Sailing - January 2011 - A Tale of Epic Adventure

[Eddie Offermann]

Day One

I'm on 'vacation' - a week off between jobs. Left my prior gig after a couple years of chasing unreachable goals, blocked by a corporate culture that seemed incapable of doing the right thing. Too many egos, too much hastily thought out process - this was never going to be right.

It was time for a change - and while we're changing jobs, time for a little impromptu adventure. We set out mid-afternoon as the tide was running out to sea.

SoNice is a spectacular boat. The Ackerman Newporter should have never died: this boat is a sailor's dream. An era of incredible boatbuilding was supplanted by different desires and shaped by evolving technology, but what a great achievement this boat was. Comfortable like a house, easy to sail, kindly with the sea. Families could comfortably spend weeklong vacations on her, a couple could spend their lives here.

The sails are set, borne by an unanticipated wind, tuned and balanced to keep us steady. The autopilot is powerless, and no one is at the helm, and we are steadily at 215° magnetic. Periodically, I go up to check the horizon and will adjust us to port for a bit to pick up a bit more wind for a short while. I haven't yet figured out how to really keep us on just *any* course through sail balancing alone. Some angles are much easier than others.

I am currently about 30miles out to sea with Teeny, aka Christina, the best girl I've ever been with and probably the destined love of my life.  After reading for several hours (the mark of a born sailor - many people would get severely motion sick in minutes) she is now soundly asleep in the Pilothouse berth. We started out in scarce wind - the flag at the harbor entrance was hanging flaccid and motionless - so we motored for a while as we were leaving. At some point, I noticed the apparent wind was no longer purely due to our own motion and decided to throttle down and pull out the jib. It filled and I felt a kick, so Teeny ran to pack away the sail covers. We were going to be sailing after all.

The horizons are dark, except for faint lights from Los Angeles in our wake and that long shiny trail that leads back to the moon. I could almost comfortably sleep - we are far outside the coastwise shipping lanes now and pointed to the boundless Pacific. Except that I can't. Can't sleep. After a few years of sailing, most often solo, almost always the only person still awake, nighttime brings me naps only at sea. Every ten or fifteen minutes I can't help but stand and check the horizons again and examine the compass. Every 30 or 45, I bring the chartplotter up and check our progress.

In between, I often doze. I have sat many times at the helm, bundled up, amazed at the beauty of the night, dozing in short intervals, always waking to continue my watch.

This could be harder on SoNice: The cockpit has a bed. Known by Newporter aficionados as "The Cleopatra Sofa", the largest and most comfortable sleeping accommodation is, in fact, in the cockpit.

Tonight it is chilly, the night especially quiet, the wind fairly predictable, and I am spending most of my time below. I have just lit a fire in the soapstone fireplace and am enjoying the warmth as it fills the cabin. The big roller-furled genoa, staysail, mainsail and mizzen lightly flutter occasionally as the wind drops and shifts.

NOAA is predicting several days of enviable SoCal sailing conditions: very mild seas, and 10-15 kt winds with higher gusts typical for the next several days. I don't know where we're going, but we're going to get there pretty fast.

At the moment, I'm biding my time. We are approaching Santa Barbara Island - one of my favorite destinations. It's about 15 degrees off our port bow but still roughly 14 miles distant. I'm giving it another hour and a half and i plan to tack to starboard.  That will take us North (or thereabouts, anyway) and we should be far enough out to round the point and aim roughly for Channel Islands Harbor in case we want to stop for supplies or a visit.

I know Teeny is hoping for a day of nude sunbathing and whale watching - and given that, I'm perfectly content to stay offshore. We are provisioned for a month. A few days, we will be fine. I am, however, running a bit low on rum.


Day Two

Last night at about 2am, the wind finally died to a nervous fluttering and the sails became troublesome to keep filled. Even when I actively maintained them, our speed was little more than 3kts and since we were about 15 nautical miles north of Santa Barbara Island, otherwise known as "the middle of nowhere", I decided to douse the sails and bring us to rest.

This let me get sleep at better intervals since the boat was roughly stationary (in this area, we drifted by about a half kt). I checked the lights, tied down the sails, and went below to rest. Teeny had woken up for a midnight restroom break and busted her lip when we caught a large combined swell - she was pouty, but had tied a red bandana around her head and so looked like a pouty pirate.

We awoke in clear sight of Santa Barbara Island - a familiar view at sunrise. The wind had picked up, but I debated raising the sails yet. US Coast Guard was broadcasting notices every ten to fifteen minutes that as of 1400hrs GMT, 6am local time, a vessel on fire had been reported off Palos Verdes and that all vessels were requested to report sightings and to render assistance. I had heard radio chatter earlier in the night about this - with warnings of possible debris. This was many miles from our position, but I'd still glanced that way to see if I saw smoke.

Adventure. Noun. A term used to describe a busted lip, malfunctioning toilets and overheating engines.

As I awoke in the morning, Teeny was still being my dutiful boat cat - curling up, rolling over, stretching, being cute, but not exactly rising. Wind was light, so rather than insist she come help set the sails (and still being in a lazy mood myself) I kicked on the engine and pointed NNW. After maybe 15-20 minutes of this, she alerted me to a buzzer that I couldn't hear from my position and then, glancing into the Pilothouse she noticed smoke or steam. Turns out: steam, smelling of antifreeze. We were running hot and I shut down the engine.

After initial tests to determine if we were able to intake water, and checking the raw water filter for excessive debris, I concluded that the problem must Iie farther on. I retired, briefly, to the head for my morning constitutional. Upon flushing, the joint between the head itself and the holding tank burst apart, and another kind of raw water flooded the tiny room.

This. This was adventure.

I fled the tiny, stinky room to grab a mass of paper towels, pour myself a stronger rum and diet coke, and assess the situation.

I darted in and out of the head for 2 minute intervals, alternately cleaning and fleeing. Say what you will when you get the bill, but plumbers do not make enough money. Like a good sailor's girl, Teeny asked if we had a bucket - because, she said, if we had a bucket on board, repairing the head could wait until later.

She had convinced me. We spent the day, which contrary to NOAA's predictions, had only light winds for a short while and then became a dead calm. Fortunately, the day was incomparably gorgeous - and being several dozen miles offshore, we were shrouded in blissful solitude.

That night, with still no wind whatsoever, windstorms to the North brought massive swells our way. We spent most of the night on the bunk in the pilothouse, holding onto each other for dear life, trying to avoid being thrown out onto the floor.

Day Three

On the previous day, I'd ascertained that the problem with the engine most likely lay with the transmission. The fluid was distressingly low - and I recalled my mechanic idly remarking a couple weeks before that it was low and 'we' needed to put some ATF in it. In my mind, when a mechanic says you need fluids of some sort, it means he's putting fluids in so don't be surprised when you see them on the bill.

This wasn't what had happened.

I called and spoke to him, and we verified that most likely this was the problem - and that because I had immediately shut down the engine, and there was no sign of debris or any burnt smell in the remaining fluid, the tranny was probably undamaged: but shouldn't be run until I could get fluid.

This taught me a valuable lesson that should have been obvious: the dock box is not where you keep your oil, ATF, and antifreeze. When you *really* need them, you'll be too far away to get them!

In the violent tossing about the night before, the halyard for the mainsail had gotten wrapped around the mast and caught on something above the spreaders. I spent hours trying to untangle it while gripping shrouds or masts or lifelines to avoid being tossed over.

We were now down one sail, or I was using my topping lift to help us limp back to port.

Day Four

We have wind! The topping lift has been removed from the aft end of the boom on the mainsail and i standing in as halyard. We made 20 miles or so of progress before the wind finally dropped off to nothing again. I was barely outside of the shipping lanes, making about one knot in progress. I'd called another boat, a container ship called "Evergreen" to be sure of where they were moving and when, letting them know we were under sail power only. At this rate, it would still be a couple days before we'd make it back - and it was approaching the point that unless I wanted to risk bobbing in the shipping lanes at night, with no wind and an overheating engine, I needed to make a call.

I picked up the radio and called for a tow. I have the Unlimited Towing + service with my insurance from Boats US. They had a boat out to us in a couple hours and it took about 4 hours to tow us back in (we were still about 24 miles out, WNW of Marina Del Rey).

This was, without a doubt, the best vacation I'd ever been on. Except for container ships and tankers off on the horizon, we didn't see another boat for the entire four days. The seas were beautiful, the weather lovely. It was warmer at night at sea than it had been in the marina and when it grew chilly, we'd start up a fire in the fireplace. We had filled with water immediately before leaving, so we had 50 gallons or so on hand, my dual 8D bank was fully charged, the starter battery was brand new - and the engine would run out of gear indefinitely to keep everything topped off - only in gear had overheating been an issue. I keep sufficient food for a month or two on board - pastas and canned foods and even a backup of a few multipacks of ramen noodles just in case things get desperate or I'm feeling very, very lazy. Plenty of propane. There was never a moment that we felt any worry - and with nowhere to be, waiting it out had been a simple pleasure. We read a lot, basked in the sun, talked, and enjoyed the day.

After getting us into the marina and retying for the more delicate tow into the slip, the towboat driver started complementing SoNice. Teeny and I were beaming. He said she was one of the easiest boats he'd ever towed - that when he saw her, the size of her and all the wood, that he figured she'd be a slug in the water but that she'd handled well behind him - and that she looked beautiful and spacious and like she'd be great fun. He was sure his girlfriend would love it and wondered how much he could buy one for.

Once back in the slip, I gave him a tour. The high ceilings (he was a little taller than me and I'm 6'1 - so he loved being able to stand up!), the soapstone fireplace,  the convenient galley arrangement - there's nothing like a Newporter!

I've since replaced the ATF in the transmission and run her for a while in gear with no signs of overheating. My starboard storage in the cockpit is now loaded with engine chemicals... Oil, ATF, coolant... I still have to send Teeny up the mast to untangle the halyard. We're doing that this weekend.
And soon, again: on to another adventure!

[Clyde A. Phillips]

Interesting concept, writing it as you are living it.  That prevents a slippery memory from leaving out some important parts of the account.

I always prefered steering from the cockpit (I'm tall and had no trouble seeing over the doghouse) but I've seen times being inside would be a good idea.  The vast majority of my boating has been in the winter.  I would prefer a hardwired remote to the autopilot instead of a steering wheel in the doghouse along with an added instument panel and engine controls.  This wouldn't encroach on the space but would allow full control from inside.  I would want the remote to allow turning off the auto course keeping ability while maintaining steering control via its electric motor.  I ran a ninety foot tug that had no steering wheel, just three (one centered and one on each side of the wheelhouse) spring loaded toggle switches (return to center-off position) that gave good control and one of those would be my preference on a Newporter.  Just mentioned this to put ideas in your head.  Enjoy your boat; that's why you own her.

[Eddie Offermann]

Thanks, Clyde!

I started writing that little account as we were actually heading out, so it was really amusing watching the story unfold as it was happening - it definitely helped me keep a sense of humor about things as I kept writing.

Interesting about pilot house/doghouse/deck house:  I do plan to put a steering station inside this year, tied to the autopilot, mainly so I can make small corrections during inclement weather. Calling it the pilothouse is too much of a habit for me now. It'll stick until I actually get the second helm and then it'll be accurate. :)

Cleopatra's Porch, eh? Hmm.

[Clyde A. Phillips]

PS.  You have given some very good advice for other adventurers! I thank you for that.

[Clyde A. Phillips]

Wow!  What an account!  (My first choice was "story" but many people equate "story" with "lie.")  Ack would hire you in an instant as an ad writer if he were still building Newporters.  Speaking of Ack, and this is nothing against your choice of words and is said only to let the world (at least the Newporter World) know what Ack called them: The 'pilot house' is a pilot house only if it has a steering station in it and Ack called it the 'dog house,' which is the nickname for 'deck house,' his other term.  And even though it is more like a sofa than a porch, Ack always called it 'Cleopatra's Porch.'  Not that it makes much difference; this if just for a little history, and we all know what you are saying.  (Just consider me an old "___________" (put in your own word).)   I really enjoyed this post.  Keep up with the good writing.

 

 

[Eddie Offermann]

To make this whole "I foolishly didn't have any ATF fluid with me" thing more hilarious: I just opened a storage compartment that I haven't been inside in quite a while... and found 3 quarts of ATF fluid.

Since I was already reorganizing storage, that area became my *official* storage place for engine oils and coolant - so I won't be forgetting it again any time soon! (And I now have 6 quarts of ATF fluid... That should last me... probably the rest of my life.) 

[Eddie Offermann]

I rigged up this great marionette system this morning, sending one line over the spreaders, one as a downhaul on the mains'l halyard, and another as a guide line that was hooked to the halyard (with the opposite end run out in front, around the stays'l - it's a little hard to describe).

I was able to raise the halyard, then walk out on the dock with the guide line and tug the halyard free.
It was super easy (except for initially getting a line thrown over the spreaders - that took some doing) but it gave me the angle I needed to pull the halyard in a direction I couldn't flick it.

[Eddie Offermann]

Bob: maybe more than one!!!

[bob mitchell]

really enjoyed the read!!!! I sense that one of these days we may be having a rum and coke!