One hears over and over again of the “romance” attendant to boats, sailing and the sea, but if you ask someone why he or she sails, I’ll bet that the R-word pops up a respectable distance down the list, in back of  the F-words (freedom, fun) and the A-words (adventure, activity). Still, I am positive that a romantic streak is an integral part of every sailor’s make-up, even if we might not like to admit it’s there. There is no other way of explaining some of the irrational things that sailors do.  

For instance, my wife and I were once possessed by a wooden boat. I do not mean “possessed” as in requiring the services of an exorcist (though on reflection, that may not have been a bad idea), but as in totally consumed by 47 feet of carvel-planked, close-seamed, mahogany-on-locust beauty. When we bought her, she had sat at her slip for five years being pumped out every few months by the marina staff, her engine was a solid lump of rust, and belowdecks she reeked of neglect and bilgewater. She was gorgeous.

Such was the potency of the spell she cast that we did not actually see the boat as she was, but as she had been years before, and as she would be again. We pictured her gleaming white hull and towering rig slicing though tropical seas, a laughing, tanned couple in her cockpit – as soon as we had attended to a few minor details. We told ourselves – and this is the mark of the true romantic – that the necessary work was “mainly cosmetic”.

Five years, two children, and a marriage-testing amount of lost weekends and stinging yard bills later, this boat sailed out of our lives and into that of her next victim, a hard-nosed banker. She had won him over easily enough; as a small boy, he had watched the shipwrights planking her shapely frames, and, he confided emotionally, he had hankered after her ever since she had sailed out of the yard and out of his life. She had a soft spot in her transom and a weep from her garboards, but her flaws were nothing to the joy of a love rekindled.

We knew for sure that the proper relationship between possessor and possessed had been established when the new owner wrote a few weeks later of a hellish delivery trip during which boat and crew took a real beating. “I don’t think my wife likes sailing any more,” his litany of woe concluded dolefully, before hitting a brighter note. “I think she would look wonderful with her topsides painted red, her bottom black, and her pilothouse varnished.” 

Now there’s the mark of a true romantic. I could only hope he was talking about the boat.
 

If you’ve read the previous blog entry, you’ll know about my cockpit drain dramas. The epoxy resin kicked as planned and the through-hulls are now part of the hull. I see no reason why anyone would ever have to remove them, so don’t bother telling me I should have bedded them in sealant instead. I made two backing plates from ¼” fiberglass sheet, and bonded them to the inside of the hull with a slurry of epoxy resin and colloidal silica to provide a level base.

The through-hulls were still a little too long to let the seacock flanges rest hard against the base plates before the all the thread was taken up, so I had to find a pair of 1” spacers. I used some spare half-inch UHWMPE – ultra high molecular weight polyethylene – sheet to make them. I don’t believe in using wood or ply for backing plates below the waterline, because it will eventually rot. McMaster Carr sells UHMWPE in assorted sizes and thicknesses. It doesn’t absorb moisture, is resistant to just about anything and will never deteriorate. It’s also dead easy to work. I ran a bead of polysulfide caulk around each side of the spacers, although I probably didn’t need to.

Following Forespar’s instructions, I coated the seacock thread with pipe sealant (you can use tape if you’d rather) and then smeared more polysulfide around the base. My wife screwed them on to the through-hulls – hand tight is enough – and then coaxed the new drain hoses into place. Job done – and what a relief to know that those horrible old gate valves and hoses were gone.

There was a slight moment of panic after the boat was launched. I’d just started the engine and was letting it warm up when I noticed a stream of water making its way from the engine compartment into the bilge sump. Aargh! Were the new seacocks leaking? No, thankfully. I traced the leak to an engine block drain cock that I’d forgotten to shut off after winterizing the engine last fall. Phew…

First, though, there had been another moment of panic, when I noticed that there was no cooling water exiting the exhaust. What could be wrong? I’d just replaced a kinked section of intake hose, and I’d also replaced the impeller. First things first: I ripped the hose off the inlet seacock, and was rewarded with a spout of water. Good - no through-hull blockage. Then I checked out the raw-water pump, and immediately noticed that its drive belt was hanging loose. I had also replaced that – along with the alternator belt – a week earlier. It seemed I had been in such a hurry that I had neglected to feed the belt over the engine pulley before adjusting the tension. When the engine started, the belt merely slipped instead of spinning the pump.

That too was easily fixed, but the lesson is just as valid: don’t rush your maintenance chores, and double-check everything before you launch your boat.

The old and the new. The original-equipment gate valves were in bad shape, and I had to take a Sawzall to the through-hulls.

I used WEST SYSTEM G-Flex epoxy, slightly thickened with colloidal silica, to bond the through-hull to the hull. You must never use microballoons to thicken epoxy used below the waterline, as they are not water-resistant.

I made two fiberglass backing plates and bonded them with epoxy resin to the inside of the hull, bringing the thickness of the laminate to over 1”.

I had to make two spacers per through-hull out of half-inch UMHWPE, and smeared them with 3M 4200 sealant.

We smeared the threads of the Marelon seacock with pipe sealant -- you can use tape instead if you prefer.

While we were in the process of buying Ostara four years ago, our surveyor friend Norm LeBlanc inserted himself into the cockpit locker and was confronted with the pair of ancient gate valves that were fitted to the cockpit drain thru-hulls. These, he told me, would have to go. Gate valves are all very well in your home’s water system but in a marine environment their mechanisms get jammed up with mollusks and mineral deposits in no time at all; this means you can’t close the damn things if you need to, so that you’d literally be in deep water if a hose should fail.

Being a sensible sort of sailor, I have taped or tied-tapered wooden plugs to all hoses below the waterline, so that they are ready to ram into a through-hull in case of disaster, but prevention is usually better than the cure when it comes to water and boats. A few weeks ago, I finally decided to heed Norm’s advice and replace those horrible gate valves. Actually, guilt made me do it; the insurance company had demanded a condition survey, as it does every few years for boats of a certain age, which meant Norm would be back. I knew I was in for a telling-off if the gate valves were still in place.

Anyone who owns or has owned an older boat knows that things which have been in situ for many years don’t want to come out easily. There’s a corollary to that rule; the things you do want to remove will be in the most awkward place possible. The gate valves and through-hulls were no exception. Lurking under the cockpit sole, they taunted me with their near-inaccessibility.  I had to climb into the cockpit locker, twist myself into a half-lying, half-kneeling position, extend both arms over my head, and I could just reach the further gate valve. This was extreme boat yoga.

Job #1 was to remove the old drain hoses. I was surprised at how easy it was. I suspect they were original equipment, installed in 1973 and forgotten about since. Over the years the wire-reinforced rubber compound had softened with age to the point where a blunt knife easily penetrated the walls. Yikes – this was all that was keeping the water on the outside of the boat….

Apart from stabbing myself a couple of times with the cut ends of the wire as I was wrestling them free, the hoses presented little in the way of a challenge and soon they were lying on the cockpit sole. I was expecting more of fight from the gate valves; but to my utter surprise they began to turn almost as soon as I put a pipe wrench on them. This was looking easy…what had I been worrying about? I managed about half a turn on each one before the wheels came up hard against the steering compartment half-bulkhead. It was time to try out my new angle grinder.

I am here to tell you that it is not easy to control a 4½-inch angle grinder one-handed, with vulnerable hoses and power cables running close by. Still, I managed to cut the wheels off with no major collateral damage, and before long the gate valve bodies had joined the drain hose in the scrap bucket.

So far, this had all been a lot easier than I’d expected. Now it was payback time. I was planning to install plastic/fiberglass composite Marelon valves and through-hulls, which meant the bronze through-hulls would have to come out so the new ones could go in. It quickly became apparent that the through-hulls were so attached to the boat that it would take major surgery to remove them. I was down to a choice between painstaking finesse and brute force. No prizes for guessing which won out.

Next morning, I arrived at the yard armed with my trusty Sawzall, ignoring the horrified stares of my neighbors. My wife climbed into the cockpit locker with a hammer. I stood outside the boat and made four cuts in each through-hull, as far as the flange, and then she knocked them loose with the hammer. It was all over in less than ten minutes. I had made some saw cuts in the ¾” thick laminate, but as I was planning to epoxy the new through-hulls in place anyway, that was no big deal.

From here on, it was all easy going. I enlarged the holes with my trusty Dremel to accommodate the new, slightly bigger through-hulls, gave the openings a good brushing of unthickened epoxy resin to plug up the saw cuts, then smeared a thick paste of epoxy and colloidal silica filler around the base and flange of the through-hulls. The trickiest part was finding a way to hold the fittings in place while the epoxy kicked. I found a piece of 2” x 1” pine that, with its tip swathed in a plastic bag, was ideal for bracing one side, and on the other side I used a jackstand to force a Ziploc bag filled with rags hard against the through-hull.  I’ve got a bit of excess epoxy to sand off, but all in all I’m pleased with the way it all turned out. I have no doubt that a yard would have charged several hundred dollars for that little job.



Next weekend’s jobs: finish the seacock installation and sand and paint the bottom. At least I won’t have to get the Sawzall involved. I’m getting kind of attached to the angle grinder, though…

Although a bitter, halyard-rattling wind was blowing on the opening day of the Strictly Sail Pacific show in Oakland, California and kept many would-be showgoers home, the marine trade has become used to such jabs on the chin. The 90-degree temperatures and bright blue skies that followed were much more Californian and the docks and tents at Jack London Square saw plenty of foot traffic.

I was heartened to see strong displays of boats from key builders like Beneteau, Jeanneau, Catalina, Island Packet, and Hunter. Most other players managed to get at least one or two of their boats into the show, and although the numbers were certainly down on previous years it was obvious that the trade is still committed to pushing the lifestyle and the products that serve it.

If you were there looking for brand-new production boats, you’d have stopped at Catalina and Island Packet. Catalina has shifted all of its production out of California now, and the spanking new Catalina 445 at Oakland had made a long overland journey from Florida.



It was tied up next to a Catalina 470, and although the family resemblance was undeniable, so was the evidence of a slight shift in philosophy. Exhibit One – the Selden removable sprit protruding past the hefty double bow roller. Exhibit Two – the multi-functional port aft cabin, which can be accessed either from on deck or down below, and can be converted from a 3-berth sleeping cabin to a storage locker or workroom. It’s the first twin-aft-cabin Catalina in which the cabins have not been mirror images of each other. It is also a very practical arrangement. The saloon makes full use of the boat’s beam without compromising stowage or practicality, and offers good seaberths on either side.



These evolutions aside, the boat abounds with interesting design and build features. We’ll be test-sailing it next week and publishing the test in our July issue.

I was also intrigued by Island Packet’s new Estero. This 37-footer is a departure from IP orthodoxy in that it has no cutter rig – instead, the Hoyt jib boom that controls the staysail on other IPs now serves a 90-percent self-tacking jib. Combined with the roller-furling, vertically battened mainsail, this will make the boat a breeze to handle.



There are more innovations down below, where designer Bob Johnson has placed the saloon in the eyes of the boat. This is a concept he used in the original Island Packet 31 and has now resurrected to excellent effect. The absence of a main bulkhead opens the accommodation right up and gives the boat the feel of a 40-footer.



We’ll be stepping aboard for a test sail after the show, so you’ll be able to read more about this interesting boat soon.



A couple of years ago, SAIL’s feature article (see SAIL, April 2007, page 101) on the amazing foiler Moths created a swell of interest in this spectacular class. I was pleased to see the latest production version of the Bladerider, winner of a SAIL Best Boats Award, on show. Apparently the boat is becoming the hot ticket with former skiff jockeys and other performance-hungry sailors who want a big sailing buzz for a modest outlay. Bring it on….

It’s been a long, cold March and early April up here in New England, so those of us who do our own commissioning work haven’t had much luck. I have been especially unlucky. One unseasonably mild day in March I rushed down to the yard and uncovered the boat, looking around smugly at my neighbors still covered in shrinkwrap like rows of giant larvae. Next weekend I returned to find the decks and cockpit coated with a layer of coal dust that had been belched out by the power plant next door. The boat looked as though it had just been pulled out of a fire.

Last week I planned to spend an hour or two changing the oil and fuel filters. I’d drained the old engine oil last October but had run out of time to do the filter. Then it snowed, and next thing you know it was March 20, 2009. Anyway – changing the oil filter in my 1973 Norlin 34 involves clambering into a cockpit locker, then insinuating myself upside-down into the coffinlike space between cockpit sole and hull bottom. Then I have to reach around the engine – which is mounted back-to-front – so I can get one hand onto the oil filter, which is tucked away behind the alternator so that I can barely see it. It’s one of those jobs where an extra joint in each arm would be a huge help. The boat was obviously built by people a lot younger and a lot skinnier than me, and working on it always leads to interesting contortions – boat yoga, we call it.
 
I hadn’t been find my strap wrench, so I’d gone to the auto parts store and blown six bucks on a very smart-looking oil filter wrench with articulating arms that would contract and grasp the filter in a death grip, enabling me to spin it off in seconds. Yeah. Sure. The arms contracted all right, but refused to grasp.  Back to the auto parts store, then back to the boat with another species of strap wrench. Finally, victory! The filter grudgingly comes loose, then slips out of my greasy hand, bounces off an engine mount and disgorges its contents into the bilge.

I check my watch – have I really been at this for three hours?! Next, I decide to change the oil in the saildrive leg, but what to catch the oil in? After casting around the boatyard for a container I decide to cut the top off a gallon milk jug and place it under the saildrive. This is a good move, as far more oil than I’d have thought the thing held spurts out in a muddy brown stream. When the arterial gush slows to a drip I replace the drain plug and pick up the milk jug – and it slips out of my hand. Unbelievingly, I watch the two quarts of oil spill onto the ground and over my shoes.

Half an hour later I have cleaned up as best I can, but I’m covered in a light film of oil and sweating like a horse in spite of the 45 degree temperature. It is nearly five o’clock, and it has taken me four hours to accomplish two easy jobs.

It could have been worse. At least sailboats only have one engine.
 

In the pantheon of Caribbean regattas, St. Martin’s Heineken Regatta is right up there with Antigua Sailing Week. After Team SAIL’s assault on Antigua last year, where we campaigned a 50’ Beneteau charter boat during a hard-fought week against some very good German and Brit crews, it seemed only logical that the motley crew should turn its attentions to St Martin. The timing was perfect – right at the beginning of March. After a long, hard winter, the crew was ready to rock and roll.

The hard core of Pete and Charlie from Marblehead, Massachusetts, Charlie from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and Pete from Annapolis, Maryland, was joined by Christian from Connecticut, who served as the tiebreaker during introductions. He’s also the marketing honcho for Heineken, a fact that did not at all influence his invitation to join the team. Honest.

After last year’s Antigua experiences punting a heavy 50-footer around in unusually light airs, we thought we’d sail something a bit lighter and faster on its feet this time around. The Heineken regatta is famed for big winds and big seas, but you never know…

The two Charlies and one of the Petes collected our nearly-new Sunsail Jeanneau 39i from the Sunsail base in Tortola and motorsailed to St Martin in a little over 12 hours, arriving in the small hours of Thursday morning. It was a roughish crossing, which was good because it got the seasickness out of the way before racing started. By the time I’d met up with them in Simpson Bay, on the island’s west side, they had stocked up the boat with victuals and many cases of the sponsor’s product. Game on!

We’ll be running a feature article about this hairy Heineken in SAIL later this year, and I don’t want to pre-empt that with too much detail here. All I can say is that the sailing was great, if tiring. I’ll long remember the 40-knot gusts on the first race day, the relentless beat into 12-foot and bigger sea followed by surfing at 12 and 13 knots down the big rollers. Yep, surfing under main and jib. We were really glad we weren’t on a 50-footer, with its bigger sails and heavier gear all round.  We were also glad we weren’t on a trimaran – Nicola Massey from Horizon Yacht Charters on Tortola was crewing on a tri called Triple Jack and reported broaching under spinnaker (!), with the lee float 6 feet under water, the windward float airborne and the kite flogging itself to death. No thank you.

Our 4th-place finish out of 18 starters was well earned, and we didn’t break the boat or ourselves – not that day, anyway.  You’ll have to wait until the October issue for the rest of the gory details.

The dire economy was reflected in the bigger spinnaker classes, which were noticeably thinner this year. With 105 bareboats entered, as opposed to 125 in 2008, the charter boat class was the least affected.  

It’ll be interesting to see what happens at Antigua this year, since the main sponsor of Sailing Week, “Sir” Allen Stamford, was at last report behind bars. And not the kind that serve dark & stormies.

You find the odd gems hidden away in the deepest corners of boatyards, and you find some real monstrosities too. There’s the classic plastic or wood sloop whose toothsome sheerline catches your eye all the way across the yard. There’s the work-in-progress, half its guts yanked out and strewn around its decks; the handyman special, a blocky home-built deckhouse perched jarringly atop a sleek hull; and the dream-gone-sour, the giant ferrocement hulk still awaiting its first taste of water 25 years down the line.


In between beauties and beasts are the forgotten boats, the ones that just got propped up and left behind at the end of some long-ago season. I look at them and wonder why. Innocent victims of a passing fad? They’re old, most of them, and usually small; whatever value they have on the secondhand market would probably be eclipsed by the work needed to bring them back from the dead.
 
Even so, I can’t help feeling a pang for what they once represented –  fun, freedom, an escape from the pressures of daily life – and for the knowledge that most of them will never again heel to a warm summer breeze. Often, these forgotten ones can be had for the price of the outstanding storage fees.  If nothing else, they make a mockery of the claim that sailing is an elitist sport; there are thousands of boats around our shores that will get you afloat for little expense other than hard work, determination, and a few hundred bucks’ worth of bits and pieces.
 

A while ago I re-read Joshua Slocum’s fascinating book Sailing Alone Around The World. In case there is anyone out there who has not heard of Slocum, he was the first man to circumnavigate solo in a small sailboat and is therefore hailed as the father of cruising as we know it today. You can equally well hail him as the father of sailboat restoration as we know it
today. He had the basic qualifications; boundless enthusiasm laced with incurable optimism.

Here’s a quote from Victor Slocum’s biography of his Dad, describing Spray:

“The sad and dejected hull of the old sloop, awaiting the hand of rehabilitation…”

Ring any bells? And then there’s the comment from the Spray’s owner as he and Slocum walked around her: “She needs some work…” Now that’s an understatement we’ve all heard before. What other parallels can be drawn? I wonder if Joshua ever hid the yard bills from Mrs. Slocum, or ever
received a good telling-off for being willing to work all day and half the night on that darn boat, but not having time to put up a shelf in the kitchen.

I expect that Mrs Slocum was as supportive as the next boat widow. All we know for sure is that she swore off the sea forever after an earlier voyage in a boat that Joshua had built. That sounds uncomfortably familiar too…