As many a seasoned boat owner can attest, onboard systems are the leading cause of technical issues on boats that have more than a rudimentary electrical system. But most of these problems are preventable. They arise from a failure to abide by core design and installation principles.

To take a deep dive into both design and installation issues, OceanPlanet Energy (OPE) is sponsoring an intensive two-day seminar developed and presented by tech guru Nigel Calder, author of the best-selling Boatowner’s Mechanical and Electrical Manual.

The seminar is grounded in the American Boat and Yacht Council (ABYC) standards for safe installations, though it is not an ABYC class because, according to Calder: “You can have a safe installation that nevertheless functions poorly. We will go beyond the standards to explain how to optimize performance.”

Topics include key design criteria for both DC and AC systems; how to keep batteries in a healthy state; newer technologies that are transforming the performance of electrical systems; sizing and installing electric circuits in compliance with ABYC standards; critical safety issues related to AC systems; corrosion; and grounding systems. The course curriculum will highlight commonly seen electrical installation errors, including on new boats, and how to rectify them—including hands-on terminal crimping practice, because “poorly made terminals are the bane of many an otherwise decent electrical installation.”

Calder will showcase a demonstration board that contains core pieces of equipment referenced in the presentation, which, in tandem with related equipment supplied by OPE, will be used to simulate electrical faults and explore multimeter troubleshooting techniques.

“We’ll be covering a lot of ground,” says Calder, who acknowledges the difficulty in absorbing such a volume of information in two days. “While the seminar is designed to be accessible to the inexperienced, that doesn’t mean it will be easy, even for those with prior experience, including some professionals.” 

Class sizes will be limited to maximize interaction with the participants. At a minimum, participants should walk away with the ability to check a boat for common installation mistakes, to understand and be able to do basic wiring and electrical installations, and to be able to safely conduct simple multimeter troubleshooting procedures that will enable most electrical problems to be identified.

“We send everyone home with a to-do list of critical checks for any boat, and a deck of almost 600 slides for future reference. The objective is to raise the confidence levels of boat owners, and to provide professionals with a perspective that goes beyond ABYC standards to optimized functionality.”

OPE will hold the seminars in the spring and fall (April 17-18 and October 29-30, 2024), just outside of the main tourist season, in the newly renovated Hyatt Place hotel in downtown Portland, Maine. The Hyatt is situated in the center of the vibrant old district, surrounded by historic buildings, with excellent restaurants and numerous places of interest within walking distance. The hotel has a free shuttle service to and from the easy-to-transit Portland (Maine) regional airport. Buffet-style breakfast is included in the seminar’s discounted room rate. OPE will provide lunch and refreshments throughout the day. Seminar participants are on their own for dinner.

To take advantage of this unique opportunity to hone your systems skills under the guidance of expert Nigel Calder, participate in a strictly limited and intense marine electrical education opportunity, and enjoy Portland, Maine, in the spring, contact OceanPlanet Energy for more information at seminar@oceanplanetenergy.com.

The post Sharpen Your Knowledge of Boat Electrical Systems appeared first on Cruising World.

My old Caribe Hypalon RIB dinghy had started to deflate, so I used a soapy-water spray to test for leaks. The forward-chamber air valve was leaking—not around the perimeter, where they normally do, but instead from inside the valve, indicating that it was not making an airtight seal. 

I tried to clean the inside with a cotton ball and liquid soap, and that did reduce the bubbles a little, but not entirely. I also fitted a second sealing washer on the valve cap and squeezed it tight up to the valve face, but the boat still deflated over a few days. “You’ve got to replace the valve,” someone told me. 

It was not what I wanted to hear, but off I went. I bought a Halkey-Roberts air valve from Amazon. It consists of an inner valve and an outer casing that screw together, clamping the valve to the chamber. I couldn’t loosen the old valve by hand, but I managed it after buying a wrench that fits inside the valve, enabling more turning force. It is best to do this with the boat inflated, which offers more solid support.

After fully deflating the boat, I gripped the inner valve body through the thick Hypalon ­material to prevent it from dropping into the chamber. Then I unscrewed the valve. I had the new part ready to screw back in, but after repeated attempts, it simply would not screw into the old body.

I struggled to hold the valve body with one hand while examining the old and new outer valves. The threads on the new valve were much finer than the threads on the old one. There was no way the new valve would thread into the old body. 

Apparently, there are different types of Halkey-Roberts valves. With cramps setting into my fingers, I finally had to let go of the body. It fell into the depths of the chamber.

I called Halkey-Roberts in St Petersburg, Florida, and learned that they altered the valves more than 10 years ago. I asked if they could sell me an old one. Nope. They said I had to figure out how to fit the new body inside and screw it into the new outer valve.

This is decidedly easier said than done. The hole in the chamber is only 1¾ inches in diameter, and the valve rim is 2½ inches. There is no way the old valve will come out, or the new piece will go back in. The aperture is simply too small.

Looking for help online, I was dismayed to learn that the only way to get the new valve body inside the chamber was to slit a hole big enough to get a hand through, and then hold the body in place while screwing the two halves together. This means that anyone with an older boat that has Halkey-Roberts valves will have to replace a leaking one by slitting and patching the chambers.

 More online research taught me that Hypalon requires a special two-part glue to bond a patch to the material. I bought a glue kit for $48.95, which is the most expensive glue I have ever bought in my life, plus another $38.95 for a 12-inch-square piece of patching material. So, along with $10.23 for the new valve and $9.45 for the wrench, the total came to $107.58.Quite an expensive leak.

I started the operation by donning rubber gloves and using acetone to remove blue paint from the dinghy. The work area was soon back down to the original gray material. Then, feeling like a surgeon about to perform the first incision on a very fat person, I used an X-Acto knife to cut a 6-inch-long slit in the dinghy chamber. My wife, whose arms are thinner than mine, reached in, found the old valve body in the bottom of the chamber, and brought it out. Holding the new valve, I then shoved my hand in, and managed to offer it up to the valve hole just below. I then screwed the two halves together and fastened them as tightly as I could using the special wrench, forming an airtight seal—I hoped. 

I was told not to use any sealant—such as glue or silicone—between them, but instead just to screw them together, dry and tight.

All of this was relatively painless (after making the first incision, that is), but now came the job of patching the slot to make it airtight. The instructions with the glue were precise, with six specific operations. 

The first directive warned that the humidity level should not be above 60 percent. With North Carolina suffering a heat wave that week, I waited, along with the dinghy, which was deflated and forlorn in my garage.

I made the cut in the top of the chamber, and there was nothing to support it inside, so I pressed two strips of duct tape under the cut seam inside the chamber to pull it together temporarily. I then smeared a thin layer of marine Goop glue along the cut and let it dry. This glue is ideal for flexible material because it stays quite flexible itself. I didn’t see any need to remove the Goop because even this weak seal allowed the chamber to inflate slightly, giving me some support as I prepared the patch.

On the first cool, low-­humidity day, I cut a patch out of the piece of Hypalon ­material, making it 1 inch larger all around the slit, and with rounded edges at both ends. 

I prepared the surface of the chamber by roughing it with 80-grit sandpaper, exactly as instructed. I then poured some of the adhesive into a glass container and added the curing agent. This was pretty much guesswork because I had no way to measure the glue. One thing the instructions don’t mention is the type of container to mix the two parts in. Do not use a plastic or styrene cup because the glue will dissolve it. I used an old glass jar, which let me see how much glue was being poured.

Applying the glue is a two-part process. First, a thin layer is applied to the joint and the patch, which I did with a ½-inch-wide, stiff throwaway brush. I then allowed both pieces to dry. Half an hour later, a second coat is applied to both parts. After a few minutes, when the glue is tacky, the patch is glued to the boat. I did this by rolling the patch over the slit from one end to the other to reduce the chance of air pockets. The partially inflated tube allowed me to use enough pressure on the roller to expel any air pockets. 

After an hour, I could feel the excess glue beginning to set, so I inflated the chamber a little more. To my surprise, no air came out of the patch or the new valve. 

The next directive was to let the patch cure for at least 24 hours. I left mine for 48 hours, then inflated it to the recommended pressure of 3 psi. I also couldn’t resist testing the new valve with the soapy water. To my intense relief, it did not bubble at all, nor were there any bubbles around the patch. 

The glue fully cures after six days, but I left my boat for a week before hoisting it back on the davits of my 50-foot schooner, Britannia. As I write this, the RIB has maintained pressure for a month, but it does vary a bit with the weather. It softens a little at night when the air is cooler, and then firms up during warm days. 

This was another job that I had never done before and managed it myself. Not only is success gratifying, but I save a lot of money and learn the intricate workings of my boat, which might someday be a lifesaver at sea.

Roger Hughes is a professional captain, sailing instructor, restorer and happy imbiber.

The post Dinghy Valve Repair on a Budget appeared first on Cruising World.

I routinely encounter defects related to design, materials and assembly in raw-water plumbing systems on cruising vessels. These defects could, and sometimes do, lead to flooding and the total loss of vessels. Here’s a look at the three most common examples of these defects.

The Un-Seacock

Seacocks let crew stem water flow quickly and easily, either for routine service or in the event of a failed hose or fitting or other raw-water emergency. These valves must be readily accessibleand able to operate with relative ease. “Readily accessible” means no tools are needed to access a seacock, nor should a significant quantity of gear need to be moved.

One of the most common of seacock errors involves mismatched threads. Through-hull fittings, sometimes called “skin” fittings, are nearly always made using parallel, straight or NPS threads, while most inline ball valves use tapered or NPT threads. The two are wholly incompatible, and yet I encounter this dangerous assembly practice on a regular basis, on new and old vessels alike. The mismatch leads to a scant two or three threads of engagement compared with a proper seacock with matching threads, which yields eight to 10 turns.  

Underrated Hose

The average cruising ­vessel might use more than a half-dozen types of hose, from fuel and waste to potable-water exhaust. Hose used for raw water, especially below the waterline, should be specifically designed for the application.  

The most common rated raw-water hose carries an SAE J2006 rating (it’s usually a black composition called EPDM, although it can be red or blue silicone). This type of hose is suited for marine wet-exhaust systems. It’s robust. 

With few exceptions, what’s typically not suited for raw water is most clear PVC hose, even if it’s reinforced with nylon filament or spiral (some of these are designed for the food-service industry). 

When I confront builders and yards with clearly noncompliant hose, they frequently ask me, “What makes this hose a problem?” My response is simple: “Is this hose approved for an application where if it fails, a vessel could sink?”  

Furthermore, if the hose easily crushes or kinks, especially when it’s warm, then it’s not suitable for raw water, and it’s especially ill-suited for intake or suction applications.

Wrong Alloy

Only a handful of metal alloys are suited for raw-­water plumbing use. Bronze, which is made primarily from copper, tin and, usually, traces of silicon and other metals, is highly corrosion-resistant for raw-water applications. However, there’s bronze, and then there’s bronze.

Manganese bronze and Tobin bronze, for instance, can include an appreciable quantity of zinc, technically placing them in the brass family. This makes them entirely unsuitable for raw-water plumbing. Any copper alloy that contains more than 15 percent zinc is technically brass and ­therefore should not be used for ­raw-water plumbing.  

Using high zinc-bearing alloys often leads to dezincification, in which zinc corrodes from the alloy, leaving behind a porous, ­weakened structure with a telltale pinkish hue.

Some builders use brass through-hulls and seacocks, with the caveat that they must be bonded and cathodically protected with anodes. This approach is flawed and has led to flooding and vessel loss. Forgetting to replace a zinc should not lead to seacock failure. Barring stray-current corrosion, seacocks, through-hull fittings and other metallic raw-water plumbing should last the life of the vessel. Stainless steel, even 316, while corrosion-­resistant, does not possess the level of corrosion resistance of bronze. This does not prohibit the use of stainless steel for this application, but it is a clear second choice to bronze.   

A nonmetallic option such as glass-reinforced nylon for seacocks and through-hulls, which complies with American Boat and Yacht Council standards, is also an acceptable alternative. 

Steve D’Antonio offers services for boat owners and buyers through Steve D’Antonio Marine Consulting.

The post Raw-Water Plumbing Tips appeared first on Cruising World.

I upgraded from Second Wind, a 35-foot Bavaria Cruiser, to Beckon, a 39-foot Jeanneau Sun Odyssey 39i Performance, in anticipation of cruising the Caribbean for a year or more. My home base is Puerto Rico, and Beckon was in Southwest Harbor, almost as far north in Maine for sailing as you can get. My friend and Jeanneau broker, Francis Shiman-Hackett of Bluenose Yachts, enticed me to sail the coast of New England for the summer, then head south in November after the hurricane season. 

Little did I know that I wouldn’t even get out of Maine before learning some important lessons about being careful and resourceful as a ­singlehanded cruiser. 

I departed just after Memorial Day under an unusually bold, sunny sky, with flat seas and scant wind. The mild conditions allowed me to work out the kinks of sailing a new boat. Beckon has electric winches, a self-flaking system, a sizable forward cabin with stowage, and solid navigation instruments. It has a taller mast and longer keel, which gave it the performance designation. All of this was great for me as a solo sailor.

There was not another ­sailboat to be seen on the 14-nautical-mile motorsail to lovely and protected Swan’s Island, where I picked up a mooring ball, as well as a lobster for dinner from the Fisherman’s Co-Op. The next morning, I motorsailed southwest against a prevailing but mild southwest wind, intending to anchor in Long Cove on Isle Au Haut for the night.

Because it was a cold, cloudy day with little to do on anchor, I pushed past the island and bypassed Vinalhaven Island, seeking a mooring at Tenants Harbor, which is full of lobster boats. By midafternoon, I calculated that I would reach the harbor at dusk—not ideal for an unfamiliar anchorage. My new plan became Home Harbor, located between Pleasant Island to the south and Hewett Island to the northeast, reachable with daylight hours to spare. It’s more of a bay than a harbor, and it’s protected from southwest winds, but the Hewett Rocks ledge was directly in my course heading. I sailed past the rocks at midtide, and a late-afternoon sun peeking out of the clouds illuminated their rugged ­beauty and dangerousness.  

Once inside the tranquil bay, I dropped anchor in 16 feet of water. I am used to the sand bottom of Caribbean anchorages with no tidal range, so I tested my setting twice with hard bursts in reverse. I felt confident that I was securely set. The water was glass, the air was crisp, there was no movement to the boat, the late afternoon sun was bright, and the panoramic background was dramatic, with pink and white clouds ringing the horizon. Smooth and jagged rocks formed the shore. I thought that I would sleep safely and securely, and saw no need to use an anchor alarm. After dinner, I fell hard asleep in my V-berth.

At 1:30 a.m., I heard the screech of my carbon-monoxide alarm. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of my anchor dragging—not an occasional drag, but instead a constant, loud stuttering. I donned my cold-weather jacket and pants, turned on my navigation instruments, and raced up the companionway shoeless. 

I was stunned to find myself in pea-soup fog and air full of cold, thick mist in pitch-black darkness. I could not tell where I was, but my depth sounder showed 16 feet. I felt temporarily relieved, deducing that I could not have dragged far. 

Then I heard the water sway against what I thought was the rocky shore of Pleasant Island. I went below and grabbed my high-powered spotlight. It only emphasized the cold-water mist. Visibility was mere feet. I could see neither land nor shore, though I kept scanning 360 degrees. 

I went below again, this time to fetch Navionics on my iPad. I could not find my location in the bay. I moved the chart in a circle to find my position, and I was horrified to find that Beckon was within feet of Hewett Rocks, the very ledge I had avoided the previous afternoon. I had drifted some 300 yards. I kept scanning with my light and finally saw the jagged rocks within feet off the port side of Beckon.  

With keys already in the ignition, I fired up the engine. I went below to turn on my windlass, leaped back up the companionway, and walked forward on my starboard side deck, one hand holding the light and the other holding the lifelines. I did not take my thumb off the windlass remote until the anchor violently shook in its cradle. 

Navionics seemed to suggest that Beckon was parallel to the rocks. I did not know whether to go in forward or reverse, but I needed to make a quick decision. With one hand on the wheel and the other holding my light, I chose reverse. 

The question then became: How do I get back to the anchorage? After I reached sufficient depth, I took the protective cap off my binnacle compass. I stayed in reverse until I felt comfortable that I was a fair distance from Hewett Rocks, then I put Beckon in forward.

Slowly, I tried to connect the compass heading with the red arrow on Navionics. I could see nothing in the fog and darkness, but I knew that my only impediment to reaching the anchorage was a handful of lobster buoys.  

There is a lag in the ­movement of the arrow on the screen following a course change with the wheel of the boat. During daylight, it becomes a part of how you drive, but in darkness, it was an almost insurmountable barrier. I tried to go southwest, but I continually overcorrected and was heading in a circle back to Hewett Rocks. More reverse. I did this several times before I started getting the hang of how to navigate by compass in the dark.

I was horrified to find that Beckon was within feet of Hewett Rocks, the very ledge I had avoided the previous afternoon. I had drifted some 300 yards.  

Still, I seemed to be going in circles. I was trying to drive to the middle of the bay, but I found only the northern part, too close to the rocky shoreline. It took me the better part of an hour to find the middle. With my light, I kept seeing the same two orange-and-white lobster buoys, sometimes to port, other times to starboard. I thought that if I woke the residents of the nearby homes, they would think a crazy sailor was doing doughnuts in the bay in reverse with a searchlight.  

I dropped anchor in the southeast corner of the harbor, very close to the shore. I could see the outline of the rocks with my light and thought that I was perhaps 20 feet from land. I weighed anchor and tried again, finally closer to the ­middle of the bay, and right next to the orange-and-white buoys. How I did not drive over any lobster buoys was beyond me.  

My anchor did not set well. I dragged, but I was in a decent location. Fifth time’s the charm, I told myself. Exhausted, I decided simply to watch it. 

I went below and looked at my phone. It was 3 a.m. I had to laugh at myself—I had narrowly avoided disaster on Day Two of my journey. But I had done it, and done it on my own. I briefly thought about making coffee; instead, with my jacket and wet clothes on, and with frozen feet, I collapsed in my V-berth, face up.

It did not hit me until I woke, when I looked at the chart again, that after my anchor dislodged, I drifted over 49 feet of water depth. My anchor reset, to a degree, in 16 feet of depth next to Hewett Rocks, all while I was sleeping soundly. Was I within minutes or more of crashing against the rocks? And why had the carbon-monoxide alarm triggered? Perhaps it was something divine or a warning from the universe.  

The obvious lessons from this experience are to let out sufficient rode and to account for the tidal range. In that part of Maine, the tidal range is 10 feet. Sixteen feet at midtide, when I arrived, meant that high tide would mean at least 21 feet of depth, which requires a quite different calculation on anchor scope.  

I was seduced by the beauty and serenity of that bay. In coastal Maine, conditions can change in minutes, and fog can roll in like a sandstorm without warning or forecast. So, set an anchor alarm, no matter the initial conditions. A captain I met on Mount Desert Island suggested keeping the GPS on and waking yourself at midnight to check your position. Had I done so, I could have seen my tracks and followed them back.

Overall, if you are going to cruise solo, be ready to rescue yourself. Another sailor would have navigated the compass and chart plotter in the dark much more effectively than I did. 

The morning after my almost disaster, and after the heaviest of the fog had lifted, I motored the 6 nautical miles to Tenants Harbor and saw only the occasional lobster boat. I picked up a mooring ball and slept like a rock that night.  

In the early-morning hours, my carbon-monoxide alarm shouted at me again. The illusion of a divinely inspired intervention disappeared like burned-off fog. I ventilated the salon, reset the alarm, and went back to sleep.  

The final lesson learned is to keep the batteries in your carbon-monoxide alarm up to date. That alarm can save you in more ways than one.

Damian LaPlaca is currently in Puerto Rico aboard his Jeanneau Sun Odyssey 39i Performance, Beckon.

The post The Dos and Don’ts of Anchoring In a Tidal Zone appeared first on Cruising World.

If a sailboat lies unattended even for a short time, its decks and canvas can quickly become grubby from bird droppings and windblown dust. I have counted 50 of the little darlings perched along the triatic stay on my schooner Britannia, all having a merry chirp while doing other things. 

I spent a lot of time looking at intricate, expensive devices that are supposed to frighten birds off my boat, but it’s practically impossible to keep them off every part of the deck and rigging, where they sometimes land on vertical wires. I finally concluded that the cheapest, most effective solution is a simple awning. 

There are multiple benefits to a good awning. I also wanted to protect the center-cockpit canvas Bimini top on Britannia, to shield it from the fierce Florida sun as much as from rain and bird droppings. And a good awning keeps the temperature down inside the boat—in Britannia’s case, by some 10 degrees Fahrenheit when it’s 90 degrees outside. 

I shopped around all the local canvas-makers and sailmakers, and I received lots of advice about what material was best, along with a variety of cost estimates. These varied from “we’ll beat any price” to “get a second mortgage.” The average estimate was $1,480, which was well over my budget, so I considered making an awning myself.The simplest, cheapest way to make an awning is to buy a tarp, drape it over a boom, and then attach it to lifelines with bungee cords to form a simple tent. The main boom on Britannia passes directly over the cockpit, and most tarps have eyelets every 18 inches or so, which meant that threading bungee cord through them and then hooking the other end to the rails was simplicity itself.

However, after I installed my tent, I discovered that it had shortfalls. Tethering the tarp required quite a scramble to edge along the side decks and climb into the cockpit, especially with an armful of groceries. And the tarp rested on the boom and my Bimini top, causing chafe in strong winds. A third problem was that my tent looked, well, really cheap—mainly because it had cost me less than 50 bucks. 

Awnings can also be stretched between horizontal poles attached to masts or rigging, a solution that generally overcomes the access problem. But they flap about alarmingly in even a slight breeze, and rainwater collects in a flat awning to the point where they can capsize. They also fail to shield the early morning and evening sun very well.

With all of that in mind, I thought about the wagons in old Western movies, and I wondered how to make a curved cover. Such an arrangement might also hold the tarp clear of the boom and Bimini top, reducing chafe and allowing wind to pass between them. The height should also give me more headroom along the side decks. 

The supports on covered wagons were called bows, made of hickory wood. How could I make them and be able to stow them? I found the answer by looking at modern tents that use flexible aluminum rods to support a curved roof. 

These tents use demountable rods that slot into one another to form a strong yet flexible continuous rod, held together with a bungee cord through their whole length. When not in use, they fold into a bundle only 28 inches long for easy stowage.

Britannia’s main boom is 15 feet long, so I guessed that I would need three bows to support the tarp over the boom, and another bow for an overhang forward of the mast. I measured the approximate lengths by curving a metal measuring tape from the toe rail to just above the boom, and then doubling the distance. I then ordered four rods from TentPole Technologies, which made all the lengths to my exact size. If a rod happens to be too long, it’s easy to remove one section and re-knot the bungee.

I anchored my bows to either side of the boat using ¾-inch plastic PVC tubing strapped to the stanchions with hose clamps. The bows dropped into the tubing and rested on the toe rail, forming four perfect arches.

Britannia’s beam at the mast is 13 feet, tapering to 10 feet at the stern. A tarp would need to be much wider than this to curve over the bows, so I measured the length of the front and rear bows. I tried for a point offering maximum coverage against rain and bird droppings, yet with enough clearance to walk through. From these measurements, I drew a sketch of the shape.

The nearest-size tarp I could find was about 19-by-17 feet with a heavy-duty weight. I choose one that is silver on the outside, to give maximum heat reflection. I then made a mistake in buying the cheapest, lightest-weight version of the tarp at 5 mm; it was too flimsy for a boat awning, and it soon wore through at the chafe points. The 12 mm thickness is much better and has survived some strong winds, and the bows easily support the extra weight of the heavier tarp.

To cut the tarp to fit, I laid it out on my garage floor for tapering. Rather than just cutting it down the middle and gluing it, I overlapped the center folds and glued the overlap joints. This technique ensured that the joint remained waterproof, and strengthened the center section. The front needed only a little tapering, from 17 feet, 6 inches down to 16 feet, but the back was only 12 feet wide, which meant quite a large overlap joint.  

After that, the messy part started, because I used sticky contact glue and a 4-inch roller. Because the wind will pass straight over this joint, it needs to be as strong as possible. The best option was to use a double-gluing procedure.

I first unfolded about 6 inches where the top joint was to be, and rolled a liberal amount of glue out to both edges, all the way along the fold. I allowed this glue to set overnight, so it was finger-dry. I then applied a second coat of glue to each side of the joint, waited the normal drying time of about 15 minutes, and pressed the fold together from the center to the front and rear of the joint. Working from the center ensured that there were no creases in the fold. I then placed wood strips over the joint and pressed it firmly together by walking on it.

I left the joint overnight to set, then turned the tarp over and double-glued the other side of the fold the same way. The finished taper is a neat, strong, waterproof overlap joint down the center of the awning. Just for good measure, I ran a length of duct tape all the way along the joints.

Back at the boat, I installed the bows and draped the tarp over them, but because the awning extended forward of the mast by some 2 feet, I had to cut a hole to fit around the mast. This hole was later reinforced back in my garage, where I also installed a row of eyelets into the front joint and threaded them together with bungee cord. I wrapped a long bungee twice around the mast, making a secure joint. The awning also overhangs the aft hatch.

For hold-down tethers, I bought 5/16-inch bungee cord with pre-fitted hooks. It was easy to thread the cord through every second eyelet and secure it with a simple overhand knot. I did this along the length of the tarp on both sides. I then fastened the front and rear of the tarp to the bows with cable ties, through the eyelets and around the bows.

Positioning this large awning is quite easy for two people when there is no wind. We pulled it over the bows and then hooked the tethers to the lifelines on each side. I attached the front bow to the running backstays and the rear bow to the mainmast backstays. Even in a moderate wind, the awning hardly moves because the wind passes through and over the structure. 

I had my covered wagon, which protects Britannia’s Bimini top from weather as effectively as any custom-made canvas cover. We can comfortably move along the side decks because of the increased height of the bows. Temperatures in the cockpit are significantly lower than without the awning, and rain just runs off, washing bird droppings with it.

Awnings on boats, even those made of expensive UV-resistant material, rarely last more than a few seasons. Replacing a tarp awning is a lot less expensive than ordering a custom canvas, and mine was ridiculously cheaper: $300, including the tarp, bows, tethers, rollers and glue.

I now think my effort qualifies as (almost) professional-looking, even if I do have to ignore the occasional snide remark about the Wild West. Envy is just another form of flattery.

The post The Down-and-Dirty, Do-It-Yourself Cockpit Awning appeared first on Cruising World.

The most important word when jibing is control. The helmsperson, sail trimmers and entire crew need to be diligent. The mainsail boom will swing across the boat with great force if important steps are not taken. There are many cases of serious injuries to unsuspecting crew who were hit in the head by the boom, or who tumbled overboard with the rapid change of course.

By contrast, completing a successful jibe provides great satisfaction when executed with precision.  

The best time to jibe is when a boat is sailing at full speed. The force of the apparent wind on a sail is less when sailing swiftly, which makes steering easy. The reason to jibe is to head on a more direct course toward a desired destination, or to take advantage of a shift in wind.

In advance of a jibe, one person, who is usually steering, should hail the crew about the intention to jibe. This is the proper time to assign specific duties to each crewmember so that everyone is clear about their role during the jibe.  

Once in proper position, the crew should stand by for a countdown to the maneuver. The helmsperson should turn the boat slowly, leaving no one caught off guard. Verbally state the new course, and visually look at any references, such as objects on shore or other boats, to know where the boat will be heading after the jibe.   

The sail trimmer should trim in the sails as the boat makes the turn. This is particularly important with the mainsail. Keep the sail under control so that the boom doesn’t swing wildly across the deck. Trim in the mainsail as the boat turns, and let it out rapidly as the sails fill on the new course. Just before the mainsail swings over, the helmsperson should hail, “Heads!” This will alert the crew to keep their heads low. 

In heavy wind, the ­helmsperson can execute an S-course jibe. Just as the mainsail is swinging across, the helmsperson turns the boat briefly in the direction the mainsail is heading. This action depowers the wind’s force on the mainsail. Once the boat is on the new course, the mainsail can be eased out to its most efficient position. The course that is steered is the shape of the letter S.

In winds less than 10 knots, most boats will jibe through 70 to 90 degrees. In stronger winds, a boat will jibe through 60 degrees or less. In a good blow, I suggest easing off the boom vang and securing the traveler in one place before jibing. This will depower the pressure on the sails and the rig.   

The jibing process is more complicated when a ­spinnaker is being flown. If the ­spinnaker is symmetrical with a ­spinnaker pole, then the helmsperson should be particularly careful when steering. The foredeck crew needs to exert downward and forward pressure on the spinnaker pole to keep it under control as it is being rehooked to the mast.   

Avoid rapid turns. Give your crew adequate time to shift the spinnaker pole. The sail trimmer in the cockpit is positioned to keep the sail full. Good teamwork is the key.

In recent years, the asymmetrical spinnaker has become a popular sail. I find that inside jibes are generally more efficient. This is when the sail passes inside the fore-triangle. The sail trimmer eases out the old sheet so that there is plenty of line to trim on the new jibe. The turn of the boat is usually a little faster than when jibing with a symmetrical sail, but it should not be any faster than the sail trimmer can move the sail from one side of the boat to the other. Continue changing course smoothly and constantly when jibing with an asymmetrical spinnaker. A pause can cause the sail to wrap.   

I find it interesting how many modern yachts resort to roller furling systems to handle forward sails. This applies to headsails and staysails. The sail is simply rolled up before jibing and rolled back out after the jibing maneuver is complete.  

I suppose I could add a technique or two for schooners and other multimast boats.  For example, schooners set a gollywobbler between the masts. On some schooners, it is best to have two of these quadrilateral sails ready to set on either jibe. When it is time to change course and jibe, take down one and hoist up the other on the new jibe. You just need two sails. But that is a story for another day. 

5 keys to safe jibing

1. Give the crew ample warning that a jibe is about to take place.
2. Assign each crewmember a specific job.
3. Keep the mainsail under control; don’t let the boom fly across the boat.
4. Look for a reference point on land to head for on the new course.
5. Do not turn the boat too quickly.

Hall of Fame sailor Gary Jobson is a CW editor-at-large. 

The post How To Jibe Like the Pros appeared first on Cruising World.

It was early afternoon on Day One of a weeklong course to prepare for the US Coast Guard’s captain’s exam, and besides my head feeling like a balloon about to pop, already several pages of my notebook were filled with hastily scribbled notes, including this gem: 1.169 x square root of light height = geographical range. Who knew I’d have to know that?

During the course of the morning, we’d slogged our way through license requirements, calculating days underway inshore and seaward of the boundary line that wraps like a string around the offshore points along America’s coasts. We’d touched on license endorsements, required publications when carrying ­passengers, and a list of additional things we’d need to procure before applying for any license. Things such as a Department of Transportation physical, CPR and first-aid cards, and a Transportation Worker Identification Credential.

We discussed in detail aids to navigation, buoy functions, beacons, light characteristics, Intracoastal Waterway navigation, light ranges, weather patterns and cloud identification.

And in between it all, Capt. Greg Metcalf, owner of the Atlantic Captain’s Academy, and instructor Capt. Chris Davis, an ex-Coastie-turned-towboat-skipper, spun entertaining sea tales and bantered back and forth with the 12 students—nine would-be tuna charter captains, a mate with a family tour boat that runs on the New Jersey coast, and a couple of sailors—who had committed to this immersive experience, held in a hotel conference room on the banks of the Annisquam River in Gloucester, Massachusetts. 

That first day, a Sunday, as Metcalf outlined what we’d cover before taking four individual exams the following Sunday, he assured us of one thing: We’d make it through. ”Anyone know a charter captain?” he quipped. “Do they seem like rocket scientists?”

And then there were Davis’ two fundamental rules of ­navigation that we’d be reminded of again and again: “No. 1: Never hit bottom. No. 2: Never hit anyone else.”

Different Routes, Same Waypoint

There are all sorts of good ­reasons for mariners to ­consider becoming licensed captains. In the class that I took, several of the students were fishermen who had spent years on boats of all sizes, either chasing sport fish or fishing commercially. A license would allow them to take paying passengers out on charters, or it would let them command boats on which they’d been deckhands. A Maine lobsterman wanted to take tourists out on Sundays and charge them to haul traps on days when commercial lobstering isn’t permitted in that state. One woman, a school nurse, had summer jobs lined up driving launches out to islands off the Merrimac River. 

Me? I do some teaching at a sailing center in Boston, and a ticket would let me spend more time on the bigger boats and run an occasional charter. 

The basic license, Operator of Uninspected Passenger Vessels, is where it all starts. Sometimes called a “six-pack license,” it allows a holder to carry up to six passengers for hire in coastal waters. To qualify, besides passing the US Coast Guard exams, you need 360 documented days underway, 90 of which must have been in the past three years. The next step is to pursue Master credentials. At the Atlantic Captain’s Academy, this involves a two-day course on top of the OUPV curriculum. A Master allows you to captain a Coast Guard-inspected vessel with more than six passengers. The size of the boat and where it can be operated depends on your prior experience.

With various study options from which to choose, an eight-day in-classroom course worked the best for me. Setting aside a single solid chunk of time was easier to plan for than committing to a longer time frame, and the course in Gloucester was relatively close to where I live. Metcalf offers courses in several other New England locations, as well as online instruction.

Alternatively, Steve Wilson, the lead instructor at the Boston Sailing Center, who along with a friend had plans to be in Florida for the winter, opted to take one of Metcalf’s online programs that met in a Zoom classroom for three hours every Monday and Wednesday night for nine weeks, starting in January. When they returned to the Boston area in late spring, they and most of their Zoom-mates met in Maine for a day to take the proctored exams for OUPV credentials.

“Anyone who embraces Zoom technology and can learn that way, it’s awesome,” Wilson says. Before each class, he spent time becoming familiar with the material in Metcalf’s textbook, and after each class, he and his partner spent additional hours studying, working through exercises, and taking practice tests. He estimates that involved another 12 or so hours a week, sometimes a bit more. Near the end of the course, Metcalf held two optional weekend study days, and he was available throughout to answer questions over the phone or by email, Wilson says. 

During the online course, students had ample time to get to know one another, Wilson says, and his classmates came from a variety of backgrounds, as was the case with my class. A few of the students in his class were auditing the course with no intention of taking the exam at the end. They just wanted to learn the material to become better boat operators.

Cruising Solo

While the Atlantic Captain’s Academy and many other schools across the country offer a variety of schedules that employ Coast Guard-approved curricula to help mariners earn their credentials, they aren’t required. 

Tim Murphy, a CW editor-at-large and a New England-based marine journalist, first earned his OUPV credential when he was 18 and living in New Orleans. In high school, he’d signed up as a trainee on the brigantine Young America and was invited back as a volunteer. That, in turn, led to a six-month job crewing, so he was at sea every day and able to rack up 180 days of sea time. Meanwhile, his family was living aboard, and with them, he sailed all throughout the Bahamas, so in a period of three years, he had all the sea days needed.

Murphy says that a car ­accident during the summer after his senior year left him idle for a few months, so he spent the time studying and memorizing Chapman Piloting & Seamanship. He also used flash cards his father had employed while earning his own license to memorize all the mnemonics sailors rely on to remember navigation rules. Then he walked into Coast Guard headquarters and passed the tests. A year later, when he turned 19, the minimum age for Master credentials, he qualified for a license allowing him to captain vessels up to 100 tons, 200 miles offshore.

Murphy let his ticket expire in the 1990s, but in 2018, after buying hisPassport 40, Billy Pilgrim, with the intention of going off cruising with his partner, he decided to renew his credentials and used a few texts the boat’s previous owner had left to prepare on his own again.

“It was so hard,” he says with a laugh. “It was really hard.” But ultimately successful. Murphy again now holds those same Master’s credentials and will be able to use them if the opportunity arises in his travels.

By the Book

Back in the hotel in Gloucester for Day Two, we spent more time going over currents and tides, and then many hours poring over navigation rules. That night, we went home to review navigation general material—buoys, lights, weather—and took a practice test that we corrected in class the next day.

Day Three was all about mnemonics. “Red over red, captain is dead,” meaning the lights displayed on a vessel not under command. “Red over white, a fishing boat at night,” meaning a commercial fishing boat not trawling. “Red over green, sailing machine,” meaning a sailboat displaying its masthead tricolor. They were endless. “Turn to port, go to court,” meaning what action to take as a give-way power vessel in a crossing situation.

There were horn signals to memorize, whistles, gongs and bells. All followed by practice quizzes and more practice quizzes. Ditto on Day Four.

On Thursday, Capt. Davis had us roll out the paper charts and grab our Weems & Plath plotting tools and dividers for a three-day deep dive into current set and drift, plotting, dead reckoning, speed, fuel—you name it. I’m not sure I’d ever used up an entire eraser before.

Then finally, on Sunday, it was the day of reckoning, with exams in Navigation General, Chart Plotting, Rules of the Road, and Deck General. Navigation and Deck required minimum scores of 70 percent. The other two, 90 percent.

It was intense. It was challenging. But in the end, Metcalf was right: It was doable. 

That afternoon, a few of us stuck around to study and take an add-on exam for a towing endorsement. And a couple of weeks later, most of us turned up for the two-day Master’s course. Two of us also opted for sailing endorsements.

So what’s the plan? Well, that’s still in the works. But already my Inland Waters Master credentials have earned me a few bucks and provided some new opportunities. And one thing I know for certain after a full summer on the water is that I’m definitely a better and more knowledgeable sailor. For that alone, it was well worth the effort. 

Mark Pillsbury is a CW editor-at-large.

The post Plot a Course for Captain Credentials appeared first on Cruising World.

Since their advent in the early 20th century, diesel engines have been refined to a state of near perfection. Most are robust, reliable and long-lived, provided they receive preventive maintenance, clean fuel, cooling water, and air for combustion. 

When they do fail, the problem can usually be traced to a handful of culprits: deferred maintenance (a deteriorated impeller or broken belt, for instance) or contaminated or interrupted fuel, with the latter including air ingestion, an electrical fault, or a design or manufacturing defect. 

This column focuses on fuel plumbing. Fuel is usually conveyed from the tank to the engine via flexible hose; in some cases, it’s via copper tubing. Any hose that’s used must be rated for marine fuel applications, including the ability to resist exposure to flame for a minimum of 2.5 minutes. Hose that meets this requirement is typically marked USCG A1. It should also include the name of the manufacturer, as well as the date it was manufactured. If any of this information is absent, particularly the A1 rating, then the hose is disqualified for use in a marine fuel application.

A section of flexible hose must be used between the tubing and the engine, and the tubing must be immobilized against engine vibration and gear shifting. For this transition location from metallic tube to hose, the interface cannot be direct. Put another way, the hose cannot simply be clamped over the tube. The tube must instead be flared, and a flare-to-hose fitting should be used. 

Termination of fuel hoses is most often achieved by using common pipe-to-hose adapters and hose clamps. While welcomed, double clamps are not required, at least where American Boat and Yacht Council compliance is concerned. 

In fuel-supply applications, double clamps should be used only if the adapter is long enough to support both clamps with room to spare. If the adapter is not long enough to support dual clamps, then a single (preferably solid rather than perforated) band clamp should be used.

One caveat where this practice is concerned: Some adapters are designed to be used without clamps. They are often differentiated from conventional adapters by a plastic collar. The barbs on these adapters are especially aggressive; if clamped, they can pierce the hose’s inner liner, leading to leaks and delamination, and interrupting the fuel supply. And these adapters can be used only with hose designed and labeled for the application. 

The other form of hose termination utilizes a clamped or swaged in-place fitting. Clamped or field-assembled fittings are available in brass and plated mild steel. Brass fittings are reasonably priced and corrosion-resistant. Mild-steel fittings are cost-effective but should be corrosion-inhibited after they are installed. When installing these fittings, a proprietary installation mandrel must be used to prevent damage to the hose liner, which could ultimately create a blockage. 

Swaged fittings require the use of a swaging tool, and thus are poorly suited for do-it-yourself projects. If you know the lengths you need and the end-fitting types, you can have a batch of hoses swaged by a commercial hose shop.

Fuel-fill hose must also be rated and marked for the application. It calls for an A2 rating. In this case, double clamps are not only recommended, but they are required for ABYC compliance. This is one of only two applications where double clamps are mandated, with the other being exhaust hose.

Steve D’Antonio offers services for boat owners and buyers through Steve D’Antonio Marine Consulting.

The post Monthly Maintenance: The Importance of Proper Fuel Plumbing for Diesel Engines appeared first on Cruising World.

With 345 gallons of fresh water, my 50-foot schooner, Britannia, has larger-than-­average tankage. The boat has two heads, each with a washbasin and shower, and a pressure pump as powerful as a house supply. Unfortunately, with ­only an 11-gallon hot-water tank, my hot water runs out quickly, especially if both showers are used at the same time. And if the hot runs out, you’re on your own, so to speak.

Britannia’s hot-water tank is the square Kuuma model, sold by just about everyone in the marine-supply business. Eleven gallons might sound like a lot to boats that have the smaller, 6-gallon version, but neither delivers its full capacity of hot water to a shower or sink faucet. This is because as the hot is drawn off, it is replaced with cold (ambient) from the boat’s tankage. This process dilutes the remaining hot, so by the time about half of the hot is used up, the rest is somewhat lukewarm. Of course, it helps to leave the electric element on, and even to run the engine to compensate for this loss, but that might not be practical every time.

This problem was exposed recently when we had four guests staying aboard who were new to boating. I had to explain (tactfully, of course) that they were on a boat, not in a house, and the hot water wouldn’t run endlessly. I suggested that only one morning shower should be taken at a time; otherwise, there would be a good chance of someone finishing with a cold rinse. It was embarrassing for me to have to admit that, even though my schooner has just about everything that a house has—a washer/dryer, freezer, fridge, air conditioning, 120-volt power in all rooms—it is woefully lacking in hot-water capacity. I therefore decided to look into rectifying the deficiency.

Another reason I wanted to increase the hot-water capacity was more personal. Britannia has a full-size bathtub in the aft cabin head. Many boats of Britannia’s size have bathtubs, but mine is not just any old tub; it has 10 power jets, making it a hot tub. The idea is to fill the bath with hot water now and again for a long soak. I actually consider this to be more important than the shower issue, because how many times do we have guests staying over and wanting dual morning showers compared with me enjoying a British pint in a massaging hot tub after a hard day’s work on the boat? 

For this, I needed to generate 50 gallons of water at a temperature of 102 degrees, and if that could be achieved, the shower problem would solve itself. (I only ever used the hot tub when tied up to a dock. Using it at anchor could be interesting when a big powerboat zooms past and bucket-loads of hot water slosh all over the floor.)

The heater supplied with this tub worked for only a few baths before burning out because it was intended to keep bathwater warm after it had been filled from a home’s hot-water tank. What I needed was a heater with enough power to heat a bath full of water from ambient cold to 102 ­degrees Fahrenheit. I learned that this could be achieved only with a 240-volt heater of considerable wattage.

My present marina berth has only one 120-volt, 30-amp outlet, so my first thought was, Could that somehow be converted to give 240 volts to run just a water heater? The answer, from much more knowledgeable electricians than me, was no. Not without the risk of blowing all the breakers in the marina.

I looked at propane-gas heaters, also called tankless water heaters. Those that are capable of supplying water at 102 degrees are quite large and need to vent their hot exhaust to the outside. Also, the boat has storage for only one propane tank, whose contents would be quickly used up.

INSTALLATION

To at least solve the shower problem, I decided to install a second 11-gallon water heater. I’d hoped, with two heating elements and double the engine calorifier capacity, that it would be enough to fill the bath. 

Britannia is a long-keel, full-volume hull with an amazingly deep 5-foot bilge stretching 27 feet from the stern gland to the chain locker, and housing all the other machinery as well. It is more like a long engine room than a bilge. The existing heater tank sat on a raised platform in this cavity. 

I removed the tank and its platform. Then I built a new one lower down in the bilge. I then positioned the new heater on top of the old one and piped them together in series. It was a welcome change to be able to work on the two tanks while they were sitting on the salon sole instead of having to hang upside down like a blind bat in some dingy cave. While doing this, I also replaced the electric immersion heater element, which was in the old tank when I bought it 12 years ago. 

Both units were then lowered into position using a tackle strapped to the overhead handrail supports. The engine’s hot-water outlet pipe was connected to “hot water in” on the lower tank, then from “hot water out,” it was connected to the top heater’s “hot water in,” then from “hot water out” to the return on the engine. This setup ensured a continuous flow of nearly boiling engine water pumped through both heat exchangers because water is heated in the tank in two conventional ways: from a 120-volt immersion heater ­element inside the tank, which takes about 20 minutes, and from hot water in the engine being pumped through heat exchanger coils inside the tank. Both methods can be used at the same time. Away from a dock, the boat’s 6.5 kW generator can also be used to produce 120 volts for the immersion heater element.

I also installed a stop valve on the engine-outlet pipe to close off the heater circuit and allow the engine to initially come to operating temperature more quickly. Ideally, valves should be installed at the engine fittings for both supply and return, to isolate the water heater and hoses, in the event of a leak.

Cold water from the boat’s freshwater tanks was pumped through the pressure pump to “cold water in” on the bottom unit, then from “hot water out” to “cold water in” on the top heater, and from “hot water out” to the hot water manifold, and from there to all the boat’s outlets, including both showers and the bathtub hot faucet. 

Britannia has two shore-power receptacles supplying two separate distribution panels. These split the load of some of the higher electrical draws, such as the twin AC units and the washer/dryer. I reconnected the original wiring and installed new wiring to the top heater through a breaker on the second panel. The reason for wiring the two heater elements separately is to balance the load over two panels, and to not overload the existing wiring to the original water heater.

In my present berth, with only one 120-volt supply, I use a splitter to interconnect these two panels, but if we go somewhere where there are two 30-amp outlets, I can plug them in separately. I also have a 50-amp plug and splitter for use where the larger amperage is available. Flexibility is integral on a boat with so much electrical demand.

THE DAY OF RECKONING

After all these shenanigans, both units were finally installed, wired and plumbed, and it was time to test my hydroelectrical engineering theories.

I first switched on both heater elements, and the gauge showed a discharge of 22 amps from the single 30-amp shore supply. I closed the shutoff valve, started the engine, and set it to run at 1,500 rpm, its normal cruising revs. When the engine reached its operating temperature of 180 degrees Fahrenheit, I opened the shutoff valve to allow hot engine water to be pumped through both calorifier tubes. I had to remind myself that the engine was now having to heat 22 gallons of water, which took 40 minutes. 

The thermostat on the heater elements is set at 140 degrees, and it’s nonadjustable. Therefore, when the engine raised the temperature above this temperature in the tanks, the electrical side switched itself off. I ran some hot water into one of the washbasins, and it was 178 degrees, so cold would need to be added for a shower. The increased capacity therefore solved the twin shower issue, but would it be enough to fill the bath with piping-hot water for a long soak? 

I opened the bathtub’s hot-water faucet fully, then watched and waited. Scalding-hot water crept slowly up the sides of the bath until water from the faucet slowly began to cool, as both tanks depleted their hot water. 

This was evidently running out faster than the engine and immersion heaters could reheat it. I let the cooling hot water continue to run in as it slowly lowered the overall temperature. The engine and electronics must have wondered what was happening to their valiant efforts to keep the water in the tanks at a steady temperature.

As the bath became almost full, the water was still too hot at 110 degrees, so I switched the hot tap off and cooled it to 102 degrees with the addition of cold water. 

I then climbed into the luxuriously warm water and switched on the jets. On the first speed, there is only moderate action, but on the second speed, it really belts it out and nicely massages an aching back. I even fitted a holder on the wall for my beer glass because it would be a major disaster to have that tip over, even if in a marina berth. 

When I installed the bath, I obviously needed a means of emptying it. For the showers, I fitted automatic, self-contained shower draining units in each head, incorporating a float switch and pump in a plastic box. This setup pumps shower water overboard about as fast as it comes in, so there is never much standing water during a shower. 

Draining 50 gallons was an entirely different issue, and it would have taken ages through the shower drain. I solved this by fitting a changeover valve in the bath drainpipe and a pipe leading to the large diaphragm bilge pump. With the valve switched to bath discharge, the pump emptied all 55 gallons in 10 minutes flat.

When we have been out sailing and motor back to our berth, the water is usually piping hot, solely through the engine calorifier. We now have loads of hot water for virtually endless showers and a nice bath. The total cost of this project was $450 for the second heater, $22 for a new heater element, and $42 for extra connector fittings—a total of $514. It’s a small price to pay for the luxury of lovely hot showers and a fully ­operational hot tub.

Editor’s note: For all water heaters that are plumbed to engines, the temperature of the domestic water can approach that of the engine coolant, which clearly can be dangerous. For that reason, these water heaters should be equipped with tempering valves to lower the water temperature to a safe level. (For more info: cruisingworld.com/how/dont-land-hot-water/)

The post DIY Projects: Some Like It Hot appeared first on Cruising World.

Inspecting the condition of your rigging is an important step in safe-passage preparation, so going aloft is—or should be—on the maintenance shortlist of many cruisers. Does that sound like a glorious opportunity to gaze at your boat from an eagle’s-eye view or a nerve-racking ascent to avoid (or get over with as quickly as possible)? Maybe the reaction is, “Hell no, that’s a job for a rigger!” However you feel about going aloft, cruisers should be familiar with safe practices for ascending their boat’s mast(s). Here are some tips for doing it well.

Safety first

Going up the mast is serious business that requires good, proven equipment, safe practices, and an eye to knowing when not to defy gravity. If you question any of the safety checks described here, make a plan and go aloft only after addressing them.

Overview

Because humans are clever, there are a surprising number of ways to ascend toward the stars on a sailboat, such as sitting in a bosun’s chair, dangling in a harness, or climbing mast steps, whether solo or with a winch buddy. There is no best approach, just the one that works for you.

Make a plan

If doing a solo ascent, anticipate the necessary tools so you don’t have add a trip for that missing screwdriver. When assisted, discuss if you will inspect things on the way up or down, communication protocol, and line-handling technique.

What tools will you need, and how will you carry them? Items should be accessible and safely stowed. Jamie has a canvas bucket that slings onto the side of the bosun’s chair; it holds enough without being too deep to reach items easily. If you don’t usually put keepers on your sunglasses or eyeglasses, this is a good time to do so. Remember that even a small item dropped from aloft can have a much greater impact below. Crew on deck should stay away from the mast base when not actively raising or lowering the aloft person.

Unambiguous communication

Does stop mean soonish or, “My knee jammed between shrouds, and I will bleed if hoisted 1 millimeter farther”? Talk through the steps you plan to take. Will you stop at spreaders on the way up, the way down, or both? 

Assume you will not be able to hear each other without aid. If you have wireless headsets (called “marriage savers”) for anchoring, such as Bluetooth Sena headsets or 1.9 GHz Eartec headsets, this is a perfect additional use. A clipped-on handheld VHF on an unused channel is another option. Or simple earbuds or a headset and a phone are an easy hands-free alternative. There are even apps you can use to connect 1-to-1 without internet, such as by using NFC or your boat’s network. 

Good gear

Start with the device between the human and hoist mechanism. If using a harness, is it in good condition and at least reasonably comfortable? Same if it’s a bosun’s chair. Check that the mast steps aren’t corroded, the halyard isn’t chafed or UV-damaged, the winch is working well, and the rope clutch securely holds the line under load. Note that a winch self-tailing mechanism alone is not enough to secure a person aloft. We know of a fatality when the halyard slipped from a self-tailer and the rope clutch did not engage.

Lift mechanism

Use halyards or a boom topping lift, but not a spinnaker halyard (or other external halyards) as the primary hoist; it’s OK to use these as backup safety lines. Spinnaker halyards run through hanging external blocks, adding greater risk for failure. 

When Totem was in the Seychelles, new cruising friends asked for help after discovering a couple of broken wire strands on their 55-foot monohull and hired Jamie to inspect the rigging.  He was inclined to go up the mast—barely inclined, thanks to a sloppy anchorage and gusty trade winds. As Jamie started rigging the bosun’s chair, the owner grabbed the spinnaker halyard as the primary hoist for the ride up. Jamie said, “No, I don’t go up on spinnaker halyards.” The owner pleaded, and the wind blew too much to drop the furled main and headsail, so Jamie acquiesced. Upon reaching the masthead, the first thing Jamie checked was the external spinnaker halyard block—and he found a crack in the shackle. Next was the fastest controlled descent possible.

Make sure the halyard(s) are in good condition. If the halyard does not pass through a rope clutch, you must secure the tail to a cleat after the winch. A second halyard (with an additional person to tail it) acts as a safety line, just in case. 

Don’t use halyard shackles; they can fail, leading to catastrophe. Instead, tie halyards with a bow line. Consider bringing up a safety tether to clip to the mast if working at one spot for a while.

Test!

Before ascending, do a shock-load test. It’s free, easy and really good piece of mind. If going up in a chair or harness, hoist your ride a few feet above the deck, then bounce. Really throw your weight down into it. You want to check the shock load from a safe height, not one that can break bones or do neurological damage.

Electric winch?

No. Well, it’s hard to make this choice when push-button power is an option, as it turns out to be a lot of work to haul someone up the mast. But electric winches are powerful, and very bad things can happen very quickly. Power-winch accidents in hoisting scenarios have resulted in the loss of fingers and limbs. There is also the risk of not stopping at the masthead in time, so the trusty bow line jams or gets pulled into the halyard sheave. That can cause the line to fail, which is easier than you might think because electric winches work so quickly and powerfully. Clear, unambiguous communication with your partner becomes even more important. If you do go up with the power winch, the winch operator must use extreme caution.

Going up!

Take pictures while you’re up there. No, it’s not just to show how cool you look at the masthead. Get a lot of photos of the rig, both zoomed in (in focus) and panned for context. You might also find something unexpected to capture and examine later. Reviewing photos offers another opportunity to rig-check after the climb and spot things you might have missed.

Descend safely

Gravity is your friend—and your foe. It will make lowering you easier, but the ride down can feel uncomfortably jerky. To reduce jerkiness, the deck support crew should ease the line smoothly in 3-  to  4-inch sections rather than small increments. Be sure the eased halyard has a fair lead to the winch so there is no chance the line can jump over the end of the winch. 

The other contributing element for a smoother ride is being mindful of the number of wraps around a winch—too many, and it won’t ease smoothly. Usually, two wraps provide enough friction to hold the person’s weight while still letting the line slide around the winch as needed. If the weight feels like too much to hold easily, then add another wrap.

Remember that returning to deck level is more dangerous because the self-tailer and rope clutch are not used when easing.

The easiest inspection

Does it need to be said? It’s a lot safer and easier to inspect your rig components when they’re lying on sawhorses at ground level and not in the boat. This is the current state of Totem’s equipment, although we hope to have it back up again soon. We’re counting down to the boat’s splash…and sailing to Puerto Vallarta in December!

The post Sailing Totem: Safely Going Up the Mast appeared first on Cruising World.