While people continue to assure me that no matter how long one has been sailing they continue to learn, it’s also true that as a novice I’m on a much steeper part of the learning curve. My mistakes are much more basic, but at the same time the insights gained seem to justify the whole experience. Cruises that don’t turn out well notwithstanding.
We bought our boat, a 28 foot San Juan, subsequently rechristened Nauti Dog in August of 2008. Prior to that I’d taken a few lessons and sailed a rental boat three times. I took more lessons from Kelly Coon and served as a crew member on Erik Dahl’s Miss Conduct, learning that Erik has much more patience than his reputation would suggest.
In 2009 I took my first cruise to the San Juan Islands, accompanied by my fifteen year-old grandson, Jonny. His mother, still 29 and holding, was envious of his adventure and so took his place on the 2010 cruise. The obvious compromise was for them both to join me for the 2011 cruise, and to bring along seven-year old Joshua.
Winds were very kind to us on our first day out and we spent the first night at Kingston. As weather reports were for small craft warnings on the Straits of Juan de Fuca the next day, we opted for the route up the East side of Whidbey Island. Besides lovely winds, we were treated to the sight of a pod of Orcas feeding off Edmonds and then enjoyed what may have been my best day of sailing to date, beating up Saratoga Passage.
The third morning we left Oak Harbor with light winds which diminished to near zero after Strawberry Point, causing us to use the "Iron Oars" – the boat’s Yanmar 2QM15. It’s an older diesel but had proven quite reliable so far. [Ominous background music in a minor key.]
As various publications and web site postings warn, the lower part of the Swinomish Channel hasn’t been dredged in quite a while and so is heavily silted in. Nevertheless, we decided to chance it since slack tide through Deception Pass wouldn’t occur until after 1830. But despite trying to follow detailed directions for staying in the deepest part of the channel, I ran us into the mud several times. Backing out under full power raised a lot of silt and may have initiated the cooling system problems which defined the rest of our cruise.
Shortly after leaving La Conner, where we’d stopped for groceries and ice, the engine’s temperature alarm sounded its high pitched scream. Leaning over the stern rail I could see that the exhaust lacked the reassuring "bloosh, bloosh" of cooling water that should have been pumped through the engine. Since both the current and the light wind were coming from the South, I decided to raise and wing out the mainsail and let my crew sail up the Channel while I looked at the engine. Susan teaches middle school in Tucson and is wonderfully capable at telling power boaters to keep their opinions to themselves.
The drive belts were fine, so I removed the cover from the water pump to discover that two blades had broken off the impeller. Fortunately all of the pieces were still inside the pump chamber. Since I change impellers every time I change engine oil it was an easy job to install one of the two spares I carry on board. I then removed the hose from the bypass at the inlet to the engine block and poured water back down to prime the pump and intake hoses. With the system back together I restarted the engine, but still had no water flow in the exhaust.
If I was safely tied up back at the marina, I’d haul out the Yanmar books and consider this an opportunity to learn more about the engine. As it was – well, I had two very stressed-out amateurs trying to sail up a very narrow channel, being constantly rocked by the wakes of Bayliners. So I picked up the cell phone and called Inlet Marine back in Olympia. Even though Daniel refers to my engine as "a piece of junk," he’s still extremely knowledgeable and helpful. Unfortunately, Daniel wasn’t in. The person who answered the phone seemed quite certain I had a clogged heat exchanger. Since my engine is raw water cooled and doesn’t have a heat exchanger, I thanked them for their time.
My next call was to a marine engine service up ahead of us in Anacortes. The person who answered the phone there seemed to listen patiently, but after his third repetition of the suggestion I back-flush the heat exchanger I started getting a bit angry. As my son explains it, the Monty Python sketch is only funny if you’re not the one with the dead parrot.
Eventually I called North Shore Marine and was walked through a process of disconnecting hoses at various points and testing for water flow. I’d rigged up a water supply using a plastic water jug, some extra water hose and – naturally – duct tape. Everything seemed to flow normally except from the exhaust manifold through the exhaust system. Our eventual conclusion was for us to continue sailing into Fidalgo Bay where the company’s boat, luckily already out on the water, would help us into a private marina.
Early the next morning, a mechanic from North Shore showed up at the boat and began troubleshooting. Among other things, he did a complete check of the alarm circuitry and with a temperature sensor verified that cooling water was getting through all parts of the engine block’s water jacket. That latter test went well because the whole cooling system was working as designed, a healthy, happy water flow splooshing from the exhaust port all during the engine run.
That wasn’t necessarily good news to me. Much of my Air Force career had been as a missile maintenance officer, and one of the things I learned to hate was the dreaded "799" code: "Cannot duplicate malfunction." It invariably meant we’d see the fault again sometime. Even so, we left the marina, they already had the slip allocated, and proceeded across Fidalgo Bay toward Guemes Channel. We’d gone about 300 yards before the temperature alarm began screaming. I did a sharp turn to port and headed into Cap Sante Boat Haven, the public marina. Since the mechanic assured me that the engine ran cool, it hadn’t had a thermostat in place in years, I continued motoring until I was in a guest slip.
Susan took the boys shopping while the mechanic and I did additional testing, back-flushing and test runs out into the harbor, all the while watching the cooling water "sploosh" vigorously out the exhaust. The only additional thing he could suggest was that we flush the cooling system with something like "Salt Away," but cautioned that it might break loose enough scale to clog the system up even worse. I was far enough away from home that I didn’t want further complications and so passed up on the chemical flush.
Decision time. Debbie was, at that very moment, on her way up to Anacortes by car. She was taking an extended week-end from work to join us at a resort on Lopez Island, for which we had put down a hefty, non-refundable deposit. Could Nauti Dog be depended on to get us there? My experience with "intermittent faults" didn’t encourage me to think so. Therefore, I made arrangements with the marina for us to keep the slip over the week-end and called Debbie on the cell phone to pick us up.
Together, we all rode the ferry to Lopez Island – and eventually to others – had a very pleasant time, and then returned to Anacortes and the boat. The crew voted unanimously to stay with me and bear whatever the gods of wind and diesel engines had in store for us.
For a variety of reasons, we again elected to travel the Swinomish Channel and – lacking any wind at all – motored successfully down the Channel and eventually into Oak Harbor for the night. The next morning, winds were again not sufficient to make any progress under sail so we set off again using the engine. It performed marvelously for about two hours before the temperature alarm went off again, as did I. Susan took it all in stride, any day on the boat is better than one in the overcrowded classroom, reminding me that we were on a sailboat. Accordingly, we raised the sails and for the next hour proceeded along at speeds approaching two knots.
Growing frustrated at our lack of progress, I started the engine to see what would happen. We got a nice, healthy flow of cooling water and so motored along for about 30 minutes. And that was how the rest of the day went, alternatively motoring, cursing at the overheat alarm, and trying to sail in very light wind. We made it into the marina at Edmonds that evening.
While Susan and the boys went out to find supper for us, I located a water hose and did some concerted back-flushing. I did flush out a significant amount of scale, but – as we discovered the next day – apparently left enough in the system to plug it up good and proper, losing the "intermittent fault" condition that had allowed us at least some engine time.
We also had no wind. Zilch. Nada. Spinnaker notwithstanding, it took us the entire day to travel from Edmonds to Seattle. Walking would have been faster.
Several hours out of Seattle, about an hour before closing time, I began calling marine engine repair companies in the Seattle area. The result was that a mechanic met me at the Bell Street Marina bright and early the next morning.
Repeating much of what the mechanic in Anacortes had done, he concluded that the mixing elbow, located between the exhaust manifold and the outlet system, was plugged and needed to be replaced. A series of phone calls determined that a replacement mixing elbow was available at a warehouse in Tukwila; however, the flange that mounts it to the exhaust manifold wasn’t in stock. It would have to be shipped, overnight at best, from Atlanta. If I could find a machine shop that could separate those two parts seemingly welded together by corrosion, I still had a chance to be underway yet that day.
Debbie agreed to leave work in Tumwater, pick up the part in Tukwila, and deliver it to the boat. Susan and the boys took advantage of the time to play tourist in downtown Seattle, while I set out on foot to locate a machine shop. By a very round-about route I ended up over on Westlake Avenue at a shop specializing in repairing European imports. A mechanic was summoned from the back room and, turning the parts over in his very dirty and worn hands, shrugged and said, "No problem." I could have kissed him.
Thirty minutes later he handed me the mounting flange; separated from the mixing elbow, sandblasted and painted with grey primer. Showering them with thanks and cash, I hoofed it back across downtown Seattle, arriving at the marina just about the time Debbie pulled up with the new mixing elbow. I quickly installed the new part, checked to ensure all other portions of the system were properly configured, and fired up the engine. Voila! There was no water flow out the exhaust.
Since there was no profanity in English worthy of the occasion, I chose Russian. Susan, on the other hand, took it all in stride with her standard observation: "It’s a sail boat, Dad. We can sail home."
Even so, it was decided to send the boys back to DuPont in the car with Debbie while Susan and I set sail southward at four-thirty in the afternoon. Letting the alarm scream all it wanted to, I motored out into Elliot Bay. The wind was blowing from the Southeast at about fifteen knots, so we were able to make Blake Island on a single port tack. At that point, we found the wind running straight up Colvos Passage which meant we had to tack back and forth, pointing as high as possible each time. I got to learn a lot more about sailing in that ten mile stretch, adjusting the main to lessen the heeling and the boat’s tendency to round up. I was rewarded by seeing the knot meter register 6.7 knots, which isn’t bad on a boat with a theoretical hull speed of 6.45.
We reached Point Defiance about the time the last bit of natural light left the sky. We were now sailing through the Tacoma Narrows in the dark. The strong headwind and fairly strong following current combined to make some very impressive chop. Nauti Dog handled it well, but things began coming loose down in the cabin and made noises that caused Susan to lose her philosophical detachment. The final straw came directly under the bridge when the radar enhancing globe came loose from its yard and came crashing to the deck. That was the only point on the voyage I had to pull rank and declare that we were pressing on forward.
One element in that decision: we’d only encountered one other vessel since leaving Blake Island, a tugboat towing a barge. And our luck in that regard continued; we only saw one other vessel on the water the rest of the night. And sailing in the dark isn’t terribly difficult. Even though I couldn’t see the masthead fly and telltales without the spotlight, I learned that I could feel the boat well enough to keep her pointed properly.
There was no significant wind North of Anderson Island, so Balch Passage wasn’t an option; instead we continued on into Nisqually Reach. The payoff for that was a magnificent view of the moonrise over Mount Rainier!
With the almost-full moon lighting our path, we made the turn at the end of Anderson Island and started a broad reach toward Zittel’s Marina by the end of Johnson Point. Unfortunately, the wind had been dying. By the time we’d mostly drifted past the Southern edge of Anderson, the wind had died completely and so did any progress. If we’d been in a dinghy we could have rowed into the marina; as it was we just floated.
In frustration, I fired up the engine and headed for the marina. I kept it at full throttle until the boat reached 4.5 knots, then turned the engine off and we coasted, letting the engine cool off. The progress was encouraging, so I repeated it again – and again. The sky had been noticeably light at three o’clock, it was now June 23rd, and by the time we pulled into the boat’s slip it was 4:30 in the morning and full daylight.
Susan and the boys flew out the next day, returning to Tucson with tales of adventure on the sea and plans for next year’s voyage. On Monday I was back on board and dissecting the engine at my leisure. I removed the mixing elbow and back-flushed out more scale, then removed the exhaust manifold to take home and completely re-work. Almost as an afterthought I decided to also take the raw water filter. Since the hose clamps wouldn’t come off the filter easily, I disconnected the hoses from, respectively, the Kingston valve and the water pump and put the whole assembly in my truck.
Since Inlet Marine wasn’t that much out of my way, I stopped by there to ask Daniel’s advice. As it happened, the field mechanic, Brian, was in the shop at the time. Listening in on our conversation, he asked about my intake hoses. I went out to the truck and brought in the raw water filter with both hoses. Brian looked at them and remarked, way too casually, I thought, for such a momentous revelation, that they were the wrong kind of hoses. They were "heater hose" and lacked the coiled wire stiffening that proper intake hoses needed to keep them from collapsing under suction.
Had this been a cartoon, people would have seen my jaw drop to the point where it smacked the counter and made a "clang" noise. That is what would cause the kind of "intermittent fault" I’d been experiencing. No amount of back-flushing would cure it nor expose it.
And indeed, two lengths of the proper kind of intake hose did, after the rest of the scale was flushed out of the system, resolve the problem.
I learned a lot about my engine during the whole experience. I also re-learned a number of lessons that the Air Force so generously taught me:
Michael Farley, Nauti Dog