Catching up

Hi! Everyone:

No, we haven’t fallen off the face of the Earth. Establishing ourselves in Corpus Christi (CC) has been frighteningly difficult and time consuming.

When Raven was in Clear Lake we dodged Hurricane Dolly that crossed the coast south of CC. We took our small travel trailer home to Canyon Lake, about 100 miles north. The winds shook us about some and it rained like crazy, but it wasn’t too bad.

I went to Clear Lake to work on Raven and was there for Tropical Storm Edouard, which turned out to be a non event.

Finally, Bill arrived from Dallas and we took Raven to CC. The forecast was for unsettled weather, but there were no storms in the offing, so we went. We caught the wind and tide just right for an easy passage through Galveston’s jetties, then turned SW. The port close reach was good sailing, but towards evening the winds dropped and would not keep the sails filled in the considerable chop that is frequently found along the north Gulf coast. The motor fired up fine, we dropped sails and settled in for the night.

Bill made a lovely salad for supper and we both chowed down eagerly. A little later I started to feel ill, then sick. I spent a miserable night and all of the next day with severe headache and nausea. I tried to pull my weight with boat duties but in any position except horizontal I was violently ill.

Just as quickly as it started, around 2200 hours the illness departed and I felt fine. I was ready to work and to eat. It was a miraculous recovery.

Poor Bill dropped into the bunk and caught up on some well-earned sleep. He kept things going when I was out of it and I greatly appreciate his help. Without him I would have had to heave to in a region of water where there are tens, if not hundreds, of oil platforms. This experience has re-framed any ideas I had about single-handing.

By the time I recovered, the wind had piped up and Bill had all sails flying. Raven was tearing along on a close reach. I kept things going through the night and by dawn we were off Port Aransas Pass. Rather than enter in the dark, we killed an hour reaching back and forth close the outer marks.

At first light we headed in and had a long but uneventful chug along the Gulf Intracoastal Waterway, past the Naval Air Station at Ingleside, to Corpus Christi.

It is impossible to disagree with Bill’s description of this experience as “the trip from Hell”. Still, he is ready to sign up again. The next trip just has to be better …

The trip down the coast loosened the rudder post stuffing box to the point that no further tightening stopped the inflow of water. The bilge pump was going off every five minutes. It was clearly time to properly fix this problem that Robinhood Marine in Maine was paid to fix two years ago. Once hauled out, I discovered that the stuffing material was old and fully compressed. Given this opportunity, I also replaced the obviously original 4” diameter rubber tube between hull and stuffing box. It was not leaking (yet!) but the rubber was perished and flakey.

North Shore Boatworks in Ingleside was a pleasure to deal with. They encouraged me to do the work myself and offered to help if I needed it. While they added new bottom paint, I fixed the stuffing box and serviced three seacocks. I should have done them all but it was extremely hot on the hard.

For some ridiculous reason I had been afraid to service seacocks. That two of them were seized added to my fears. Once the locking nuts were eased, a large hammer helped to free up one seacock and a tube slipped over the handle gave me enough leverage to free up another. Obviously I was careful not to apply too much muscle.

Dunking the parts in a muriatic acid solution cleaned of the scale and grime. I then lapped all valves and lubed them with Lucas “Red and Tacky” grease. I tried to get the recommended grease but NAPA no longer sells it. They recommended this as a replacement.

I quickly discovered that it is easy to over-tighten seacocks. In doing so the grease is squeezed out and lost, leaving metal-on-metal. In the end I abandoned all wrenches and used only my fingers to tighten the seacocks. I expected that they would leak upon re-floating and require tightening. They did not. So far, they are still easy to turn and have not leaked one drop.

The latest repair is to the 30A socket for shore power. The wires had become loose and had been arcing. We were lucky that they didn’t catch fire. This work is in progress. I have bought an extra 30A socket that is for only the heat pump. The 8AWG-3 wire is huge and perhaps overkill for the job. I am considering using #10 instead. More later.

Best regards to you all.

Captain Dave

Life in the old dog yet.

Hi! Everyone:

Mister P is running again. Initially, the idle was high (around 1200 rpm) but was easily adjusted to 750 rpm. The shop manual recommends 650, but I see no point in having the engine shake its mounts at that low speed.

It took several attempts to start. I bled air out of the fuel system but I was ignorant of the second bleed screw on top of the injector pump's “anti-stall device”. Raven’s pump is a hybrid of the two drawings in the shop manual, and neither showed this type of bleed screw. After talking with two other Perkins owners, I decided to loosen this screw.

But first … I had to modify an Allen wrench to fit between the screw and the heat exchanger. Have you ever tried to hacksaw through even a small Allen wrench? After twenty minutes I had barely scratched its surface. Friends on Brendan bailed me out with the loan of their Dremmel. (Mine is in storage, of course.) Unable to get any Allen wrench to fit, I had to guess which one to cut ¼” off. Third wrench was a charm.

Bleeding out the air was becoming second nature. Eventually, one cylinder fired, then another … Once all four were firing, I shut down the engine and opened the raw water seacock. I had closed it to keep from filling the wet muffler with sea water while I was repeatedly cranking a reluctant engine. Thankfully, I remembered to open it. In Bellhaven, NC, two years ago, I was so elated after effecting an engine repair that I forgot to re-open the raw water seacock, causing the engine to overheat, the cabin to fill with sweet-smelling steam from boiling antifreeze, and Hilde to go in search of Raven’s fire extinguishers.

When they are running well, diesel engines at idle sound like they have a heartbeat. It was almost as if I had breathed new life into some living beast. (Steam engine enthusiasts will easily understand this.) Naturally, I am very happy that there seems to be life in the old dog yet.

CD36 owners with the 4.108 engine and the one-piece, aluminum, Bowman casting that is a combined exhaust manifold, heat exchanger, and antifreeze header tank on the engine’s port side might be interested to know that this assembly can be removed and reinstalled without removing the injectors and the high pressure fuel lines. (Write me for details.)


Raven’s heat exchanger was designed with no zinc, so I added a bushing and pencil zinc at the rear of the casting. (On the right in the picture, just below the lazarette hinge.) It is easy to reach to check and replace, if necessary. I don’t know if I did it right, but the corrosion on the heat exchanger indicated that some sort of sacrificial zinc was necessary. (Write me for details.)


The exhaust goose neck, from the rear of the manifold to the wet muffler was heavily rusted. It is made of standard 1½” galvanized plumbing pipe, elbows, and connectors. It has worked flawlessly for 24 years, so I can’t knock the design. To remove the rust, I first tried Naval Jelly. It did only “OK” so next I dipped it in muriatic acid, diluted 1:5 with water. This is nasty, nasty stuff. I was my first experience of it and, I hope, my last. For all that, it worked wonders on the exhaust pipe, removing the rust and calcium so that the original pipe threads are again visible. After neutralizing the acid in a bath of water and baking soda and allowing the pipe to dry, I wire-brushed it vigorously. The Houston air was so damp that surface rust began forming almost immediately, so I painted it with Ospho to stabilize the surface. The final coat is Duracolor’s high temperature, ceramic-based paint. It is rated up to 1200°F and sprays on like chromium plating. It was very satisfying to see the exhaust pipe shining like polished silver. I have run the engine over an hour already and the pipe is still shiny.

Diesel Parts Sales on Canal Street in Houston did an excellent job of rebuilding the pump and atomizers, and refurbishing the heat exchanger. They took the time to answer my questions patiently and willingly shared their encyclopedic knowledge of Perkins engines.

Now that all that is behind me, I hope to bring Raven to Corpus Christi next week. Watch this space for our progress.

Best regards,
Captain Dave

Re-entry

Hi! Everyone:

No, we haven’t disappeared. Re-entry to landlubber life has been chaotic and exhausting. Our belongings remain scattered in four Texas cities and seem to defy any attempts to gather them all in one place. I’m embarrassed to admit that our large storage unit was so full that when I opened the door stuff fell out. Now we have another, small storage unit so that I have some breathing room to shuffle stuff around and pack yet more into the main space. Sigh!

Raven has been taking a well-earned rest and demanding some TLC. She brought us safely to Clear Lake, TX, but stopped me in my tracks when I attempted to move her to Corpus Christi. Maybe she knew that Hurricane Dolly was coming and didn’t want to deal with that.

A friend had driven from Dallas to help me move Raven and all was going well until we were about half way out of the marina. Mister P (our workhorse Perkins diesel) began to run away. This is a technical term for “Oh, My God! Pulling the stop lever hasn’t stopped the engine.” I quickly ran below and cut off the air supply at the intake before the revs got very high, so at least it didn’t race at high rpm. TowBoatUS earned themselves the easiest tow they’ve ever had by taking us 700 yards back to the slip.

That was mid June. One month later, the injector pump and four injectors have been rebuilt. ($1250) The heat exchanger is being refurbished. (Probably another $200.) I’ll add details of the repairs in a later blog.

In the meantime, I’ve repaired the air conditioner ($400), so my life on Raven is again comfortable. I had spread awnings over the deck and tried to live without a/c, but when the outside air is in the nineties and still, it is miserable below deck. Cooking is out of the question and sleep is next to impossible.

Until the heat exchanger is ready for pickup, I am cleaning up the engine, the fuel lines, and the exhaust gooseneck. Final assembly should begin this weekend.

The plan is still to take Raven to Corpus Christi. The next full moon is August 16th and I hope to have all repairs finished well before then. A night sail along the coast can be a delightful experience. The oil platforms are surprisingly beautiful. They are compact, isolated cities at sea, brilliantly illuminated, and bustling with life. NOAA’s vector charts show all of these obstructions, including the enormous, unlit mooring buoys used by the service boats. The full moon adds an extra level of safety.

Captain Dave

Weeeee're Back!

Photo #1: Sunrise on the Gulf, one of the rewards for taking that 2 - 6 a.m. watch.

Photo #2: Beautiful afternoon clouds, one of the rewards of taking a daytime watch.

[Hilde’s log]

I am sitting below decks mourning the death of our air conditioner. It passed away quietly our last day in Pensacola, and brother do I miss it. It’s 11:00 a.m. and 93 degrees. We must be back in Seabrook!

We had a challenging and beautiful passage from Pensacola to Galveston. If I were to title the trip, I’d call it Thunderstorm Alley. Four of our six days out were plagued with storms: huge, monstrous, glorious, terrifying, and beautiful. In addition to the thunderheads and lightening, we saw several water spouts. For contrast, two of the days we were out, it was just flat calm in all directions. We hardly sailed at all the entire trip and I was so glad we thought to add two extra cans of diesel fuel to the deck. We ended up using our entire tank, plus all we had on deck, and cruised into Galveston with 8 gallons left.

All the way across the Gulf from Pensacola our days were spent playing dodge ‘em with the mountainous thunderheads and our nights were spent playing dodge ‘em with lightening bursts. We were lucky, only coming close to one big storm. That was scary enough, as the black clouds converged on our position from two directions, churning five foot seas in every direction. With life jackets donned, we alternated between sitting on the cabin sole (me praying nonstop) and sticking our heads up to see what was going on. It was more scary looking than actually dangerous (other than the lightening), with top winds of only 34 knots. The lightening, though, was ferocious for the entire trip.

Cloud to cloud lightening would light up the sky for miles, illuminating the storm clouds and the sea. The “bad” lightening was the cloud to ground sort, enormous bolts visible for miles that stabbed the sea in sudden bursts. We measured the position of the night time storms from the cloud to ground lightening, and once we determined which way the storm was headed, we went perpendicular and ran like hell. You know the saying “There are old sailors and bold sailors, but no old bold sailors.” We intend to get old.

Out of Pensacola the storms chased us south so far that we totally gave up on the fairways and just headed out to deep water. It’s so much better far off shore anyway, because it takes a lot of wind to stir up deep water. The sky was magnificent, full of the Milky Way. Most of the time we seemed to inhabit a charmed circle of clear sky, with thunderheads all the way around us. All day long I’d watch them build and collapse, like soufflés in a nautical oven.

The most appalling storm was the one we encountered when we were about 100 miles out of Galveston. The sky in front of us (landward) was dark, featureless gray, like a gray blanket over the entire horizon. At sunset and we couldn’t see the sun at all until it touched the ocean, and then it was a vermillion fireball for a few seconds before disappearing. NOAA radio reported a huge thunderstorm galloping out the ship channel from Houston to Galveston to parts SW at 30 miles per hour. I was so glad we had made such slow progress across the Gulf; otherwise we might have found ourselves in the middle of that storm coming in. It was a huge system, spewing lightening from one side of the horizon to the other. We were relieved to watch it pass to the SW as predicted (we were headed NW) and we never even had any rain from it. Another storm threatened our starboard quarter for most of the night, but it eventually faded away to the NE. I have yet how to account for the movement of storms relative to the wind direction on the boat.

Thanks to our Fugawi charts (the best charts, as far as I can tell) we knew to follow the shipping lanes (called the fairways) along the coast once we passed South Port, Louisiana, and so it was easy to stay away from the oil wells, the supply boats and the truly enormous mooring balls used by the supply ships (easily the size of a Hummer). The wells are really beautiful at night, lit up like casinos – provided they are lit up. There are occasional wells that are not lit, and those are the scary ones. That’s one reason we have made both our Gulf crossings under a full moon. We saw two unlit wells this trip.

The fairways are like sea going freeways, and are used by the commercial ships as they go to and fro. They are great to follow, because when you see a big ship coming, you pretty much know which way it is headed. We had one oil tanker cut behind us and two cut in front of us, but other than that they all behaved themselves and chugged down the road. The commercial traffic on the Gulf is terrific when you are within 100 miles of shore. We had forgotten! It was a lot like driving through a well populated country area on a highway, with the lights of the farm houses scattered all around and the lights of the 18 wheelers going up and down the road with you. Many of the captains are not native English speakers, so when you are trying to listen to the traffic on 16, language can be an issue. Actually, language is an issue when you listen to the barge traffic on the GIWW. Those men all speak with a weird southern patois/good old buddy accent that I am hard pressed to understand, and I’m from here.

Photo #3: This is what the lit oil rigs look like at night...

Photo #4: This is what they look like in the distance during the day (see that little spot?)...

Photo #5: This is what they look like up close...

Photo #6: And this is what they look like when I am not paying attention on watch and we get too close! Note the supply boat at right. That boat is enormous and it is dwarfed by the rig.

All the way across I was thrilled to be back on the Gulf. I grew up in Houston, and the Gulf is “home.” The sky looks right, the water looks right, the oil rigs look right – well, you know how home is, warts and all; there's no place like it. The Gulf is also one of the most beautiful places on earth, whether you are dodging oil wells near shore or are out on the flat expanse of blue that opens up about 150 miles out.

It was great fun to come into Galveston, despite our grueling passage in. Contrary wind and current made the water rough and because the blasted self steering died about 30 miles from the outer mark, we had to hand steer, one hour on and one hour off, for the next 12 hours. The good news is that it was blessedly cool from all the storms that passed through before we got in. We motored down the gauntlet of at least 50 ships at anchor on either side of the fairway, waiting to be called in to the Port of Houston. Raven reached the jetties about 7 a.m. and caught a rising tide into the bay. We had the yankee out and the engine on and she scooted through the jetties at 8.3 knots, past the anchored tankers and into the anchorage at Teacup, where we pulled into the closest marina for fuel. There were a couple of fishing boats tied up as well, and the fishermen and women were cleaning a catch, surrounded by a screeching cloud of gulls, pelicans, and cormorants. The birds were busy catching and eating the culls from the catch (which looked like eels), literally pulling them out of each others’ mouths.

Photo #7: Three of the over 50 anchored ships we passed just off the fairway near Galveston in dawn's early light.

Once we filled up with diesel we eased back out into the anchorage at Teacup and David checked the oil. Then we headed north up the channel for four hours to the anchorage at Red Fish Island where we spent a very hot afternoon and evening. Then this morning we came in, and our first slip at Watergate was awful. They are obviously waiting for the next storm to take out those docks, which were old, narrow, fixed, wooden, and full of splinters. Ick. David got us moved temporarily to the new floating docks, which is a much better location and easy step on-off to Raven's deck.

Photo #8: Boats anchored at Red Fish Island. The island is man-made (spoil) so there is no vegetation, no shade, and no bugs. You do have a great view of the channel traffic, as you can see. The wake from these huge ships washes over the island like the surf over the rocks on the West Coast!

It was so much fun to sail (no, motor, the wind never did cooperate) up the channel and into the bay and under the Kemah bridge. All that trip used to just terrify me and it was fun coming in and recognizing everything and not being a bit scared. Just hot. It is, after all, Texas in June.

Photo #9: Oh my gosh! It's me, steering Raven across the bay and I actually know what I'm doing! Notice the kerchief - it's soaked in ice water. It's hot.

Photo #10: then we see the Kemah boardwalk... (new roller coaster there!)

Photo #11: under the Kemah bridge...

Photo #12: Where it all started, two years, two months and 8 days ago. Our slip was opposite "Tres Amigos" here in Seabrook. Unfortunately, they were full, so we are docked at Watergate, just up the way.

Heading Out

[Hilde’s log]

We’ve enjoyed Pensacola and the splendid hospitality of our friends John and Cookie, who showed us the sights, fed us, introduced us to new friend Joyce, and even made a loan of their second car. Such luxury! It’s hard to leave friends and a lovely city and wheels, but go we must. Raven’s air conditioning bit the dust last night, and I must admit that makes it easier to push off. It was a Turkish bath in the cabin as I cooked a few meals for us to take as we head out into the Gulf tomorrow and we’ve been hanging out in the cockpit waiting for it to cool off enough to go to bed…maybe soon. It’s still 84 down here.

We will be travelling on the outside as we make our way back to Texas, down the shipping lanes, a journey of about 500 miles. Hopefully we will be chugging under the Kemah bridge in about six days. We will have a full moon and a good weather window, so we hope for a pleasant journey. We’ll be staying at the Watergate Marina at Clear Lake for about a month, and then we anticipate a move to Corpus Christi Municipal Marina, so if you pass our way, let us know. Until then ~ here’s to your dreams.

Weather Report

Photo #1: early morning in Pensacola Bay

Photo #2: Bridge over the entrance to Tampa Bay

[Hilde’s log]

We’ve been at the dock in Pensacola for a couple of days now, time enough to do a lot of sleeping, a lot of visiting with old friends Paul, John, and Cookie, and some grocery shopping. We’ll be here a week for R&R and then head on toward Texas. We go back and forth about whether to brave the barges, tankers, freighters, mosquitoes, and unfriendly rivers on the GIWW (Gulf Inland Waterway) or to head back out in the Gulf and do battle with weather, oil wells, and lots of inbound heavy traffic. The big draws for the Gulf crossing are cooler weather and a quicker transit. The big draws for the GIWW are more sleep and… well, that’s it, more sleep.

Photo #3: docked in downtown St. Petersburg

We spent a delightful three days in St. Petersburg. What a lovely, cosmopolitan city! The city marina is right downtown, and downtown St. Petersburg has something for everyone. There are a number of museums (all accessible by 25 cent trolley ride), an aquarium out on a long pier where you can feed the pelicans, beautiful parks, shops, café’s and restaurants, and even a Publix, all within walking distance of the marina. My cousin Jan lives there and she was a wonderful host, taking us to local landmarks and sharing the pool at her beautiful condominium complex. I don’t think I exaggerate when I say St. Petersburg is like a tiny Paris on Florida’s west coast and a great destination for any cruiser.

The 300 mile passage from St. Petersburg to Pensacola took three nights and 30 gallons of diesel. We motored most of the way, as the winds were light when we had them at all, and mostly dead astern. We struggle to find something to do on passage. It’s far too hot to cook anything, and we lose our appetites about two days out anyway. No one wants to be out in the sun on deck, regardless of how benign the water and wind are. Again, it’s far too hot. So we end up in the cockpit either reading or watching the weather.

Gulf clouds are endlessly fascinating, even on shore. Offshore they are simply mesmerizing, enormous, ever-changing, and guaranteed to develop into thunderstorms every afternoon. I can spend hours finding shapes in the puffy clouds; one afternoon we were surrounded by “bears”, either swimming, chasing butterflies, or floating on their backs. The clouds vary in shape, color, thickness, from wisps to scattered sheep, to high, icy veils of lace, to towering arctic mountains. In the dawn or at sunset, they seem to be illuminated from within, filled with incandescent light.

The storms are beautiful as well. Naturally, we much prefer that the storms stay well away from us. It’s hard to figure out which way a storm is moving and how fast. Sometimes they light up the sky on the distant horizon and stay there; other times they chase us. Being chased by a huge Gulf thunderstorm is absolutely no fun at all. We had a close call with a mammoth storm that developed over Tampa Bay the day we left St. Petersburg for Pensacola. By the time the storm developed it was about 5 p.m. and we were about 15 miles off shore. It started as they all do, with a large, white cauliflower cloud sailing in a clear blue sky. Ever so gently, this cloud grows, drawing to it and absorbing nearby smaller clouds. Then the mass begins to swell, upward and outward. As it grows, it absorbs heat. From time to time, all afternoon, jets of steam spurt from the cloud, it collapses, and then rebuilds. By late afternoon, it has climbed upward for thousands of feet and spread out laterally for miles. Then it drifts offshore and at some point dumps its rain on land or into the Gulf and then the clouds thin out and dissipate.

Photos below: a storm cloud cycle, captured over Pensacola Bay (same cloud, photographed over about an hour or so)

The thunderstorm that pursued us from Tampa Bay pretty much followed this pattern. The towering mountain of cloud began to collapse over the bay in the early evening, which occasioned a rare National Weather Service Alert due to high winds and torrential rain. We could see it easily from the cockpit. As the cloud collapsed, it metamorphosed into a dense, dark mushroom (like the photos you see of an atomic bomb blast) that flattened out in a circle about ten miles in diameter, dragging heavy curtains of rain in its wake, spiking lightening and high winds in all directions, and rushing toward us like a freight train at 20 knots. The procedure here is to get the hell out of Dodge at an angle perpendicular to the storm. It was daylight, so we could see, and the National Weather Service confirmed, the direction the storm was headed. Mr. P chugged hard to port and the storm swept by to starboard, thinning, finally, about 20 miles out from shore.

That night on watch I was entertained by a huge lightening storm behind us that lit up small sections of the sky in violent bursts that reminded me of films I’ve seen of night time sea battles. Huge prongs of lightening stabbed the water from the boiling clouds that were illuminated briefly with each burst. Thankfully, the storm was so far behind us I couldn’t hear the thunder. We took down the canvas anyway, so David could sleep undisturbed. Other storms popped up around us in the early hours of the morning, but most had cloud to cloud lightening which was of much less concern to me.

Although we were surrounded by scattered storms, the sky above Raven was crystal clear. I leaned back out of the cockpit, away from the bimini, and watched the Milky Way streaming above the swaying mast. I could keep track of the storm clouds by noting those sections of the horizon that blotted out the stars. The Big Dipper hung in the sky off to starboard, handle raised into the sky and dipper poised over the water. Sometime around 4 a.m. the dipper finally brushed the surface of the sea. The sky was so bright with stars; it was easy to see all sorts of constellations. I don’t know any of the classic constellations and so had fun naming my own. The brightest were a couple of crawfish clawing their way up to midheaven.

The last night out we dodged two storms, both of which started on shore near Pensacola and Mobile and headed our way. Both were “sea battle” lightening storms that produced jagged lightening and grumbling bursts of thunder. We managed to avoid both of them, although the second storm, moving almost as slowly as we were, wandered into Pensacola Bay in front of us as the sun rose behind us. Yet another storm cooked itself into being as we approached and we snapped photos of it as it built and finally burst into steam. Both these storms produced water spouts (tornadoes) that snaked their way toward the water from the distended bellies of the storms and smoked across the water for a number of minutes before being reabsorbed. Water spouts are really scary and we were grateful that they showed up in daylight where we could see them and move off in another direction!

Our approach continued across the milky calm water of the bay. We turned off the motor for awhile so David could check the oil and were joined by about 15 dolphins. They swam right up to the boat, and the early morning silence was broken only by their huffing breaths and the slight disturbance of the water as they dove and circled, hunting their breakfast. Some of them looked quite small; I am guessing it was a family group with some youngsters in tow.

Yet again, we have been amazingly lucky. The only affect on Raven’s crew from all these thunderheads was a wash of cooler air left by the rain and the chance to take some amazing photos.

Cayo Costa, June 3, 2008

Photo #1: Sunset at Cayo Costa

[Hilde’s log]

Cruising attire has become a lot more casual since we arrived in Florida from the Bahamas. When we’re close to others in an anchorage or marina we suffer in shorts and t-shirts and sandals. The instant we manage to elude our fellow humans, all those clothes end up in a heap in the laundry basket. Folks, it is hot. For example, it is almost 8 p.m. as I write this in the cabin and the thermometer (at which I try not to look) shows 88. It’s probably 8 to 10 degrees cooler in the cockpit, where David is milking the sunset for enough light to read his book. We hope we are anchored far enough from shore to be invisible to the insect life out here (just off the ICW channel close to the island park of Cayo Costa).

Amazingly enough, “hot” is uncomfortable only if I (i) wear clothes or (ii) go into the cabin. As long as I am in the fresh breeze with little or nothing on, I’m quite comfortable. Yesterday we spent the day at Ft. Myers Beach, Florida, in the city mooring field. David finished some boat chores, and when he was done, I was determined to clean up a bit below. While he worked, I sat in the cockpit in civilized attire and read. It was about 90, but a breeze was blowing and Raven’s cockpit curtains kept the sun off while allowing the breeze to waft across the boat. I was perfectly comfortable. The instant I went below, the heat became stifling and I lost all the water I’d drunk that day (a considerable amount) to perspiration. Who am I kidding? It was sweat! Running in rivulets down my back, under my arms, and even off the end of my nose! Needless to say, as I swept and damp mopped the cabin floor, I became more and more irritable. I barely managed to last until we loaded the dinghy with laundry and bath items and took off for the bath house and laundry room maintained by Matanzas Marina.

What a glorious feeling to step into the air conditioned laundry! Marathon is a great place, but they have no air conditioning, and bathing in their showers in the summer is a lot like taking a Turkish bath, even though all my showers there were in cold (read: tepid) water. At Ft. Myers, the laundry and the bathrooms are air conditioned. The bathrooms look like hotel bathrooms, with tiled floors, sinks, and mirrors. Both of them were sparkling clean and one of them even had a tub! You can get dressed in comfort, without every piece of clothing sticking to your body. Again, a huge contrast to Marathon. The baths there are filthy. No algae or anything, but plenty of dirt tracked in and left on the floors and years of dirty hand and fingerprints on the walls, as if every boater there had changed engine oil before coming up to bathe. Marathon mooring balls (off season) were $20 per night. Ft. Myers was $13. Go figure. Perhaps it has to do with Marathon’s brand new mooring field, which is quite impressive and regularly inspected. It can’t be the facilities. I loved Marathon, but I must admit, Ft. Myers is my new favorite Florida port.

Ft. Myers has a great mooring field as well, less than two years old. The balls are especially welcome due to the strong current that runs there, turning the boats 180 degrees every six hours. Across the channel from us and on the other side of a large sand bar were about 20 shrimpers. They stayed tied up while we were there, which was a bit of a disappointment. I wanted to see them leave in the early morning. Perhaps there is a season on shrimp. It’s a working port, with large and small work boats and a Coast Guard station, as well as lots of private fishing boats and pleasure craft. The Gulf side beaches were covered with happy vacationers, but there are no over large hotels or other obvious tourist spots in Matanzas Pass, where the mooring field is located. Instead there are several live music tiki bars and one great band played under the roof of a huge open air aluminum building that looks as though it earns its way as a commercial fish market during the week.

The mooring field is also home to many snub nosed gray dolphins who came in each evening and morning to feed or maybe just to hang out. They floated close to the surface of the water with their dorsal fins exposed and moved slowly up and down the river, huffing noisily as they took deep breaths. They’d pass within ten feet of us, singly or in groups of two or three, like people out for an evening stroll. We had a terrific rain last night and afterward, as I lay in the v-berth enjoying a beautifully cool breeze, I listened to the dolphins huff and puff their way up and down beside the boat.

We ate out our first night in Ft. Myers, just to get cooked food in a cool room. We’ve had to motor a lot the last few days, and motoring bakes the interior of the boat until it’s well over 90 at night when we stop. Even after opening all the port lights and hatches, it takes a long time for it to cool down because the hot engine continues to radiate heat through the hull. The heat effectively discourages me from doing any cooking. We aren’t hungry for the most part, anyway, until we walk into an air conditioned space. When we are able to sail, we’re still out in the heat all day (under the bimini, of course) but there is very little engine activity to heat up the cabin and the breeze keeps us comfortable.

Photo #2: Thunderhead across our anchorage at Cayo Costa

The thunderstorms help. A big one swept by us to the east this afternoon as we approached land. None of them have bothered me at all for a long time, but this afternoon was different. As I watched the storm develop, my hackles went up and I seriously did not want to turn east and head toward it. About the time we approached our turn, the Coast Guard announced that a water spout had been sighted near our location. A water spout is a tornado on water, and not anything anyone wants to be near. The Coast Guard announcer, some young woman, rattled off the coordinates in such a rush that even though I had pen and paper to hand, I couldn’t get all the numbers. I was some kind of angry. I hailed the Coast Guard on 16, told them there was no way I could write down the numbers when she spoke them so quickly, and asked her to repeat the coordinates. About a minute later, she did. Sure enough, those water spouts were right about where we are anchored tonight!

But about 10 minutes later, my feelings of foreboding disappeared and the storm moved off slowly to the east, taking its water spouts with it. As we approached the cut, we moved through a fleet of small fishermen and clouds of sea birds who were all doing their best to catch the hundreds of fish that were shoaling in the cut. Not one of them moved a foot for any silly storm, water spout or not.

Up the West Coast of Florida

Photo #1: Raven heads into the Gulf, under Seven Mile Bridge, just west of Marathon

[Hilde’s log]

May 31, 2008

What a lovely surprise we had our last day in Marathon. We checked in on the cruiser’s net as a departing vessel, and who should hail us but Matt and Linda on Worth W8N4! We hadn’t seen them since Coco Beach, back in January. They settled in at Marathon in January and loved it so much they’ve decided to stay for the long term. We enjoyed dinner together and then Linda took me with her to Bingo night at the local VFW hall. I had a great time stamping my sheets, and came close in four games, but never managed to win. Rats. Another first, for my life’s “firsts” list. Many thanks to Linda and Matt for a lovely evening. And to think, we’d been there a week and had no idea they were there. All the folks at Marathon have gone out of their way to be friendly and helpful, from the City Marina staff to the bridge tender. I’m glad we visited and equally glad we visited in the off season. From photos we’ve seen, the harbor is completely full of boats in the winter and the dinghy dock is three and four deep in dinghies, all of which is a testament to Marathon’s success in luring cruisers. It’s the Velcro Beach of the Keys.

We’re wending our way up the west coast of Florida, pausing tonight in an anchorage off the channel in Gordon’s Pass, a bit south of Naples. We crept in about 4 p.m., fighting a one knot current in a narrow passage with shoaling and shallows to contend with. David cleverly thought to call Boat U.S. on VHF 16 for local knowledge about this anchorage and they provided us with exactly the information we wanted: keep very close to the west side of the channel and expect shallower than normal lows at low tide. Raven is floating in a canal type subdivision, among some beautiful and expensive homes with boats parked at the “curb”. We’ve been entertained by all sorts of canal traffic, including a sailboat, a dinghy, a hundred foot yacht, a sightseeing boat, and a huge catamaran with about 30 people on board. Perhaps we were part of the sights they were seeing – two hot, sticky people enjoying snacks and a cold drink on deck. Dark skies have hovered around us all afternoon, but so far we’ve had only a bit of cool wind and no storms. It’s quiet now, and close, and hot, so we may get one yet.

Photo #2: our anchorage at Little Shark River

Our suburban anchorage tonight is an extreme contrast with the anchorages of the last two nights. Both nights we were snuggled up to the edge of the Everglades National Park. Our first night’s anchorage was just inside the bend of Little Shark River. I could see we were approaching a river, because the turquoise water changed to dark olive and we felt the current pushing us back. The half circle cove sheltered another sailboat, and that was all the company we had, all night. Despite the lure of the tree lined river that slipped off into the distance, we elected to drop anchor as near the mouth of the river as possible, due to our expectation of being eaten alive by mosquitoes. It was hot and humid and we were hungry and thirsty from our long day on the water, so I made us a couple of shandies (and English drink of ½ beer and ½ ginger ale or other light soda – sounds awful, but it’s a great drink). We slammed those down and the next thing we knew, we were napping. About an hour later I woke up and made the quickest dinner I could think of, we slammed that down, and then darn if we didn’t pass out again. I think it was about 8 p.m. at that point and I didn’t stir until about 7 the next morning. I haven’t slept that hard in months. I think it had partly to do with the profound quiet that surrounded us. For miles and miles on every side there was only mangrove forest and sea and the critters that call the Everglades home. No electricity, no motors, no voices, just silence and old trees and a few dolphins chasing fish in the shallows.

We were right about the mosquitoes – the next morning there were about 30 on each port light screen, clutching the mesh, drooling at the prospect of such a tasty breakfast. We wore our long pants and shirts and applied Skin so Soft liberally on all exposed areas before climbing out of the cabin, and wasted no time in setting out into the insect free gulf. About a dozen enterprising fellows found their way into the cabin as we emerged and enjoyed me thoroughly the next night.

Photo #3: Thunderhead behind us (note the rain dumping into the Gulf)

The next night found us in the midst of the Thousand Islands part of the western Florida coast. We motored into an anchorage at Indian Key about three steps ahead of a large thunderstorm. We’d been dodging storms for two days. When I’m travelling in the day time, storms are interesting. Since they are visible, they are mostly missable, or at least we don’t get snuck up on. We watch them build all day. In the early morning, there is a ruffle of white cloud that parallels the land. As the morning moves along, the clouds get larger and puffier, building into an impressive white bank of cumulus clouds. The clouds are magical, making the most fantastical shapes, and I entertain myself for hours, seeing all sorts of animals evolve and fade away in the bright blue sky. Then about 2 p.m., the clouds begin to roll off the land and over the water. By now, they have built themselves into towering white mountains, the tops of which are constantly exploding like very slow popping popcorn. Finally, they begin to go gray and black underneath, the darkness builds up into the sky, and then the torrential rains spill to the earth. The thunderheads drag the rain in sheets behind them like long skirts. From the water we could see probably four to six storms at any one time as we sailed along the coast. A couple of times we hove to and waited, but the storms we were expecting swept by us to starboard or to port with just a gust of wind and quick shower to mark their passing.

We had successfully ducked every one of them by yesterday afternoon, and I made the mistake of saying “I’m so glad we’ve been able to duck all these thunderstorms, aren’t you?” Red flag to a rain god, who promptly defied NOAA and sent his storm north, rather than west (all the others had grumbled their way west, as if they were on a lead). By the time we realized this storm was going to get us, we were chugging up the outflowing river into the Everglades against a really strong current. I had the throttle wheezing at 2500 rpm and we staggered along at 4.5 knots, not only fighting current, but also 18 knot winds. It was like hurrying in slow motion, or one of those dreams where your arms and legs are too heavy to lift as you try to run for your life. It didn’t help to watch the local fishing boats streak past us, engines blazing, as they raced upriver toward Everglades City and shelter. As we came around the bend to the anchorage, the black sky covered us, and we could see a thick curtain of rain advancing toward us across the water, completely obliterating the scenery behind it. The storm nailed us just as David dropped the hook, and we got soaked. Actually, once I realized there wasn’t any lightening, the rain was truly refreshing. I did freak out a bit, as Raven remaining beam to the wind, instead of feathering up, but that turned out to be the current. No one else was out and we had the anchorage to ourselves so we didn’t worry much on a 10 to 1 scope.

Photo # 4 and 5: our anchorage in Gordon's pass as the stom develops and then arrives

We were close to Everglades City, but weren’t even tempted to explore (mosquitoes again). We agree that a return trip in the depths of January is a distinct possibility, because the area is simply gorgeous.

Sweltering in Marathon

Photos #1 and 2: down Government Cut, past the cargo ships, to Miami

Photo #3: Now that's a fender...

[Hilde’s log]

Ah, mangroves, heat, and no-see-ums. We must be in Florida! Raven is back in the Florida Keys, after two years. It took persistence to get here. After an overnight from West End to Miami, we pulled in to Mia Marina, close to the Port of Miami where we had to check in with the powers that be to re-enter the US legally. Fortunately, they gave us 24 hours to show ourselves. The minute Raven slid into her slip and the a/c was hooked up, her crew started sleeping. We were simply exhausted. It wasn’t just the lack of sleep from the overnight; it was riding the constant motion of three to four foot cross-hatched swells and wind-driven waves as we bumped past Bimini and then across the Gulf Stream. David likened it to riding a mechanical bull for 15 hours. The ocean pitched us, tossed us, and threw us up in the air without respite, from Bimini well into Government Cut.

The overnight was interesting, aside from the rough ride. We enjoyed a beautiful full moon, which helped me to miss a huge tanker that crossed our bow. I was half asleep and staring stupidly at the tanker’s port light expecting it to pass to starboard (I really was asleep with my eyes open) when suddenly the moon illuminated its length as it rose up in solid silhouette in front of us. It was a “David!!” moment. We were never in danger; it was just a close encounter that jolted me awake with a start. A couple of hours later, just east of the Gulf Stream, a spotlight suddenly illuminated the cockpit and we were hailed by the Coast Guard. After reading them passport numbers and certificate numbers and giving names and other personal information they wished us a good night and left us to lurch our way to Miami without further ado. I’m so glad they decided not to board us to check for life vests or something; in that sea they’d have knocked holes in the gel coat, fenders or no.

The morning after our arrival in Miami, we took a taxi to the Port of Miami building, dressed in our best and sporting the ship’s papers. Finding the office was the hardest part. A bored official took our papers, looked at our passports, handed them back, and turned to another task. They didn’t stamp our passports, and although we both had to report to the office, no one even looked at me. I guess if you show up, they figure you’re okay. Quien sabe?

We enjoyed the part of Miami that was near the marina. After a Starbucks, we wandered an open air market admiring all sorts of goods on display before settling down to lunch at a dockside café. Late in the afternoon we set out for an anchorage close to Hurricane Harbor in Biscayne Bay, where we parked for two nights while we rested. It was ridiculous: we’d get up, eat something, do very little for about two hours, and then go back to sleep. We must have had ten naps between us over the weekend we were there. David did manage several boat chores during the hours he was awake; I didn’t manage a thing. The air was hot and hazy and several times we were really bothered by thick smoke that poured over the bay from the wild fires in the Everglades.

Photo #4: Miami skyline from Biscayne Bay. It was gorgeous at night, with all the lights.

Other than sleeping and watching David whack at the boat, I spent my time looking out at over a hundred (mostly power) boats that anchored near us. Both Saturday and Sunday morning, they appeared like magic about breakfast time and then they disappeared again as the sun began to dip over the horizon in the evening. Teens, families with kids, and boats full of adults came to anchor out and play on and around the shallow waters covering a nearby sandbar. The kids spent all their time leaping from the swim platforms into the water, the teens zoomed by in small power boats or on jet skis, and the old folks lay back in the shade with a cold drink and watched their progeny or else sat their with fishing poles out, looking hopeful. We had the place to ourselves from dusk until dawn, and it was beautifully empty when we pulled out Monday morning early to head down to Rodriguez Key.

Photos #5-7: Stiltsville, beside Biscayne Channel

The most interesting thing we saw on that leg of the trip was a place the chart called “Stiltsville.” As its name implies, Stiltsville is made up of maybe ten houses built on stilts, scattered along a stretch of the southern channel that leads from Biscayne Bay to Hawk Channel on the Atlantic (Biscayne Channel). The houses looked abandoned for the most part, with windows boarded up. Some of the foundation piers looked well cared for, but others looked as though a good blow would send the house straight into the bay.

Stiltsville was about it for entertainment on our trip south other than the colors of the water in Hawk Channel. I saw the same beautiful dark blue and turquoise striped water that I’ve been used to seeing in the Bahamas, as well as an equally beautiful jade and evergreen Florida variation. Those strips of clear, jewel-colored water were surrounded by regular green ocean in many places. I have no idea what causes the colors of the sea to change, and especially cannot guess why the neon colors are blue and turquoise in one place and then jade and evergreen just a short distance away. The trip to Rodriguez Key was 40+ miles pretty much straight into the 15-20 knot wind. We motor sailed with the staysail at 30 degrees to the wind when we could, but still arrived minutes before sunset after a 13 hour trip. Silver moonlight bathed the open vista to the east as we sat in the cockpit with a well earned drink, and I decided that was my idea of a night passage: at anchor in a still lagoon under a bright moon with a drink in my hand.

The next day we soldiered on to Channel Five, tacking back and forth over a 25 mile route. It was a terrific ten hour sail, Raven heeled with all her canvas out. All that tacking added a lot of distance to the trip and we arrived at the anchorage at sunset yet again. The last day of our march to Marathon was a slog, motoring straight into 16 knot wind most of the way, with a couple of hours of motor sailing thrown in. We paused at the Marathon Marina fuel dock to tank up with diesel and water, and then we nabbed a mooring ball in the sparsely populated mooring field and celebrated our arrival with rum and coke. It was pretty warm the whole trip, mid 80s making the breeze welcome, and the heat baked us but good once we tied up here. Both of us are glad to see the sun go down. It’s hard to remember how much I hated the cold up north!

We rented a car for three days, so in addition to luxurious meals in the local (air conditioned) diners, trips to the (air conditioned) Publix supermarket to re-provision (read: find David a bag of potato chips), and the usual laundry and showers, we have also visited the (partially air conditioned) Turtle Hospital and the (partially air conditioned) Crane Point Museum and Nature Center. You can find out about the Turtle Hospital at http://www.turtlehospital.org/ and about the museum and nature preserve at Crane Point at http://www.cranepoint.net/ . Both are well worth a visit and these sites have lots of photos.

Photo #8: One of the turtle patients, in a separate tank

Photo #9: Two bubble butts in the big pool. You can see a weight on one's back.

Photo #10: In hopes of a snack from the tourists...

The turtle hospital was my favorite. I got to see about 40 huge sea turtles up close and personal. Some are permanent residents, because of the nature of their injuries, but most are thankfully just passing through. The staff treats everything from tumors to fishing line entanglements (please, please, if you are fisher-folk, be sure to retrieve all your line – floating filament causes terrible suffering for the wildlife that runs afoul of it) to shark attacks to a really weird condition that results in the turtle having excess air forced into the space between its body and its shell. The large bubble of air keeps the turtle from diving. It’s as if they are wearing a floatie. The staff call these unfortunates “bubble butts” which is a funny name for an un-funny condition, usually caused by a collision with a boat. The trapped air means these turtles have to be lifelong residents of the hospital, because they can’t dive for food. The staff can’t drill holes in the shell to let the air out because a turtle’s spine and skeleton are pretty much welded to its shell. For now, the staff attach weights on the turtles’ shells, so they can dive a little and have a more normal life. The bubble butts all live in a large salt water pool with fish and other maimed turtles, but it’s not much like having the run of the sea. You can’t imagine how huge some of these turtles are. The loggerheads have heads the size of softballs and larger. These are the turtles we saw in the Bahamas.

We should be here through next Wednesday. Then, always depending on the winds and weather, we’ll be off up the west coast of Florida, headed toward Ft. Meyers, Tampa/St. Petersburg, and Pensacola.

Great Sail from Great Sale Cay

[Hilde’s log]

May 13, 2008

One of the great things about Raven – no, the greatest thing about Raven – is the way she sails. She is at home in the water, regardless of the conditions. That came home to me, yet again, as we made our way from Hawksbill Cay to Great Sale Cay day before yesterday. The morning dawned with a gentle 10 knot breeze that gradually strengthened over the course of the afternoon to 18 and 20 knots. We sailed much of the way, which I like to imagine makes Raven happy. She’s like a dog running free on the beach, just bounding along with her canvas flying. It’s like riding a magic carpet. The sail was a smooth one until we reached Carter’s Cays, at which time the three and four foot seas began to stack and the waves began to bounce into each other. The rough water didn’t affect Raven at all, except for slowing her down. This is the same rough ride we experienced going the opposite direction over this stretch of the bank when we first arrived in the Bahamas. I wonder if perhaps that corner of the bank is where a couple of undersea rivers run into each other. A bit farther on we made the turn to port to approach Great Sale, lost our angle on the wind, and had to proceed under power.

Mr. P (the Perkins engine) responded well to the challenge, proving that the overheating issue is behind us, and we trudged forward, beating into 20 knot winds at a snail’s pace. I steered into the wind for about two hours, making little headway. David had time for a nap after we made the turn and we had barely passed Little Sale Cay when he woke up to relieve me. I got my book, settling down for the rest of the trip which looked to be a long one. David interrupted my reading to say, “I think we’re going to have some weather.” I really hate it when he says that, and I really hated it a lot when I got a look at the storm clouds that were approaching. They covered the sky to the southwest, although it looked like we might squeak by the major part of the system. We hurried to secure everything and put on our life vests. There’s no way to know how hard “weather” is going to blow. Raven chugged ahead on auto-pilot (there was no sea room to heave to) and the leading edge of the storm spread over the sky like a dark blanket.

I was mesmerized by the clouds. Thick and dark with a ragged edge, they produced the most fantastical shapes. At one point, the edge of the foremost black cloud folded over itself, like a hood, and then the face of a beautiful woman appeared in the hood, staring down solemnly at the water, her face seemingly only inches from its surface. She slowly dissolved into other shapes as the darkness poured over us, blotting out the blue sky. We never manage to have the camera ready when something amazing like that happens, but David did get a few photos of the clouds.

Behind the first line of black clouds were sheets of rain, hiding everything behind a gray curtain. Heavy rain peppered us for only about five minutes, as the wind gusted to the low thirties, and the turquoise water around us rose up in steep six to eight foot waves, each crested with white foam. As we hoped, most of the storm passed by to starboard, and we only caught its tip. The rain and wind lasted about 20 minutes and we proceeded safely to the anchorage at Great Sale in choppy seas.

The amazing thing? If I had closed my eyes, I wouldn’t have been able to tell we were in any sort of weather at all from the motion of the boat. Raven simply kept on going under the auto-pilot as she had been going for the last few hours – she didn’t shudder, change course, or change her position on the water in the slightest. I felt perfectly safe, and I am a huge chicken.

We anchored in some stiff wind, letting out around 130 feet of chain. The wind howled all night (another night of anchor watch), from 25 to 35 knots, and we were grateful that there were only seven boats at anchor with us. Nobody dragged, which was amazing, considering how hard it blew and the fact that the wind changed direction from south to west over the course of the night. The next day it kept blowing, not dipping below 20 knots until well into late afternoon. Amazingly enough, two boats elected to leave the anchorage in the strong (28+ knots) west wind. They must have had a heck of a ride, with the way the water was churned up. Late in the day, the wind died altogether, and this morning as we left Great Sale for West End, the sea was flat, the breeze light, and we had to motor sail to get here in one day.

And Raven? Why, she just took it all in her stride, as usual. She’s at the dock tonight, dozing and dreaming, her sails furled and her decks washed with fresh water.

Birthday Boy and Other Tales

[Hilde’s log]

Yes, that’s right, David had a birthday yesterday, May 6th! We celebrated by taking on water, so we could clean up for lunch at Mangoes. We’ve been being very careful with water for about 10 days, and extremely careful with water for the last three days. The charge here is $20 per 100 gallons or less, so we wanted to be as empty as possible before filling up (we carry 80 gallons in the tanks and another 18 gallons on deck). In addition to being cheap, we wanted to give David’s hand a chance to heal before exercising it too much. All went well at the marina dock, David didn’t strain his hand, we filled up, and then we celebrated with baths and shampoos. Once we were slicked up (I even wore make-up) we enjoyed lunch at Mangoes and then spent the afternoon in the cockpit listening to a CD of Calypso music and recovering from having eaten fried food. It is pathetic when your sundowner is Alka-Seltzer and you enjoy it.

The latest equipment crash is the Garmin chart plotter, which has suddenly developed wavy lines over half the screen. There is a friendly and efficient electronics store in Marsh Harbour called Merlin’s (yellow building, second story, north side of the harbor). David took the Garmin there and was told it often takes 10 days to three weeks for a repair to be effected. That’s pretty discouraging. While waiting for Merlin’s to contact Garmin and get back to us, David has been using the internet connection to look for less expensive alternatives. It’s no fun to shell out $100 for each unlock code on our 2006 Garmin CD. Not only are we paying a lot, we’re paying for two year old maps. He found a very interesting site at http://www.earthnc.com/ which has the latest in marine maps/technology powered by Google. If you click on the site, you can watch a YouTube promotional video. I think you will be amazed and delighted at the possibilities. For example, we spent about an hour zooming into the Houston ship channel where we not only saw all the real-time commercial boat traffic (powered by AIS), but also discovered that they have mapped the hundreds of oil wells out there.

While we sit here at anchor, we spend a lot of time talking about modifications to Raven that would reduce the degree to which life on board resembles camping. My major gripe is not lack of space for provisions. We can pack enough food for three to four months in the space we have. So far, we have never been away from land for more than 10 days, so other than the cost of re-stocking in a place where food is more expensive (like the Bahamas), food storage does not seem to be a problem.

Personal storage, on the other hand, has been a problem. We have two hanging lockers near the bow of the boat. One of them functions pretty well, holding jackets and foul weather gear and David’s trousers with no difficulty. The other one is far too shallow. Even though the front part of the locker is deep enough, the back part is the sloping shape of the hull, which means that the tails of my shirts, etc., get crammed up and wrinkled. Both of us have clothes in the open shelves that line each side of the v-berth, but that is an inconvenient and messy arrangement. Even if I didn’t have too many clothes (I over packed tops, like I over packed food), they are just sitting there on the open shelves. My side looks messy and disorganized (because it is messy and disorganized). David’s side is neat as a pin and all his clothes are folded in plastic boxes, but I don’t like looking at his side, either. It’s like living in a pantry. So for the re-fit, I want my locker converted to shelves and I want closed compartments on either side of the v-berth so I don’t have to look at the items stored there.

Then there is (drum roll) the bed. Gee. What can I say? It’s v-shaped. That means you better like snuggling feet at night. The cushions that came with the boat were inadequate in the extreme. One hip or the other always ended up resting on the wooden frame of the v-berth insert and the cushioned part got flatter and flatter. In New Bern we bought memory foam, made a cover for it with a sheet, lay that on top of the cushions, and covered the whole area with another sheet. It’s much more comfortable, but the foam tends to wad up in the middle and it’s really a pain to access the v-berth storage areas where we keep tools, etc. Our friends on Anastasia sprang for a custom mattress for their v-berth and they told us it was absolutely worth the hefty price tag. We still aren’t sure how to pamper our old bodies and still have access to the storage area. A hinged mattress? Wouldn’t I still end up in the seam?

I’d also like to put sliding doors on the port and starboard storage areas in the saloon. The port side (mine) carries spices, extra meds, Kleenex, books, magazines, etc. The starboard side (David’s) carries his books, the (really small) stereo speakers, maps, sailing books, and bits of wire for hooking up this and that. Again, the open storage makes it feel as though I am living in a pantry.

David came up with an ingenious solution to the counter space issue in the galley. Imagine having to prepare your meals on top of the ice chest that holds all your fresh food and you will understand why I need more counter space. He proposed a hinged door between the sink and the nav station that you could fold down and secure when not in use. Genius, no? So far, no workable ideas present themselves to solve the fact that the refrigerator is just an electric cooler. Viking Rose has a real fridge with shelves. Sigh.

And finally, we have got to replace the seat cushions. Poor old things, they are just flabby.

Great ideas for a refit. But first, we need to find a small oil well to pay for it. Talking about refits, etc. leads us to the conclusion that perhaps there is a big difference between a cruising boat and a live aboard boat. A cruising boat is designed for trips with a foreseeable end, somewhere between a weekend and a couple of years. A live aboard boat means you don't go home, you are home, permanently. We'll cogitate some more and get back to you.

Mired in Marsh Harbour

[Hilde’s log]

We’re still in Marsh Harbour and I’m beginning to feel about it the way I felt about Vero Beach, Florida. We’ve been here ‘way too long to suit me. There have been some bright spots, like meeting up with long time cruising buddies Jeff and Peggy on Moonstruck and enjoying simply superb weather, but mostly it’s been on the frustrating side – as frustrating as leisure in a pretty port can be. David was kept busy a few days with our engine. While he clattered and clanked under the hood, I did mundane chores and volunteered a couple of days at a local charity.

“Buck a Book” is a local charity that support the “wild horses of Abaco.” Descended from the time of Columbus, if the more glamorous claim is true, these horses have been here at least a hundred years, and probably a lot longer. They are a distinct type of horse not found anywhere else, “a sub-group of the Spanish Barb breed,” and some of the local folk are trying to keep them from disappearing altogether. It’s a difficult task – while they roam wild on the island, they are confined to a nature preserve and must be looked after when natural disasters occur (fire and big storms) and they must be preserved from local poachers. There are only eight of these horses left, four stallions and four mares. For some reason, the mares are unable to bring their pregnancies to term, so there have been no foals for some time. To help finance its efforts to protect the horses, the non-profit runs a used book store. They take donations of books and DVDs from cruisers and the local community. They resell the books for a dollar apiece, and they rent the DVDs for a dollar apiece. They pull in about $200 - $300 a week, using only volunteer help. If your interest is piqued, look them up at http://www.arkwild.org/. They’ve had a rough week, as all the pasture for the horses has burned in a rash of wildfires.

On the theory that anything is more fun than watching David fix the engine, I volunteered to run the bookstore for a couple of days. The store is housed in a container, something along the order of a pod, that’s about 20 x 15. Like a pod, it opens only at the end. It’s lined with bookshelves and DVD racks and I guess they have about 1,000 titles at any one time. It’s a boon for the cruising community, because most cruisers devour books at an alarming rate. One of the perks of the job is getting to make the Buck a Book announcement on the morning “cruiser’s net” – kind of a cruisers’ radio show on VHF 68. So I got to write a little script and read it on the air two days in a row. I’ve now had 4 of my allotted 15 minutes of fame. It was fun – anyone know of a radio station that needs an announcer? And in there somewhere, David and I had a wonderful 8th anniversary.

The second half of the week kinda went downhill. Despite the excitement of fixing one problem with the engine and deciding the other one would hold for awhile, we started really worrying about our time window and our cash flow and the overall state of the boat. Things got kind of depressing around here as we talked over our options. It’s a great idea to keep moving when you are cruising, because the minute you stop, all your worries catch up to you and start yammering. I think I have conclusively proved that worries travel at less than 5 knots.

While we were tussling with real world problems, David came down with a painful bout of tendonitis in his left hand. Being here at Marsh Harbour, it was not difficult to find a doctor. The doctor prescribed cortisone and anti inflammatories and “bed rest” for his hand. When you stop to realize that David uses his hand for everything, and that we use David for everything related to sailing or moving the boat, you will see that this is a huge difficulty. We get to shore and back with me steering the dinghy, but there’s no question of moving Raven or going snorkeling with his hand out of commission. (Snorkeling involves taking the dinghy out, mooring it to a ball, and getting in and out of the dinghy, so there is a lot of “hands-on” to it.) Hopefully, it will be better in a few days – it is already much less painful.

However – I don’t want to take any protracted sails with my cap’n in anything less than really, really good shape. I rely on his strength and coordination to manhandle the boat while I steer (as in sails, lines, anchoring, dock work). It’s one thing when you are puttering around the ICW and a whole ‘nother beast when you are out on Big Water.

So – it feels kind of like the last straw. We are regrouping and thinking of going home for a couple of years. Raven needs repairs and upgrades and the cruising kitty is really, really low. And our seasonal window is almost gone. I don’t want to hurry or be on a forced march or be worried about money for the next six months. As of today (check back at the end of the week when, if we have not killed each other from being trapped on the boat for a solid week) we may have a different plan. For the moment, we are reading, listening to podcasts, eating junk, and glowering at the view since all we can do right now is look at it.

We will have fun going home, as we will go back to the Florida Keys and travel up the west coast of Florida and across the Gulf Coast states, which we have not done before. For those of you who don’t know, we went straight across the Gulf from Seabrook to Key West when we left two years ago. I don’t want to repeat that trip because we were so tired when we got to Key West – going the other way, we’d be in the oil fields when we were really tired and that would be really scary. So there are a lot of adventures ahead. But like any road trip, it’s never as much fun when you’d headed back.

Lynyard Cay, Abacos

Photo #1: The beach!
Photo #2: For want of a better term, this was a nest of hermit crabs - there were probably 50 of them in a pile. We noticed them because they were scrabbling around, leaving the small depression where we found them and headed off somewhere else. They were all sizes. This is one of the big ones. The little ones were about the size of the tip of my little finger.

Photo #3: Another section of beach - you can just see the site of a campfire on the right where people have come ashore for good times. This is where I hopped off the boat and swam toward the beach.

Photo #4: The islands are covered with thick scrubby brush. You walk from one side to the other on the trails other people have made. There was a lot of trash on the ocean side of Lynyard Cay, mostly plastic rubbish.

Photo #5: In the background you can see smoke from some of the wild fires. It's very, very dry here right now and the locals are waiting for the summer rains to soothe the land.

Engine woes

Hi! Y’all:

Fair warning to those whose eyes glaze over during technical talk. That’s what this post is all about.

Two engine problems have occurred this year: fuel system and cooling system.

A fuel leak developed between the high pressure fuel pump and the flange for the return (to fuel filter) line. The neoprene gasket had lost its resiliency and needed to be replaced. While I dithered for several days, first making one, then deciding to use a $1.50 factory replacement, the fuel system was open to the atmosphere. Once I’d installed the gasket, I started the engine to test for leaks (there were none), let it run for 30 minutes, then shut it down. I didn’t use the engine for several more days. Before departing Vero Beach, I checked the engine oil level and discovered it was very high on the dipstick. I pumped out nine quarts of fluid (c.f. five quarts), a combination of engine oil and diesel fuel; thankfully, no water. I replaced the engine oil and we continued our journey.

Over the next several weeks, Mister P (P for Perkins) performed flawlessly. The unintentional engine flush with diesel-thinned oil had “cleared out the sinuses” and removed the long-standing clatter from the general direction of the engine compartment. Mister P was at his peak.

A week ago, I noticed the oil level was again high on the dipstick, although only slightly so this time. I had added a pint of oil only the night before, so I couldn’t be sure that I hadn’t overfilled the engine. I resolved simply to observe. I also sought advice on the cruisers’ net here in Abaco. Two people assured me that the fuel pump diaphragm had ruptured. One offered me his spare, if I needed it. That was extremely kind. Due to (Raven’s previous owner) Clyde’s forethought, there was a spare fuel pump on Raven. I fitted it, made sure that the engine would run, then opened up the old pump. The diaphragm was good. So, now I must again wait and watch.

The cooling system problem has been building slowly. Basically, the running temperature has been rising. During long periods at fast idle, charging batteries, the temperature remained at its normal 180°F. Underway, depending on load, it had been as high as 195°F, but sometimes it would run at normal. I checked the intake, the strainer, the impeller, and the hoses. All were OK. That left the thermostat and heat exchanger to inspect. I didn’t want to do this job, dragged my feet, looked for other causes, and denied there was any problem at all. On our way from Hope Town to Lynyard Cay, a 20 mile motor-sail before the wind, the water temperature rose to 200°F. This was beyond my comfort level. We were heading to more remote areas of the Bahamas and this problem was getting worse. I knew I’d have to solve it. Reluctantly, we returned to Marsh Harbour, backtracking 22 miles. It was worth it to have access to marine supplies and a FedEx office, in case I needed special Perkins parts flown in.

The NAPA store had a new thermostat but no gasket. I made one. I also dug out the special Perkins/Bowman heat exchanger rubber end caps I’d bought in Seabrook two years ago, also from NAPA. To gain clearance to lift the thermostat housing off the long studs, I had to remove the hose that carries antifreeze to the header tank. Ah ha! Lodged in the 90° elbow was a red worm, about 2’ long and ¼” diameter. Bits of rust and other debris had collected around it, cutting flow to about 5% of normal. The red worm turned out to be flexible gasket material that someone had been far too generous with during a previous repair. After reaming out the elbow and associated 2” pipe, I changed the thermostat, and exposed the heat exchanger core. It wouldn’t come out for cleaning but I easily passed a 1/8^th inch wooden dowel through every tube, so the raw water flow was clearly unimpaired. During reassembly, I replaced the end caps, one other rubber elbow, and one almost-broken-through worm drive clamp. I’ve learned that not all stainless steel clamps are made equal. Take a ceramic magnet with you to the store when you buy one. The best stainless steel is non-magnetic. Also, the clamps with pressed threads, rather than stamped-out threads, are usually of better quality.

Once all the clamps were tight, I topped up the antifreeze and then let everything sit overnight. I wanted to give the hoses and clamps time to settle in. Next morning, before starting the engine I checked all clamps for tightness. The engine started first crank, as usual, and came up to temperature – just below 180°F. I let it run for 30 minutes but never under load. (We are anchored out.) The temperature didn’t budge.

And so, the present crisis is over. Now, we are waiting for our mail from Texas and enjoying a little down time. Even allowing for unexpected problems, Raven’s maintenance list is slowly shrinking. If you think it’s tough to keep a car running, try a boat. Wear and tear takes its toll, as can be expected, but the environment is relentless in its attacks on the boat and everything on board, particularly the mechanical and electrical systems. It’s as well that cruising’s payback exceeds the work involved in staying afloat and underway.

Best regards,
Captain Dave