The fire alarm went off with a wild shriek at 0300, about 10 minutes after I’d turned the engine on to start motoring through a frustrating calm. The absolute worst part of ocean sailing is little wind and confused seas. We were on what felt like the home stretch of the 3,000-mile passage from the Galápagos to the Marquesas in the South Pacific, but still, a fire alarm at sea, with over 500 miles to the nearest land, was an unwelcome development. I’ll admit that for a brief moment I wondered what it would be like to climb into the liferafts in the middle of the night in the South Pacific…

I quickly shut down the diesel. Emily, my first mate, was already down below next to the engine hatch, and for a few seconds we debated whether we should open it or not. There’s a cardinal rule of fire safety at sea, or elsewhere—if you suspect a fire in an enclosed location, leave it closed. Fire needs oxygen, and by opening the hatch we’d be introducing a whoosh of it to fan the flames. Aidan, the apprentice onboard, stood by with a fire extinguisher. Despite the shrill alarm, I had a gut feeling it wasn’t an actual fire. We opened the hatch.

At the start of our safety briefings on all 59º North trips, we note that the success of our upcoming voyage will depend on things that have happened well before the crew join the boat. Ninety-nine percent of the preparations have already happened, behind the scenes, I tell the crew. All that’s left for us is to execute.

And yet, there’s a myriad of things that can, and will, go wrong despite the best preparations. En route to San Cristobal from Panama, I got an email from skipper Alex that one of the batten car receptacles had dislodged itself and—typical—bounced into the ocean after falling off of the sail. They managed a duct-tape jury rig repair, but I’d have to bring spare parts with me from Sweden when I flew out.

Mid-Atlantic, earlier in the season, a different fire alarm went off in the aft nav station in the staff quarters. This coincided with both the fridge and freezer giving up the ghost seven days into a 16-day crossing. The electrical components of the compressor had simply melted, letting off heat and smoke that set off the alarm. Mia was onboard for that one, and her provisioning prowess allowed them to continue to eat well for the remainder of the passage despite the loss of chilled food.

This time, smoke swirled from the engine room hatch after we opened it, and the distinct smell of friction was in the air, but there were no flames, and my instincts proved accurate. The engine temperature on the gauge had never gone above normal, so it wasn’t an overheating issue or a burned-up impeller.

I specified the engine and the charging system on Falken when we rebuilt her, installing a simple, rugged Beta 85T diesel with two enormous alternators to supply the electrical charging, designed by Bruce Schwab at Ocean Planet Energy in Maine. The larger of the two alternators occupies the port side of the engine, on the “extra” alternator space, while the smaller one is in the standard position to starboard. It was red hot. My first thought was, oh no, the bearings in the alternator pulley are seized, and we won’t be able to run the engine at all. This main alternator was driven by the belt, which also drives the mechanical water pump; seized alternator bearings would mean no water pump, and no engine.

But then Emily remembered photos she’d taken before the transatlantic when she’d been doing a routine engine check. To her, it seemed like the belt was misaligned, and her photos proved it. Both alternators use multi-V serpentine belts—in our case, what set off the alarm was simply the belt having jumped one groove and rubbing on the alternator case. That friction smell was burning rubber. In the dark and stress of the situation, we hadn’t thought about something as simple as the belt.

With a solid theory and a bit of wind having filled in, we set sail again and I went for a nap, waking up three hours later to daylight and a refreshed sense of purpose. In 15 sweaty minutes I had the belt realigned, and we were back in business.

I’m reminded of the Occam’s Razor adage every time I’m troubleshooting something at sea: When looking for a solution, look to the simplest solution first. `

August/September 2025