to Hope Island. But using it destroyed our night vision.
• The engine is not the answer to all your problems. In fact in this case, it could have been the cause of a whole new set.
• And most importantly, don't anchor in such precarious settings when bad weather approaches.
  

---

Note: This material appeared first here as a portion of a larger posting, and then later as a guest article at DowneasterYachts.com

I learned about sailing from that: Wind vs. Current

I learned about sailing from that: Fuel Valving

Years ago when I was a kid, I used to read Flying magazine. I particularly enjoyed a long-running series of articles entitled "I Learned About Flying From That." Each article was written by a pilot, who humbly admitted to having made a mistake, and then having lived, told about it in the hopes that others would not have to make the same mistake. I thought then that it was a good format, and I still think that now. This series of postings will be my attempt to recreate that article series with a new subject and new technology.

(If you would like to help others to learn from your mistakes, please send your article to: WindborneInPugetSound at gmail dot com)

---

It was November 1, 1997, our maiden voyage in Eolian.

We had been up late the night before celebrating our new ownership and our first night aboard. The day before had been a whirlwind, with papers to sign, financing to finalize, and a crash course in the systems aboard Eolian.

We had experimented with lighting the diesel-fired Dickenson cabin heater, and found it to be very capable of keeping the cabin toasty warm when the temp was in the 30's outside.

The plan was to take Eolian south from Bellingham to Seattle thru the Swinomish Passage, rather than to go all the way around Whidbey Island. This is a neat little cut, that goes from east of Anacortes down to LaConner in the south. The entrance at either end of the passage is dredged thru tidal mud flats, so it is critical to pay attention to the buoys/markers/lights, etc.

Just before entering the north end of the passage, the engine coughed a couple of times, and quit.

BIG PANIC.

I tried that desperation move we all try when an engine quits unexpectedly: I cranked it over... rrrrrrrrrrr... nothing. I mean, if it died when it was running at throttle, what is low-speed cranking going to do?

I charged Jane with deciding when the anchor needed to go down to keep us off the mud, as we were drifting in that direction due to tidal current, and I went below. My first thought was that there wasn't really 100 gallons of fuel in each of the tanks as we had been told, so I switched from port to starboard tank. rrrrrrrrrrr... nothing.

Eolian has aboard 8 group 31 sized batteries, which had been on the charger until we pulled off the dock that morning. And the engine alternator had been charging them ever since... right? (Had I actually checked? And how good were those batteries anyway?) The batteries were arranged in two banks of 3 plus one more of 2, At least I had isolated one of the banks to use for engine cranking. I had one more bank that I could use up, and then I would have to use the last two to start the generator (I hadn't tried that either... would it start? Would it make electricity?) to charge the main banks thru the battery charger. But so far, so good. The engine was still cranking OK.

Next, a little tickle in the back of my head made me look at the operating notes that the owner had left. Sure enough, in getting the Dickenson heater working last night, I had left the valving in a configuration which forced all the diesel to go thru a small electric fuel pump *before* it went to the more than adequate filter bank ahead of the engine. See, there is this little tiny screen in the pump, and the smallest chunk of glop will plug it off... Aha! So some valving changes were made, and rrrrrrrrr... nothing.

Next part of the process: gotta bleed the air out of the fuel system. Talk about learning under pressure! I had brought my tools along (good thing... there wasn't even a screwdriver on board). I dug out the engine manuals, and gave myself a quick course in Perkins diesels, and I bled the injection pump... rrrrrrrrrrrr... nothing.

Last resort... crack the line feeding the highest injector... pssttssttsst a bunch of bubbles came out! rrrrrrr... rumblerumblerumble!

Its a good thing that we hadn't made it to the shallow water. Learning how to operate the anchor windlass under panic conditions would not have been pretty.

Learnings

• Know your boat's systems - before leaving the dock. No matter how excited you may be.
• Always check the fuel valving before leaving the dock.
• Never leave the dock without tools
• Know how to bleed your engine fuel system
  
• Simplify fuel valving to the greatest extent possible. Put up a valving diagram nearby.
• Be ready to use the anchor if necessary. It may be all that stands between you and a grounding.
• If you are alone and near shallow water, put the anchor and 75-100' of rode over the side. If you drift into the shallows while your attention is below, the anchor hanging there will probably save your boat. You can always retrieve it later, when you have things squared away down below.
  

---

Note: This material appeared earlier as a portion of a larger posting about our first voyage.

I learned about sailing from that: Fuel Valving

Very, VERY First Anchorage

The year was 1972.

Two young kids fresh out of college had just bought their first (and as it now turns out, only) new vehicle: a Cal 21 sailboat. The paperwork was not yet finalized, but the dealer said, "Sure. Go ahead and take her out - overnight if you want to."

Are you kidding??!?

We loaded our camping stuff out of our beater 1961 Ford van and onto the boat in no time. She was tied up at the dock on Lake Carlyle in downstate Illinois. We had with us two bottles of wine - one to toast our new boat, and another to christen her - but it would have to be done at just the right time - at anchor on our first night aboard!

At that time, I knew how to make the boat move by using the sails - what else was there to know? We left the dock (OK, there was some drama there), and spent the day sailing. Eventually, we headed for the small cove that the 4th generation xerox copy of the Corps of Engineers' map showed on the eastern shore. When we got there, there was one other boat in there - therefore it became critically important that we looked cool.

So, now we had to anchor. I belatedly realized that I had never done this, nor had I ever seen anyone do it. But really, how hard could it be? I mean, you just throw the anchor in the water, right? (Does anyone hear the "What could possibly go wrong?" classic Farkism?)

So I clambered out on the bow. I had the anchor in my right hand, and the rode coiled in my left. Since I had the boat where I wanted her to be, it was just a matter of putting the anchor out there a little ways. Hmmm.. How about if I twirl the anchor around and let it go at the right time - it should just sail out there, right? So: Round and round... and anchors awaaay! Splash! Yikes! the line in my left hand instantly turned into a snarl, and jerked out of my hand. And, er, um, I had not had the foresight to tie off the end of the line. So, instead of anchoring our boat, I had just thrown away the anchor and rode. Cool quotient falling rapidly at this point.

Making a lightening fast decision, I dove in the water, and managed to get my hand thru the snarl of line before it sank out of reach. I surfaced, and got a finger thru the bow eye on the boat, becoming a human carabiner. I yelled for Jane, who was by now on the bow with a glass of wine, smiling at the people on the other boat, like "This is what we planned - we always do it this way"... Now what? All thoughts of "cool", "competent", and "seaman-like" were gone. Cool quotient: absolute zero. The wind was blowing, and I was being painfully stretched out...

They say the mind blanks out some especially troubling experiences. The next thing I now remember about that evening was climbing out of the water and toweling off. I just discussed this with Jane, and between giggles, she says that she really can't remember what happened next either. But somehow, we got a loop of the snarled line on board and tied off.

We drank the wine. Both bottles. Well, we did save a little to pour over the bow, but no way was there going to be a whole bottle poured out there.

It is a lesson best learned early:

Sometimes you are the audience, and sometimes you are the entertainment.

Very, VERY First Anchorage