laundry day at Marsh Harbour

[Hilde’s log]

Just back from doing our radioactive laundry at the marina laundry facility. $16 for three washers and one dryer. Needless to say, I’ll be drying most of our things on the lifelines today. We’ve been in Marsh Harbour for two days now, waiting for high winds that have not yet materialized. It’s supposed to blow 30 knots, but we haven’t seen anything over 23 so far. The water in the harbor is a bit choppy, but we made it to the laundry without getting sloshed. It was a bit of a challenge when we arrived, as I had to climb up a five foot wooden ladder to reach the dock. Heights (even five feet) give me the willies, but I made it up and down. Everest is next!

While I did the clothes, David got out his sewing machine and restitched the mainsail cover. Now he’s digging around in the port lazarette, working on an adjustment to the rudder post stuffing box. I’m about to continue with hanging out the clothes and making bread.

Not much to report, except a marvelous trip from Fisher’s Bay at Great Guana Cay to Marsh Harbour through perfectly clear water. We took turns sitting at the bow, watching the sandy bottom roll by. We saw one fish, probably 20 star fish (with short, stubby little arms), and a number of sea slugs (some of them are bright red!). Once at anchor here in the harbor we saw several sea turtles, which was a big thrill for me, fan of turtles that I am. The harbor water is cloudy so we can’t see the bottom (probably just as well), but the turtles floated to the top and looked around at everyone before diving again. They were probably 18” to 2 feet across, with big yellow heads. I finally saw what I think are tropic birds at Great Guana Cay. They look a bit like sea gulls, having large, white bodies, but their tails are like scissortails back home and they don’t scream like gulls do, but rather call with more of a chirp. Four of them played above us in the breeze as we lay at anchor, chasing each other in dips and glides, obviously with romance on their minds. It is spring, after all.

We met up with Viking Rose here in the harbor, and heard from Gerda and Jack on Sadie A on the VHF. They are snorkeling at Great Guana this week. Richard, Penny, David, and I all walked up to Marshall’s grocery and were delighted to find that this local grocery is loaded with food – even produce. We plan to go back to Great Guana later in the week and take a mooring ball in order to leave the boat without worrying about dragging, so we can roam that island, enjoy the beach, and do some snorkeling. Then we’ll turn around and come back here on our way south.

We met Tony and Kris from Ticketoo, who are returning to the States after three years in the Caribbean. They came aboard and visited with us last night, and had lots to tell of ports we hope to visit, especially lots of information about Luperon in the Dominican Republic, which is our goal for June. They have wonderful photos on their website at www.spaces.msn.com/members/ticketoo. We met them because they came up to the boat in their dinghy and announced they were the cake fairies. Company they had expected were forced to cancel their trip, so Tony and Kris were handing out slices of the chocolate cherry cake they’d made for the company to their neighbors (it was just wonderful). If that wasn’t enough, Barbara and Larry on Laura Mae, our neighbors to port, sent over some fresh coconut bread. After so many years in cities, where neighbors have uniformly ignored us (and, to be fair, we pretty much ignored them), the friendliness of people on the water just astonishes and delights me.

As we were barreling along yesterday in the dinghy, exploring the harbor for dinghy docks and boats we’d met before, we saw Ru’ah, a boat that routinely checks in on the cruisers’ net. When we approached to make introductions, we were warmly greeted by Helen, a lovely English lady who spends her time travelling the world crewing on other people’s boats. She had the widest, happiest smile, told us of some of her more memorable moments travelling, and simply insisted we go to the South Pacific. Helen has been travelling for over 20 years and has friends everywhere. We've finally learned that to meet people while cruising, you have to go up and say "Hi." Everyone we've ever introduced ourselves to has been happy we did and many of them have become friends. We just got an email from the nicest fellow we meet in Green Turtle Cay, GW on Serenity, who had dinner with us and more new friends, Ken and Maria, from Duet. The dinner was an imprompu affair over pasta and brownies, was the highlight of our stay at Green Turtle, and came about because we dinghied over to Duet one morning and said Hi. Amazing!!

Clear view

This is a view from the side of the boat, looking down into 12 feet of water. No wind this morning (can it be possible??), which allowed this photo.

Leapin' Lizards, we're in Great Guana Cay

[Hilde’s log]

Another first for Raven: we successfully navigated Whale Cay Passage, a channel from the Bahama banks to the Atlantic, then travelling about a mile off the islands in the Atlantic, and coming back to the banks through Loggerhead Channel to anchor at Great Guana Cay. These cuts must be travelled carefully, when the swells coming in from the Atlantic are low and the wind and current are in accord. We hadn’t planned to take that route today, but the cruisers’ net on VHF 68 reported very good conditions, so we rushed around and secured everything, heaved the dinghy up on deck, and headed out.

The conditions were good, as reported, and we could see why you’d be idiotic to try the passage in anything less than good conditions. The sea and wind were both on our nose, which makes for slow going. The swells, though “only” of the two to four foot variety made the transit a bit lumpy as they tended to stack up and come in at a fairly rapid pace. The passage saw a small rush of traffic as boats passed us headed north to Green Turtle and sailed with us toward Great Guana Cay and farther south. The cruisers’ net has proved invaluable, as they broadcast “eyewitness” weather reports from the local islands. Needless to say, a weather/sea report from a boat on site is a whole lot more accurate than NOAA could ever be.

The sea was its usual (for here) astonishing self, jewel-deep aquamarine streaked with navy blue, almost black, and stunning neon green, all of it blindingly brilliant under the sun. We anchored in Fisher’s Bay about 1 p.m. and congratulated ourselves on a good day’s work. It was exactly the amount of sailing I like to do – four hours. I fixed a big, late lunch, after which David took a well deserved nap and I buried myself in The French Lieutenant’s Woman. He woke up about an hour later, groggy until he looked outside and noticed we’d dragged about 200 yards. That got everyone moving! Fortunately, we were at the edge of the bay with no one behind us. We went out into the cockpit, upped anchor and reset, dragged again and reset. The reset was complicated by the fact that the anchor chain clumped up and jammed belowdeck after about 60 feet, so David had to run up and down from the bow to shake it loose.

While we were resetting, the wind blustered from 20 to 23 knots. Trying to point into a strong wind is a challenge, because it catches Raven’s bow and blows her around like a top when we aren’t moving forward (you have to stop to lower the anchor). NOAA had forecast 10-15 knots for today. I shouldn’t have been surprised at the discrepancy. We have a friend who says that to get the NOAA wind forecast to be accurate, you have to add 10 knots to the wind speed and assume it will blow opposite to the direction forecast. That’s probably a little exaggerated, but it’s how we end up feeling!

Once we set, David hauled the remaining 150 feet of chain up on deck to inspect and untwist it. This is a dirty operation, as the chain has rusty dust all over it, which instantly muddies the deck (my beautiful used-to-be clean deck) and gets on your hands, your feet, your clothes, whatever lines may be around, and of course the dinghy, which was still fastened to the foredeck. The wind frisked happily all blinking afternoon and we were afraid the anchor would pop up again (although with 120 feet of chain out the second time, that seemed unlikely), so I sat in the cockpit and stared forlornly at the beach and the tiki bar and all the trappings of civilization I thought I’d get to sample today, but can’t because of the wind.

I was picturing a mild breeze and a lazy afternoon on the beach. I realize this is just another case of being blindsided by expectations, but I am getting a bit testy on the subject. We’ve been in the Bahamas two weeks today, and I’ve been ashore exactly three times, and have yet to sit on a beach under an umbrella. For some reason I have it in my head that if I do this, the trip will have been a success. Well, there’s always tomorrow. For today, I am licking my wounds (a splinter in my finger, a bruised ankle, and a kitchen cut) and waiting, although I am not waiting very patiently.

Our destination tomorrow is Marsh Harbour, where we hope to meet up with Viking Rose, friends we have not seen since Vero Beach. They are due in tomorrow as well. We can still explore here a bit, as the distance from here to there is not far and, hey, the wind will be blowing only 10-15 knots. NOAA says so.

Green Turtle Cay, Abacos, Bahamas

photo #1: early morning ferry

photo #2: marina

photo #3: David on the beach

photo #4: White Sound (Green Turtle Cay)

photo #5: island cove

Glimpses of New Plymouth, Green Turtle Cay, Abacos, Bahamas

Glimpses of Green Turtle Cay, Abacos, Bahamas

photo #1: beach combing

photo #2: Atlantic beach

photo #3: bougainvillas

photo #4: the resort

photo #5: island transport

The colors here are unbelievable - neon! The photos do not do them justice.

Great Sale Cay - again! March 19th, 2008

[Cap'n Dave's log]

Hi! Everyone:

We left Great Sale Cay this morning bound for Fox Town, about 25 miles away, but before we could get half way there the winds had built to 28 knots and the waves on the Sea of Abaco were an erratic 4-6 feet. Raven sailed close hauled all morning with the main double-reefed and the head sail rolled in. The staysail was out to keep us moving as we fought our way into the wind. Raven’s cabin floor was covered with anything that wasn’t nailed down. We couldn’t open the door to the head even if we could have reached it. And so … we turned around and ran before the wind under staysail alone, back to Great Sale Cay.

Here are today’s lessons:

1) Never, never leave safe harbor without the latest weather forecast. I failed to set an alarm for the NOAA forecast at 0530 and so slept through it. I had the forecast from 2330 the previous night, but something changed overnight. I tuned into the 1130 forecast, which came in loud and clear on shortwave until someone started a data transmission right as the reader got to our section of ocean. By then, we were two forecasts behind. I tuned in again for the 1730 forecast at 1750, intentionally missing two northern regions usually read before our region, except NOAA changed the order of things and our region had already been read. By then we were three forecasts behind, but safely tucked into Northwest Harbour. Lessons of this story: always get a forecast when I can; listen to every forecast from the beginning, even the northern regions. (There are no shortcuts at sea.)

2) Learn to make Raven go to weather in reasonable comfort in a blow. The main was double-reefed with the staysail fully out. This was clearly too much canvas for the 20-25 knot breeze, causing too much heeling and weather helm. The wind vane couldn’t cope, nor should it have been able to with such an unbalanced helm. After dousing the mainsail, Raven rode more upright but couldn’t go to weather. We sailed back and forth along reciprocal courses, losing way to wind and current. In other words we were going backwards.
This problem was solved the next day. In a good blow Raven goes to weather nicely with (Yankee cut) jib and staysail set. The main stayed under wraps. With this combination, Raven was able to boil along at 6-7 knots at about 60 degrees to the (apparent) wind. The helm was balanced and the wind vane kept us on track.

3) Biminis are incompatible with sailing. I cannot see the mainsail shape or the leech telltales to trim the sail. I cannot reach reefing lines when they jam. I cannot tie gaskets onto a reefed main. I cannot see the jib or staysail telltales or see the flutter along the leeches or the distance of the sails from the spreaders.

4) The diesel and water jugs and propane cylinders on the side decks were inadequately tied. The rail is too high. Their bases slid inwards, they lay on their sides, then tried to slide overboard. The rail is OK but another, low down is needed. Alternatively, a rope might work, so long as it doesn’t ride under the jugs.

5) Below deck, stow everything like we mean it. Assume at least 30° heel and a bumpy ride. Remember to pin the settee seats.

6) Tie down the anchors so they cannot unship.

7) Keep cockpit seats and floor free of anything that’s not attached: folding chairs, ropes, shoes, boxes, cans, etc. Also, keep cabin roof (winches) clear of similar clutter. These are work areas. Handling of the ship and personal safety are compromised by clutter.

8) Safety harnesses hinder as much as they help. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em. I have no solution to this right now.

9) The wind vane needs some new shock cord on the adjustment wheel, which slipped as the vane pendulum banged against the stops.

Following these rules, the next day’s sail from Great Sale Cay to Crab Cay was one of the best ever. Belowdeck was tidy and a refuge from the wind when one of us needed a break. The seas were less confused than the day before, but they were far from flat. When moving along at a good clip, Raven shoulders waves aside very nicely and gives us a comfortable, fast ride.

We live and learn, hopefully.

Best regards,

Captain Dave

at anchor in White Sound, Green Turtle Cay

photo: another hard day at anchor


[Hilde’s log]

I am about half asleep, sitting at the computer at midnight, on anchor watch. The latest cold front is blustering its way through with winds in the high teens, I’m guessing. Raven is anchored in White Sound, Green Turtle Cay, with about 20 other boats. It’s nice to have the company of other cruisers, but neither of us feels secure enough about our anchor set or anyone else’s to sleep during our first blow at this anchorage. We passed a lovely evening with new friends Ken and Maria on Duet and they introduced us to a Cuban rum drink called a Morida (rum, sugar, mint, lime, and soda) which we enjoyed, but which I am now regretting as it is making midnight seem a lot later than it is. David had two, so he has priority sleeping privileges.

We left Crab Cay Saturday morning for a quiet motor trip into light easterly winds, making our way to Green Turtle Cay in about four hours. David negotiated the twisting, narrow, and shallow entrance to the harbor, and after about four tries we managed to anchor in tight quarters next to our friends Dick and Libby on Tarwathie. We were excited to see them and surprised that we managed to be at the same place at the same time. We drowsed in the cockpit awhile and then I went below to make another loaf of bread and also to experiment with making cinnamon rolls using that same bread recipe. It worked like a charm and I was the proud mother of twelve big steaming cinnamon rolls, which I took to Tarwathie as our contribution to the feast Libby prepared for us. We four had a good time catching up on the news and talking about our plans.

Tarwathie and about four other boats pulled out at high tide the next morning around 9:30 on their way north and back to the States. They travelled into some really wicked looking black clouds which rolled over us later in the day and did nothing but soak us with rain. David and I took advantage of the suddenly roomy harbor to reset Raven in a better spot and then we hunkered down in the dismal weather. I felt lower than a snake’s belly, complaining to myself that when the weather is good, we travel, and when the weather is bad, we hole up in the boat, and we don’t get to see the places we work so hard to get to! To avoid doing just that, we’ve decided to stay here at least until the end of the week to take advantage of the nice days to explore the island, walk the beaches, visit the local shops, and unwind. Even after we decided that, I stayed in a rotten mood for the entire day and buried myself in a good potboiler of a book. Although I didn’t feel fear at the time, I had a delayed reaction to our rough day on the banks. My imagination fed off that delayed fear reaction and had a ball presenting me with a string of “what ifs” to worry with, dredging up all sorts of disaster scenarios around our plans to move south for the summer. Finally talking about my fears with David put them to flight – that and finally getting off the boat for a while today.

We dinghied in to shore, tied up, and took a short walk on the island. The islands here look dry and desert-like from the water, but this one is covered with thick, tropical vegetation and smells like a mixture of honeysuckle and freesia. A big gray bird lit on a tree limb about three feet from me and made a funny grating sound. Then he produced an altogether different sound as he called to another of his kind. He was gray on top, with a creamy breast and salmon tummy, a big fellow altogether and not a bit timid. The energy of the island is incredibly calm and quiet and I am looking forward to our exploration tomorrow.

We hurried back to the boat as the black clouds rolled in and then disappeared below for more rain. The good news is that we have trapped about 15 gallons of rainwater in the dingy. We emptied our jerry cans of Florida water into the tanks and then filled the cans with rainwater. This means I can do lots of laundry and avoid the $4 washer and $4 dryer…and we can wash dishes and take guilt free baths. Abundance! The first thing I did was rinse the underwear and washcloths we washed in salt water to get the salt out of them. They are now draped all over the head and in the saloon and on deck, which does nothing for the décor. Tomorrow, I plan on a shampoo and bath first thing. Fresh water is a wonderful thing.

For those of you with a map or Google Earth…here we are --
Latitude: N26° 46.7’ and Longitude: W 77° 20.2’

at anchor in Crab Cay, Abacos, March 21

photo: rain at Crab Cay


[Hilde's log]





I haven’t set foot out of the cabin all day. After a ripping seven hour sail yesterday, I found that I was simply exhausted today. We had talked about sailing the 20 miles to Green Turtle Cay, where our friends Dick and Libby, aboard Tarwathie, are anchored, but I just couldn’t face it. Even now, after resting and/or napping the entire day, I am tired just from making dinner.

Raven sailed from Great Sale Cay to Crab Cay yesterday, a distance of about 40 nautical miles, in about 7 hours. She boot-scooted along at over 6 knots the entire way, most of the time between 6.5 and 6.8, rigged with the yankee and staysail. The wind was from the south almost the entire trip, at 15 to 22 knots, and once we turned the northern corner above Great Sale, we sailed on a single starboard tack the entire way, varying from our course only a few degrees with a gentle nudge or two to George’s wind vane control lines to correct our angle. Raven rocked along like a hobby horse, and other than being covered in salt spray and buffeted by the wind all day, it was an easy trip. However, I found that I came the last few hours on adrenalin, because once we anchored, I just collapsed on the settee. I roused once when an enormous black cloud rolled in with a cold front from the north about an hour after we arrived, dumping rain which washed Raven’s salty decks and cooled off the air ten degrees. We had beans and Rice o’ Roni for dinner, and I had to drag myself up to make that and clean up. David fell asleep on the settee about 8. I had promised myself a bath, so I slopped around in the head for 30 minutes and he never stirred. He woke briefly to shut off the anchor alarm and join me in the v-berth, where he promptly fell back asleep and I lay there, too exhausted to sleep, watching the full moon break through mottled black clouds out the starboard porthole. I finally donned my earphones and listened to my sole CD, a weird little Tony Bennett disc of duets with other famous singers that I picked up for free at a sailors’ exchange. It put me to sleep by the middle of the disc.

We had tried to make the same trek from Great Sale Cay to Crab Cay on Wednesday (the day before our successful journey) but turned back about two hours into the trip. We had anchored on the NW side of Great Sale, alongside a beautiful beach, and enjoyed gently lapping water and blue skies. David forgot to set his alarm and missed the 6 a.m. forecast, but the weather looked okay, so we decided to give it a shot. Alas! The wind was from the East, and once we turned into it north of Great Sale, it blasted us with 24 to 28 knots, setting up such a violent motion that the starboard settee (which we had neglected to pin) slid completely out into the cabin passageway, blocking the head (major catastrophe, necessitating the use of our bucket in the cockpit), and the printer did a back flip out of its home by the nav station and landed on the galley floor. David wrestled with the sails, I wrestled with the helm, both of us swore at the chop, and when we discovered that we could make little headway to our course and were mostly tacking back and forth, we gave up and bumped our way back to our little cove, chastened. Back at the cove, we had blue skies, 12 knots of wind, and gently lapping waves – because we were protected from that strong east wind.

David tried and failed to get the noon forecast (someone was sending a fax over that frequency!!) and the 6 p.m. forecast as well because Iron Mike broadcast the forecasts out of order. (Iron Mike is the computerized voice of NOAA for offshore weather broadcasts; Perfect Paul is the NOAA’s voice for coastal reports – who thinks up this stuff?) I was astonished that it was possible to miss three forecasts in a row. David wrote up a lovely, concise description of the whole misbegotten trip, including lessons learned, that I hope he will post. We decided to chalk the whole thing up as a learning experience and it certainly put the following day’s sail in a perfect light, tiring or not.

So here we are, waiting for the beautiful weather forecast for tomorrow, when we plan to chug down to Green Turtle and enjoy the benefits of civilization, which we hope include email access and another pina colada.

at anchor on NW side of Great Sale Cay, March 18

[Hilde's log]

Great Sale Cay is wishbone-shaped. Imagine it hanging from the north, with its two legs dangling toward the south. For the last two nights, we have been in the inside curve of the wishbone, being protected from the N and NE winds generated by the norther that came through Monday. This afternoon about 2 p.m., we motored outside and up to the NW curve of the wishbone. We have good protection from the change in wind direction (now blowing E and later on SE). Tomorrow it is supposed to be SE and then S. That will be a good direction for us as we head north, away from Great Sale, and then east toward Fox Town, on Little Abaco Island. When we get to Fox Town, we’ll be in the Abacos proper; we will have arrived at our first string of islands.

I’ll be glad to actually get somewhere. Today has been a bit dismal, with the cold front bringing not only winds but overcast skies most of the day and 10 degree cooler temperatures, which made swimming sound like a truly bad idea. So we cleaned house. You can make a career out of cleaning a boat; I have never seen anything get dirty so fast.

David swabbed the decks. I dusted and then swept the floor, disinfected the galley and head, and mopped the floor with a pine-sol solution. David shook out the rugs and took everything off the starboard rail. I deep cleaned the starboard quarterdeck with lacquer-thinner. I cleaned the stainless portion of the binnacle (where the depth meter, GPS, wind meter, etc. stand, and where the wheel is mounted) and swept the cockpit. The boat felt a lot better, and more importantly at some point I killed something that was smelling. It may have been our radioactive laundry, which I took out of the hamper and stowed in a laundry bag. In any case, two hours of work yielded a lot of results. Our only other activity before heading out (other than eating leftover pasta for lunch) was to study Spanish.

Once anchored on this side of the island (an hour’s trip), we broke out the wine, cheese, and crackers and listened to a Spanish station, trying to pick out words we learned today. I fixed a nice supper of mashed potatoes, tinned beef, and fresh sautéed cabbage, but we had been such hogs with the crackers and cheese we couldn’t finish. Leftovers for lunch. Now it is dark, and I am so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open (ojas abiertas?) so I am going to crawl into bed and hope for sunshine tomorrow. I am astonished at how my mood deteriorates when it is cloudy.

Happy birthday to me, Great Sale Cay, March 17

photo #1: approaching Great Sale Cay
photo #2: perfect birthday bread
photo #3: laundry at sea

[Hilde's log]



This is certainly the most unusual birthday I have spent. Raven and crew have been tethered to the anchorage all day as the wind honked past at 20-25 knots, just as forecast. My accomplishments for the day: two loads of clothes! David also washed one load (read, large bucketful). It’s an interesting process: for the stinky stuff, we first soaked them in a bucket of seawater and pine-sol for 30 minutes. Then we washed them in Joy detergent, then rinsed them, then rinsed them again with clothes softener (all in sea water – the clothes softener is supposed to get the salt out). The proof will be in the wearing. They’ve been flapping in the wind and sun all day, making us look like real cruisers. One of our neighbors dragged anchor about mid morning, and he and our other neighbor ended up pulling up their anchors and motoring across the anchorage to set their hooks nearer shore. David and I laughed that they probably wanted to upgrade the view, not being taken with our unmentionables flapping on the lifelines. Several of the other boats left this morning and others have come in this afternoon. There are 10 of us here, but no one is anchored near the underwear boat. Fine!

I have also made a loaf of bread. It has dutifully risen to twice its size, I’ve punched it down, and now I am waiting for it to rise again before baking it. David is down to his last 6 pieces of bread, hence the baking operation. There just aren’t many 7-11s around here! Now when we run out eggs, we’ve got a problem. I used the recipe Judy from Anastasia gave me and I am anxious to see how it turns out. It will be my birthday cake. David gave me a lovely birthday card, but that’s all the evidence there is that it's my big day.

I studied my Spanish for about 2 hours this morning, which was lots of fun. I am determined to have some kind of vocabulary by the time we get to the Dominican Republic in June. My goal for this year is to learn to speak passable Spanish. Hopefully, with six months in the DR, it will be even more than passable.

So that’s what I’ve done today: study Spanish, wash clothes, cook breakfast and lunch and wash up after both those meals, make bread and wash up, read out of “Your First Atlantic Crossing” (David’s book, not mine! I just want to cruise the Bahamas, thank you), have tea, and now I’m working on this entry. And that took the whole day. I will be glad when the blustery wind settles down a bit, so we can continue on. Tomorrow the plan is to leave around noon and anchor on the NW side of the island, outside the basin, and then the next day continue on eastward to Fox Town or environs when the wind clocks around to the south again and before the next norther roars down on Thursday. I’m really glad we stayed here today; such strong wind is tiring.

And that’s about it – I’ve requested a movie tonight, so the generator is running to charge the batteries so we can do that. There’s the alarm to preheat the oven – cross your fingers for the bread.

PS: Bread turned out! Underwear did not - stiff as a board. Will rinse in fresh water when it rains and we can collect some in the dinghy.

at anchor at Great Sale Cay, March 16

photo: good day on the water

[Hilde's log]

What a lovely day! We had a leisurely start, about 9 a.m., after listening to the net. We heard Viking Rose check in as they headed north from Georgetown, and I think I heard Tarwathie check in from Green Turtle Cay.

Other than an hour to charge the batteries in the morning and another 30 minutes to come into the anchorage and drop the hook this afternoon, we sailed the entire day. One reason was that Mr. P (the engine) was running hot yesterday and we didn’t want to overtax it, and the other was that we desperately wanted to sail. Our journey today was a short one, about 20 miles, so we could take our time. That’s important when you are sailing at a leisurely 4 knots as we did most of the day. The wind was westerly, directly behind us at an average of about 10 knots, so we flew the jib and ran before the wind, making great swooping tacks about every 6 miles. When the wind is behind you, you can’t even tell it’s blowing, so it made for a calm, if somewhat rolly polly ride.

The sky was alternately overcast and clear as clouds rolled by. Sometimes the sun shone through the cloud cover, making a spotlight on the water. George the wind vane steered, so David and I sat in the cockpit mesmerized by the clear turquoise water and the sounds of Harry Christopher and his choir “16” sing Thomas Tallis on NPR. It was simply sublime, rolling gently over a blue crystal world, listening to achingly beautiful 16th century plainsong and other choral compositions by one of my favorite composers.

Raven sailed up to the anchorage about 3 p.m., to find four other boats at anchor. All of us are taking refuge from an expected cold front blowing in from the north this evening, with predicted winds of 20-30 knots as it passes. This cay gives us protection from the north, east, and west, so although the winds may howl, we won’t see much chop on the water. After we anchored, another three boats showed up, so we are eight tonight. There are five sailboats, one catamaran, and two power yachts.

After celebrating our arrival with a couple of cups of hot tea and some muffins, David attached the swim ladder and we took our first swim in the ocean. It was a bit colder than we expected, but “cold” is a relative term. It was about 75 I guess. It was a bit scary, too, going over the side for the first time, and I made David promise not to leave me in the water if I got stuck. It turned out to be easy to swim, and no current, so after a few tentative strokes holding on to a safety line, I let go and dog paddled around a little, getting used to looking up at our suddenly very steep hull (Raven actually has a pretty low waterline). David got in as well, with much gasping, and we both tread water for a bit and then decided that was enough for a first try. I didn’t want to tire out before hauling myself up that ladder and it’s a good thing I didn’t because I certainly weighed a lot coming up. Once back on deck, we washed our hair with Joy detergent, which is supposed to lather in sea water (ha!) and then rinsed off with about a cup each of some warm fresh water we had heated up in the sun in the camping shower. I went below and rinsed off some more with about ½ cup of vinegar and fresh water with a wash cloth so I wouldn’t be sticky, while David stripped off and scandalized the neighbors by sunbathing au naturel. I was a big chicken and put on some underwear and a top. The temperature was perfect and it was just a lovely afternoon.

We ate baked beans and scrambled eggs for dinner in the cockpit, followed by a glass of wine, and then secured the deck and cockpit for the coming blow. We’re below now, nice and cozy, with David hunched over the macerator pump, mumbling to himself as he figures out why it ran for 30 seconds and stopped, and me writing this log entry. We think we will be here at least two days. I hope it is not too windy to do some more swimming. I want to try my snorkel and mask! The wind has started to come up, which makes it nice to be snug below.

PS: macerator update - broken impeller paddle, no extras of that particular kind, so no macerator pump til we find a functioning hardware store

at anchor in Mangrove Cay, March 16

photo: beautiful turquoise water!

[Hilde’s log]

Raven is bobbing at anchor in seven feet of water, about a quarter of a mile off Mangrove Cay. Mangrove Cay is a scrubby oblong of land surrounded by aquamarine water and blue sky, out in the middle of the Great Bahama Bank. Its claim to fame is that it is about half way between West End and tomorrow’s destination of Great Sale Key. We are anchored on the northeast side of the island, which gives us protection from the waves churned up by the southerly and westerly winds. The little wavelets rushing by lap at the hull and are barely strong enough to rock us gently.

It should be a quiet night, assuming the wind behaves itself and blows according to the forecast. There was a fishing boat anchored here when we arrived about 5 p.m., but they took off about a half hour later, blasting off toward West End. With those engines, it’ll take them about an hour, rather than the four and a half it took us to get here.

We left the dock this afternoon about 12:30, after showers and a farewell cup of coffee with Jay and Luisa on Airborne who are staying on at West End waiting for the arrival of their son on Tuesday. David wanted dead low tide to pass, as we took the Indian Cay Channel and parts of it are a bit shallow (5.5 ft, and we draw 5, but still). The water on the banks is gorgeous shades of turquoise and the surrounding deep ocean is dark blue. The sea is actually striped – blue, turquoise, aqua, and an almost neon greenish blue on the horizon. The waters here are very shallow – the Bahamas are a large mesa sitting in the much deeper ocean, with hills on the mesa sticking up above the waterline as islands.

We motor sailed the whole day, with the jib out, making about 6 – 6.5 knots over the clear water. I could see the bottom most of the way, either sand or clumps of grassy stuff on sand. A couple of dolphins rode our bow wake for a few minutes, but they didn’t linger and other than a sole cormorant, that was the extent of the wildlife. We have heard a few birds call on the island. No bugs so far, praise God.

We saw Mangrove Cay from about 5 miles out and also what appeared to be the mast of an anchored sailboat. It turned out to be a large marker, which we think is warning of the shallows between it and the island. We approached the island cautiously, as it is surrounded by 1 to 2 foot shallows.

Once anchored, we broke out two bottles of beer and some Triscuits for our anchor drink/snack, and kicked back in the cockpit enjoying the cool of the evening and our unimpeded view of absolutely nothing but water and sky (the island is behind us, on the weather shore). Utter contentment.

It’s dark now and we’re listening to a Bahamian radio station, which you can’t tell until the commercials and the djs break in with their lovely island accents. Pretty exotic! So far, all the music is American and English – Christopher Cross, the Spice Girls, and Rod Stewart so far, plus a current hit by someone I can’t name (“You’re Beautiful”). I'm off to the dishes.

West End, Grand Bahama Island

photo #1: flying the quarantine flag
photo #2: West End, Grand Bahama Island
photo #3: dockside paperwork
photo #4: official! Flying the Bahamian courtesy flag

[Hilde’s log]

Good morning from the Bahamas! It’s about 8 a.m. and I’m waiting for the tea to steep. We’re at the dock at the Old Bahama Bay Resort at West End, having finally arrived yesterday afternoon at 5 p.m. after almost two years with this in mind (we left Seabrook, Texas on April 14, 2006). The waters here at the dock are the cloudy turquoise I remember from our stop in the Florida keys. Coming in yesterday, close to the island, it was clear enough to see the dolphins playing on the bow wake.

Raven left Hillsboro Inlet about 7 a.m. yesterday, at first light. The inlet is a tricky affair, mostly because of the strong current that can run around three knots when it really gets going. It’s not a straight exit, as you have to dodge some shoaling, so it’s not an exit you want to use in high winds or strong current. David maneuvered Raven through on a weak current and no wind. As much as we like southern Florida, we were both thrilled to watch it recede into the distance.

The Gulf Stream behaved itself after 12 hours of a light east wind and although it was a bit lumpy we made great time, most of it 8 knots or greater. Our GPS log last night showed a top speed of 8.9 knots, which is quite something for this old girl (Raven, not me!). Once across the stream, we unfurled the sails, hooked up George, the Monitor the wind vane, and enjoyed a fantastic three-hour sail toward our landfall at West End. Along the way, we passed a number of Portugese Man O’War jellyfish, the sun glistening on their clear, pink-tinged “sails”. I was amused, thinking of this tiny armada advancing on the unsuspecting Florida coast.

The deep ocean waters were as beautiful as I remembered, and changed color all day. The blues ranged from india ink dark to turquoise, not to mention what David called “Plato blue” (being the blue of perfection). The little medallions of golden seaweed drifted by and I felt like I was seeing old friends from the Gulf crossing two years ago.

Later in the afternoon we sailed through flights of flying fish. Shooting up about an inch above the waves, these little fighter jets of the sea scoot at high speed for about 100 feet, wings in a flurry of motion, before exploding back into the water like so much buckshot. From the deck, you can’t tell much about them – they look silver and fast. But I remember the one we saw in Beaufort, NC, floating near the top of the water. It was all colors, mostly purple and gold, about 10 inches long. I knew it was a flying fish from the shape of its “wings”, but I never expected the beautiful, shimmering colors.

I had a great crossing, but poor David suffered miserably from a tension headache and tender stomach most of the day. We both fared much better than we did when we first pushed off from Galveston two years ago. That trip started off with three solid days of seasickness for both of us. I was very, very grateful we didn’t have a replay of that experience. I think it helped that neither of us used those darn patches. I think they made us sick! It also helped me that I wasn’t terrified, like I was two years ago. My heart was light as a feather and I couldn’t help squealing “Isn’t this great? Isn’t this a beautiful day? What a great day! Look at the sea!”, etc., until I am quite sure my not-so-happy husband was ready to push me overboard. Fortunately he wasn’t feeling well enough to do that.

The last hour of the day was the most challenging. We furled the sails and motored toward Grand Bahama Island (West End being, appropriately, on the western tip of the island). The sea was simply churning, with three and four foot rollers heaving Raven side to side as we approached the jetties. I have taken a number of lopsided photos of our approach, holding the camera over the gunwhales as I wedged my foot in the hatchway to keep from sliding to the other side of the boat. David took her in, me relieving him at the helm for a bit so he could fix the yellow quarantine flag to the pennant jack (de rigeur for entering a foreign port – this was our first foreign port!).

I did donuts in the small turning basin right outside the marina while David attached our docklines and then David slid us into the marina and into our slip. We were met by a friendly Bahamian dockhand who helped us tie up, we filled out a sheaf of paperwork, David took that to the powers that be, they stamped us in and relieved us of our cruising fee, and we were in. David put up the Bahamian flag on the pennant jack and we clambered up on the docks and joined our friends, Luisa and Jay from Airborne (we last saw them at our anchorage on Prince’s Creek, off the Waccamaw River, SC, in December), for that long desired pina colada at the bar on the beach – as the sky opened and a torrent of rain fell for about an hour.

The resort here is really beautiful and tasteful, with all the amenities. There are beach chairs and umbrellas lined up on the crescent shaped beach, there’s an open air bar, and a beautiful heated swimming pool in the lushly landscaped interior courtyard. I wouldn’t mind staying for a few days. But we’re on a mission, so we’ll fill up with water this morning and take showers, and then we are headed off to Mangrove Cay, up the Indian Key Channel, to anchor out tonight. Tomorrow we’ll head to Great Sale Cay where we will stay at anchor for a few days til the coming norther comes and goes, and then we will head for the Abacos Islands. No wi-fi for awhile, so no posts or email replies until we find another place with amenities.

Always something new

[Hilde’s log, March 11, 2008]

One of the things I really love about the boating life is that I never know what’s going to happen from one day to the next. For the last week, mostly what has happened is a big nothing. We left our sloppy anchorage at Hillsboro Inlet in 20 knot winds Friday morning and came south about four miles to Lake Santa Barbara, a small lake off the ICW ringed with homes and private docks. The water is blessedly calm and the boats that come in and out are very polite, cruising at idle speed and making no wake for the most part. We’re waiting for the elusive weather window (moderate winds blowing from the south) so we can cross the Gulf Stream in relative comfort and safety, and are hoping to cross Friday. I’ve been to this altar before, so I’m not holding my breath. The forecast has held for a couple of days now and I’m allowing myself to feel hopeful. We will have to move tomorrow, as this place, like so many in Florida, has a 24 hour anchoring limit. We’ve been here three nights, but the sheriff just found us. So we will move across the ICW tomorrow morning and anchor at Lettuce Lake (I am not making up the name), and then Thursday head back to Hillsboro Inlet in the hopes of going offshore on Friday.

As we’ve waited at anchor, we’ve done some long neglected chores. I holy-stoned the galley, the stove, and the head, David repaired a faulty valve on the stove and polished the isenglas on the dodger. He installed a lock on the head to keep the Coast Guard happy. I knit, and then un-knit, about 15 rows on my current project. We read. I found computer chess on the computer and wrestled my way to a couple of draws. I made pineapple upside down cake again and we ate most of it. We read some more. David cleaned out the oil sump. I thought about attempting laundry on deck. You get the picture.

Then, as it so often does, up popped the unexpected. I was sitting on deck growling at my un-knitting late in the morning, when a small power boat came up close to us. We’ve been passed by umpteen boats while anchored here, so I didn’t pay it any attention. The skipper yelled across “Where are you from?” I replied “Texas.” “We’re from California,” he called and pulled the boat closer. The boat held two couples, out for an afternoon on the water. They invited us to join them for lunch, and although we declined, we suggested they drop by on their way home for a chat. Off they went and I went back to my un-knitting. They returned in an hour or so and rafted up alongside. Bill and Astrid, newlyweds, are from California. Kermit and Jeanie are from Minnesota. Both come to Florida in the winter and all were taking advantage of a perfect day to take a spin in Bill’s boat. They came aboard to see Raven and the next thing we knew, they had invited us to go with them down the ICW a few miles, just to see the sights and enjoy the day. We didn’t hesitate long!

The trip was such fun. We alternated between a sedate pace in the “idle speed only” zones and then zoomed along like a big jet ski in the open zones. Bill’s boat makes next to no wake at high speed, so it was guilt free flying. The wind whipped our faces and we whooshed over calm water and thudded into wake at what seemed like 100 miles an hour. We dipped under the umpteen bridges David and I have negotiated coming south and covered in a couple of hours the same ground it takes us all day to accomplish. I admit, I had engine lust. Kermit and I took turns at the helm while Bill and Astrid waltzed around the deck to loud music from the cd player. We even saw wildlife – huge, torpid iguanas sunning themselves on the lumber of a bridge fender and an exotic fish-like fellow that Bill thinks may be a black angel. This creature, about the size of a man’s shoe, swam a bit like a manta ray, by raising and lowering two flowing “wings”. It looked like a black silk handkerchief as it languidly moved through the water.

About sunset, Bill docked the boat at a canal-side restaurant. That was a bit of an adventure in itself, as the dock was a good six feet above the deck of the boat. The others clambered up, helped by a couple of men who caught our lines. I just stood there looking up, thinking, “Oh, right,” and imagining them passing me a sandwich from the dock, when the two guys told me to come on, they’d lift me up. I’m not exactly a bantam weight, so I had huge reservations about the whole thing, but by golly if they didn’t just take hold of my upper arms (I’m standing on the boat railing at this point) and lift me right up onto the dock, like a two-man human elevator! It turns out these fellows didn’t even work for the restaurant, they were just fellow diners. I guess I will have to re-evaluate my opinion that Floridians aren’t very friendly.

Unfortunately, they left before we did, so I had to trust to Bill, David, and gravity to board again. Clutching the frame of the console awning (David clamping his hand over my arm and Bill ready to catch my hair if I missed the side), I dropped down onto the side and then to the deck of the boat. As usual, not graceful but effective.

On our return, we boarded Raven, windblown, full of fish sandwiches, and warm with good feelings for our newfound friends. You just never know what’s going to happen next. Thanks, guys!

Oh well

[Hilde’s log]

Well, God does not appear to be willing. I woke this morning to the slapping of a halyard about 4:30 a.m., 30 minutes before our official wake up call, to find the wind blowing like 60 and Raven tossing at anchor in the dark. David looked up the forecast and sure enough, it was for south winds (good direction) at 20-25 knots (just at the top of our acceptable tolerance – for us, not for Raven; nothing bothers her) and seas to 11 feet. Not so great. If we absolutely had to go today, we could make it just fine, but we’d be whipped by the time we arrived in West End after 10-11 hours of roughish weather and it wouldn’t be fun. This is supposed to be fun! The remaining forecast for the next four days shows strong northerly winds. We decided, after much teeth gnashing, to go on to Ft. Lauderdale later this morning and hole up for the next window.

The good news is that after our practice run at getting ready (and finding so many things that weren’t) we are now really ready, and when that next window appears we can go for it. We also learned about windows – they really are short and unpredictable. Monday it looked as though we had a four day window, but that turned into two days and then one day pretty quickly. We have been told to go on the first day of a window and now see the wisdom in that. Had we been able to leave Wednesday, the first day of the window, we’d have made it with no problems. Thursday and Friday and on into the weekend, the forecast deteriorated rapidly, day by day. Sometimes the weather holds and sometimes it doesn’t, so go on the first day and let the rest of the window take care of itself.

It’s interesting from a psychological aspect, how I get so wound about going, creating artificial deadlines for myself and then stressing when I miss them. At least now I see myself doing it. Somehow I have decided that we are “late” that we are “missing the opportunity”, that we will have to rush the trip – the voices in my head are loud and urgent and ridiculous. I have not yet managed to relax into a long horizon, but I am getting a lot of practice at going with the flow, with letting everything be all right, regardless of what we do or don’t do, whether we go here or there or stay put, and regardless of what other boaters are doing.

Waiting

[Hilde's log]

Raven is still bobbing at anchor at Lighthouse Point, Florida (Hillsboro Inlet). Sigh. Today would have been a great day to cross, but we found ourselves snafued by a few important details we had forgotten -- copies of ship's papers, for example, that you have to present to the Bahamian government when checking in. It's just as well, I guess. We have a new Lifesling on the rails (the cover to the original finally rotted, after 20 years), a new anchor snubber to replace the old, frayed one, some new chafing gear. But heavens above, it was hard to watch this window close. The forecast tonight is not favorable, even though the forecast this morning said Thursday would be great. So we'll see what the forecast is later tonight and hope for a turnaround.

Waiting takes its toll. I passed the day cleaning the deck. David did the necessary errands. Boats went in and out of the inlet, including a sailboat that was taking on water and was shepherded under the bridge by two Tow Boat U.S. runabouts and a Coast Guard boat with nothing better to do. Later the bridge went up for a huge black Coast Guard cutter that looked too big for the bridge opening, but steamed through, massive outboard enginges churning up stiff white boiling wake that set us lopping.

David and I made Raven ready, clearing the decks and bringing the dinghy on board. On passages, we flip the dinghy upside down on the foredeck and secure it with lines. We spent a slimy hour scrubbing the dinghy bottom, scraping and brushing off algae, barnacles, white wormy things (eeew), and flat round brown things (eeew) with old tupperware scrapers. They work great, by the way. We read from the Bahamas cruising guides as we ate dinner. We watched the ocean disappear into the dark of evening and watched the lights pop out all around the anchorage and out at sea (markers and distant ships' lights).

The beam from the lighthouse periodically rakes the sky above us and flashes into the top stories of the condos behind us. It's calm and mild tonight. The pelicans and gulls are screeching from their roosts over by the lighthouse and I can faintly hear the surf at the breakwater. Raven is floating easily in the calm water and I hear David in the cockpit shifting a few last minute items for better storage. And we just wait and hope that tomorrow's weather cooperates.

Waiting gives me a lot of room to worry about everything under the sun, from our level of preparedness (you'd think we were headed to darkest Africa) to speculation on what we will find when we arrive. It takes some effort on my part to take the waiting in stride.

God willing, my next post will be from West End.

Florida views

Photo #1: Lake Worth (North Palm Beach)

Photo #2: yet another bridge (our record is 12 in one day)

Photo #3: fixer upper

Photo #4: pretty waterway neighborhood - Venice on the ICW

Photo #5: Cap'n Dave blinds 'em with fashion (those are my favorite suspenders!)

Bahamas Bound

Photo #1: David making lists for tomorrow
Photo #2: Hillsboro lighthouse; view from Raven's deck tonight.
Photo #3: We'll be slipping out the right hand side of this inlet into the Atlantic in the wee hours of Wednesday morning if the weather holds


[Hilde’s log]

We’re within 36 hours of crossing the Gulf Stream and heading to West End, in the Abacos (northern Bahamas). At last. Raven is anchored near Lighthouse Point, Florida, just inside the Hillsboro inlet. We spent three nights anchored right off the ICW at a private dock made available by Bob and Angela from Shining Star. They have a co-op apartment that faces the ICW, and the docks belong to people who own other apartments in the same complex. I’ve been swimming twice in the past three days, in the beautiful private pool that the residents keep at a luxurious 85 degrees. The pool is outdoors and not much used, so I flashed back to the days when David and I had a private pool in our backyard. I was ready to hand over the cash necessary to buy one of the apartments – except that we’d have to go back to work to pay the fees and taxes, etc. Not only that, they don’t take pets and we have two. Oh, but it was a fine dream while it lasted! Many thanks to Bob and Angela, who were great company, ferried us to the grocery, to church, and to various marine spots (for propane, last minute West Marine purchases, and the like) and shared good food and good conversation and good advice on cruising the Bahamas, not to mention Bob’s special scotch and Angela’s melt in your mouth yankee pot roast. What a great send off!

Raven is rolling gently and David is making a list of “must dos” for tomorrow. There are all sorts of things to be stowed for the sea (things that sit quietly in their places on the flat waters of the ICW will tumble all over the cabin once we push off into the Atlantic), the dinghy has to be secured to the deck, everything in the cockpit has to find a home and be lashed down, the weather has to be double checked and the waypoints entered for the first leg of our journey.

David and I have both had a severe attack of nerves today, since this is another new adventure. We kept reminding each other that it’s just like every other trip, taking one day at a time, learning as we go, and gradually gaining confidence in different conditions. This is our first venture out of US waters and we are both chomping at the bit, nerves or no nerves. I’m not sure how easy it will be to post on the internet once we are in the Bahamas – I guess it depends on how settled the islands we visit will be. But we will continue to post when we have the opportunity.

Tonight I am adding photos of the views along the southern Florida ICW, a trip I wasn’t really looking forward to, but that I really enjoyed. The big obstacle to this stretch of the waterway is the bridges, which are numerous and most of which have restricted passage – that is, they open only at certain times, usually on the half hour. For a power boat, that presents few problems, but when you’re in a slow poke like Raven, you spend a lot of time holding station and waiting for the opening. But the views are amazing, even for someone like me who usually doesn’t like the Parade of Homes stretches of the waterway.

Next post will be from the Bahamas – see you then.

Engineering Log - Stuart, FL

[Cap'n Dave's log]

Hi! Everyone,

I'm a little overdue with this post. All of these mechanical “challenges” occurred before we left Stuart, FL: diesel fuel in the oil pan, dead depth meter, and oil pressure gauge reading 80 psi whenever the ignition is on, engine running or not.

The night before we were due to leave Vero (a.k.a. Velcro) Beach I decided to get ahead of myself and check the engine oil level. The dipstick came up all wet, with no visible demarcation between wet and dry. I wiped it off and tried again. Same! In order to find the level I had to leave about five inches of the dip stick out of the tube. Hey ho! What’s going on? The oil appeared very thin and smelled of diesel fuel. There were no signs of water in the oil. How had diesel fuel gotten into the oil pan, how much was in there, and did I have enough empty containers to get it all out? I sacrificed one of our new six-gallon water jugs and proceeded to fill it with about nine quarts of sump “liquid”. Hmmm! There wasn’t anything to do but put four quarts of fresh engine oil into the engine, run it up to temperature, and check the level in the morning. I’m sure our neighbors weren’t thrilled to hear our motor at 11pm. Oh, well! Next morning the oil level was fine. It has remained OK even after three days of motoring from Vero Beach to Stuart. I still don’t know what went on, but I have three possible scenarios, none of which satisfactorily explain the symptoms. In Vero, I replaced a leaking neoprene gasket between the top of the oil injection pump and the flange for the pipe that returns fuel to the secondary oil filter. About one week passed between my removing the old gasket and my installing the new one. During that time the fuel system was open to the air. Did diesel fuel somehow drain or siphon itself into the sump? (Five quarts of it?) After this repair, I ran the engine to temperature then shut it off. Unfortunately, I had forgotten to reconnect the return spring to the stop lever on the injector pump and it was slightly off the stop for about two weeks. Again, did diesel fuel somehow drain or siphon itself into the sump? (Five quarts of it?) I still don’t know what happened. Ironically, during the thirty minutes I ran Big Blue with very thin engine oil the engine oil galleries were thoroughly flushed clean. It runs sweeter than ever, with none of the clatter that has annoyed me for four thousand miles.

The depth meter has been reading erratically for a long time and since leaving Vero Beach it showed mostly “all segments lit”, the digital equivalent of “full scale deflection”, I suppose. Coming into Stuart, the digits disappeared, leaving only MSD showing down the left side of the display. I think is means “Maximum Sounder Depth”, but that’s only my guess. There seem to be no existing documents for this old Datamarine S200DL unit, not even courtesy of Google. I ordered a Moor Systems depth meter from Hamilton Marine, which I was told should work with the old Datamarine transducers. This was important since the (unused) transducer in the thru hull is epoxied in place, the (unused) transducer lying in the same locker had no receptacle in the hull to slide into, and the suspect transducer in the bubble (containing mineral oil) was glued in place. I paid for UPS to air freight the unit overnight (ouch!), so that I could work on it over the weekend. Normally, the depth meter is a “luxury” instrument, but in the Bahamas and in the ICW it earns its keep and becomes essential information. Our departure to the Bahamas was off until I could get the depth meter working again. Needless to say, none of the old transducers worked with the new display head. I freaked out with visions of hauling Raven to enable me to install the new transducer, which was too short for Raven’s thick hull, etc. And we’d have to find somewhere to live. And we’d have to rent a car. Ka-ching! Ka-ching! Ka-ching! I knew I wasn’t thinking clearly. I took a break and visited our new friends on Anastasia, also ex-Seabrook cruisers. (Lindsay and Judy White) Lindsay suggested (no, insisted) that I connect the new transducer to the old display head and hang the former over the side. Hey! It worked. The old display head was OK. Lindsay also suggested firing the new transducer through the hull. No go, but nor had we immersed it in any liquid. So, I set about removing the old transducers, figuring I’d be able to epoxy the new head directly to the inside of the hull, thereby removing any attenuating air bubbles. As I was coiling the coax wire on the old transducer, about half way along it was as stiff as a pencil, for about 15”. Clearly, it was corroded on the inside. Perhaps the casing had been damaged and water had entered the core. I cut off the suspect wire, soldered on a new RCA connector, plugged it into the display, hung the transducer over the side, and fired it up. Bingo! It worked. All it needed was good wire and good soldered connections. Duh!

The oil pressure gauge has read full scale since somewhere off the Carolinas. I didn’t notice any precipitating event. I just assumed a wire had come off or the sending unit had broken. In Vero Beach I hunted down a sending unit and installed it. No change! In Stuart I ran a test wire directly from the sender to the gauge. No change! I put an Ohm meter directly on the sender: 220kΩ with the engine stopped, 2kΩ with the engine running. Could the gauge itself be bad? It’s unlikely that the needle would move at all if the gauge was broken. I wondered if it was a weird grounding issue in the rat’s nest that is the instrument panel wiring. I tore it all out and rebuilt it (using ABYC color codes and appropriate AWG sizes) but it didn’t fix the oil pressure gauge. So, I still don’t have this one resolved. It’s not a show stopper. The oil low pressure buzzer works OK and that’s much more important than an oil pressure reading.

Best regards,
David