S/V Spiritus II
“Believe me, my young friend; there is nothing–absolutely nothing–half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.”
With that remark to Mole, Water Rat set the standard for boat ownership. Or did he? First let’s define the term.
Everything was beautiful – a warm sunny afternoon, not too much wind on the nose, and Spiritus II, our new-to-us Hunter Legend 40.5, humming towards Secret Cove. I was single handing the boat along with our poodle deckhand Ali’i, looking forward to having dinner with Mission friends and fellow SYC members Roger and Mary Garthside aboard S/V Moani.
Spiritus II had been moored at Granville Island in Vancouver for the past week, having work done on a delaminated deck panel that had been identified in the purchase survey, and was being paid for by the previous owner. All was in readiness for the arrival of our daughter’s family from Edmonton, including two little grandsons, who that very day were driving out to BC, hooking up with Karen, and then meeting me and the boat in Lund for a week in Desolation Sound. As I say, everything was beautiful.
Until sunset.
With light fading in the western sky, there was an ominous click and the entire 12 volt electrical panel went dead. And of course no power means a lot more than no lights. It also means no water, no propane, no refrigeration, no radio, and no instruments – not exactly the most welcoming environment for sailboat visitors. At that moment, Spiritus II suddenly became available for sale, and the asking price was $1.95. Canadian!
When first looked at in February, the boat was in pristine condition. She had been well cared for by her previous owner, who had washed and waxed her diligently, and had attended to her mechanical systems using professionals on a regular basis. With the exception of the deck panel, she had passed her survey with flying colours. As experienced boat owners, we weren’t expecting perfection from a 1993 sailboat, but Spiritus II was about as close to perfection as we could reasonably hope for. The only problem? She hadn’t been used much for the past five years.
So a new macerator pump was not unexpected, nor were new shower sump pumps. I had also rebuilt the fresh water filter system, and installed a new pressure accumulator. I had replaced the GPS, and, when the old out-of-date radar needed attention, had even sprung for a brand new Furuno radar and had just finished wiring it in. Still ahead was the beloved task of reaming out the waste lines from both heads, and replacing joker valves and gaskets at the same time. Oh, and did I mention the autohelm that kept cutting out at inconvenient intervals? Another easy fix, once I discovered where the loose connection was located. But the entire 12 volt panel? C’mon, Spiritus II. Now you’re not being fair.
The panel itself, with its million wires, seemed not to be the problem. Because the next morning saw it start up again – everything working. For about one minute – then that click again that seemed to be coming from under the aft cabin bed.
Sheets, blankets, mattress all hauled into the salon revealed another marine truism. The bigger the boat, the more complicated her systems. Another million wires, and more mystifying, a number of black boxes connected to them with no labels or other means of identification.
But a multimeter is a wonderful tool, and gradually I narrowed down the field – solar panel control – check, battery charge regulator – check – along with the many operating manuals I had on board, I was able to eliminate every suspect except one. A little black box with two #6 red wires attached. At that very moment the power flickered back on and I not only heard the click, I felt it as well. Perpetrator identified, perpetrator in my sights!
But now what? What is that thing? More important, how critical is it, and how do I fix it? So in the time honoured tradition of old sailors, there was only one thing to do. Sit down, pour myself a drink and find somebody else to make the decision for me. Somebody else that, if things went terribly wrong, would be able to take the blame. And my obvious victim, Roger Garthside, was having none of it.
As luck would have it, my old friend Norm Ross happened to be aboard his boat in Secret Cove. The promise of a glass of wine brought him rowing over in his dinghy. One look at my little black box was all he needed. “It’s a combiner”, he announced. “Had one on the boat I’ve just bought. It’s supposed to regulate the current flow between two banks of batteries, but it’s a pain in the butt. Let’s get rid of it”!
A stainless nut and bolt later to attach the two wires together, and bound securely with electrical tape, did the trick. Battery switch on, panel on. No clicks, no problem. Spiritus II was no longer on the market.
All of which proves that owning a boat is a lot more than pleasant days on the water. It’s also about problem solving, and folding your aging body into impossible spaces in order to diagnose and fix them. Unless you have lots of money to throw at the situation, and you’re in an area where professional help is available, you’re pretty much on your own.
So is Water Rat right? Is messing around in boats the most worthwhile thing in the world? I think so. It’s all part of the game, and the challenge is to make it fun. But it depends on the number, the severity and frequency of the problems, doesn’t it? And Spiritus II wasn’t through with me yet. That’s a story for a different time, but here’s a hint. Have you ever had to pull up 150 feet of chain and a 20 kg. Bruce anchor by hand? With 20 knots of wind on your nose and a slack through Seymour Narrows to catch?
You got it.