Worried about leaving your boat unattended? Learn from a seasoned sailor's detailed preparations for safeguarding his vessel during short trips ashore. This article offers practical tips and real-life anecdotes highlighting the importance of vigilance for boat owners.
The post Leaving Her appeared first on ALL AT SEA.
One thing that scares me—after 64 years of living aboard and numerous circumnavigations—is leaving my boat. Most boat owners leave their boat often—when they return to their shoreside residences, for example. But the thought of leaving my vessel/home unguarded terrifies me—even leaving it for a few days or a few weeks.
Thus, I take precautions. I plan. I scheme. And I book a window seat on the starboard side of the plane on my return flight to Singapore so that, as we land at Changi Airport, I get a nice view of Ganesh, our 43-foot ketch, sitting on her mooring in Serangoon Harbor off the Changi Sailing Club.
Why so paranoid? Because over the last six plus decades, I’ve had my vessel broken into, looted, cast adrift, catch fire, drag anchor, struck by lightning, towed away by another vessel, break her mooring pennant, struck by other vessels both large and small, and almost sink to the point of submerging her engine, batteries, and most of her interior.
Whew!
Perhaps my paranoia isn’t paranoia but justifiable fear that—what’s that tee-shirt say, Poop Happens!
Of course, most of my life I’ve been too poor to travel ashore. My vessels have taken all the money I’ve ever earned, except for a few pennies my wife and I have used on needless extravagances such as, well, food.
But now I’m happy to report that, thanks to my book sales, we’ve got enough pennies to occasionally wander ashore. In 2023 we traveled to Malaysia, Thailand, Viet Nam, and a big, big island called America. These four two-week vacas from the longer vaca of our entire watery life lasted a little over two months in total.
Lucky us!
The first thing we do before leaving our beloved vessel is inspect its mooring and mooring pennant.
Our pennant is one-inch Nylon covered with thick vinyl hose and attaches to our vessel in three different places: two separate cleats (w/backing plates) and a massive mooring bit. The pennant runs through a strong bow roller with curved/flared smoother edges and a large diameter hard-rubber roller.
The next thing we do—besides making sure that both our roller furling headsail taglines are secure—is to lash our roller furlers themselves directly to our bow rail so that, even if the taglines break, our headsail won’t unroll.
Next, we reduce needless windage and double-lash our mainsail and mizzen covers over our sails.
Since we live aboard, our batteries and electrical system are well-monitored. We physically test our two automatic, independent bilge pumps and our separate bilge alarm (that is connected to an exterior light and alarm in the cockpit).
Next, we write a detailed instructional letter concerning how long we’ll be gone, how to get in touch with us, and all pertaining safety information concerning our vessel and its gear. We email this letter not only to the Changi Sailing Club, but to friends who will be around the harbor while we’re gone. (We have a combination lock on our companionway, with its (disguised) combo hidden in the cockpit.)
In addition, we hand-deliver a copy of this missive to the boatmen who run the club launch who are going by Ganesh dozens of times a day. (Yes, they know most sailboats sink bow-down initially. And since they know we’re gone, they often glance at our boot top at the bow to confirm she’s on her lines.)
If, for any reason, one of these splendid fellows (they really are wonderful, concerned guys) should need to go below; as per the instructional letter, a physical string will lead them to the bilge pump switches, electrical gear, access to the bilge, and other items/areas they might need directing to in an emergency or sinking.
On the day of leaving, we awake early, brush our teeth and eat our breakfast. Then we pump our bilge, shut off many-but-not-all seacocks (not our bilge pump valves), and then visually inspect that all heads, sinks, and seacocks aren’t leaking.
We leave our dinghy in the davits, removing anything within it that could possibly plug its open drain hole. And, finally, we shut off our propane tank and run the stove burner out of fuel in case we’re struck by lightening. (We’ve been struck a number of times already in Singapore, which is the lightning capital of the intertropical convergence zone.
Our folding bikes ashore have already been oiled, tire pressure topped off, and placed in a dry, secure location.
Crazy to devote this much detail to what landlubbers do without thinking? I don’t think so. Landlubbers are oblivious. I’m an offshore sailor who is hyper aware. That’s why I’m still alive after all these miles sailed. I’ve spent my entire life around water without major injury (and without having gills) precisely because I realize that I live in a foreign environment 24/7.
Vigilance is, indeed, the price of cruising freedom.
One thing we never do just before leaving is any major change—no matter how innocent.
In the mid 1970s, my wife Carolyn and I wanted to go to our family’s mega-Thanksgiving feast in Western Massachusetts but a frigid cold front was approaching. So, I hastily winterized (drained the saltwater from) my brand-new diesel on my brand-new, self-constructed boat in Revere’s Saugus River. Then we left for three days.
We’d just recently launched the boat and it was so new that it wasn’t even ballasted yet.
When we returned to the Boston area, Carolyn dropped me off to work at Marine Hardware on Atlantic Ave, then proceeded home to Carlotta.
The moment she saw the boat from North Shore Road, she panicked. She came skidding into Archie’s Marina, screaming that her boat was sinking. All the harbor lay-abouts looked out at our vessel and figured Carolyn was delusional because Carlotta sat perfectly on her lines.
Carolyn was correct, of course. Without ballast, Carlotta should have been floating nine inches higher on her lines—not right on them. Our diesel was completely underwater, along with our personal effects and dozens of expensive bits and pieces we hadn’t even installed yet.
What had happened? On this boat, we’d put a newfangled water-injected cutlass bearing. When I’d shut off the seacock and winterized the diesel, I’d forgotten about this tiny little saltwater hole inside my propeller tube. And it almost sank us in only 72 hours.
This stupid mistake cost us about one year of our combined incomes, plus extended the boatbuilding project by another three or four months.
All because I was a stupid punk kid who didn’t pay attention to details! (To this day, my grievous error rankles.)
Life offers choices. Each choice has a consequence. Usually these consequences aren’t too serious—occasionally, they are very serious.
In my hands-on world, this is known as the onset of maturity.
Yes, poop happens. I didn’t think the French ferry captain would run over my anchor rode because to do so would endanger both his ferry and its passengers. Little did I know about French ferry captains!
I didn’t think I’d ever be hit by two vessels at one time while at anchor in fog—but, of course, I was. (One was towing the other and throttled back as he scraped over my anchor rode—knowing his towed vessel wouldn’t make it… Then the current swept them both down at me… at the same time… one striking my boat on the starboard side while I, naked and half-asleep, attempted to fend him off… as the other vessel struck the portside in the fog… and I thought to myself, WTF?
…why me, Lord?
Have you ever visited a seaside resort town where the local hooligans wait for an out-going tide while getting drunk—then go to the marinas and untie every vessel on both sides of the river?
Alas, I have.
Yes, poop happens.
Or a vessel comes into your anchorage and attempts to anchor while dragging around the harbor with little scope. Then they decide that anchoring is impossible and steams back out to sea with the anchor hanging awash from the bowsprit—and your vessel’s anchor fouled within the mess in such a manner that the oblivious skipper tows you out to sea thinking he is being followed too closely by your vessel.
I have, in the early 1980s, in St. Augustine, Florida.
Oh, poop most certainly happens!
I remember that powerboat in Antigua that came alongside Don Street’s engineless Iolaire sailing into the harbor. Confused, Don eased his jib and refused the offer of a tow—not knowing that one of the stinkpotters had ‘grabbed a line’ which was the jib’s tagline and hooked it around a cleat. Then, when the stinkpotter roared away, Don’s headsail rolled up and tang-tang-tangled as the tagline snapped.
And Poor Don, who’d been perfectly fine before the potential towboat had arrived, drifted on to a sandbar.
Yeah, poop happens.
One day in Chicago, I got a call that someone had stolen my classic double-ender Corina. I couldn’t believe it. I left work, sped to its empty slip, and stared at the hole in the water dumbly—realizing how stupid I was because this was the only place on the planet I knew my boat wasn’t!
While not being a Sherlock Holmes, I knew enough to drive down-current a couple of miles and then swim out to what was left of her on a sandbar. (She’d been looted by a mean gang of thieves who preferred to take their time while drifting. Why “mean?” Because, when they couldn’t easily remove my instrument panel, they smashed each of its gauges with a hammer.)
Grrrrrr!
Anyway, dear ALL AT SEA reader—you get the point.
Poop happens, especially in thin water.
On a more positive note, most of the offshore miles during our four circs have been relatively stress-free—it’s land and its inhabitants that are the major vexation of a modern sea gypsy, not Mother Ocean.
Editor’s note: Fatty and Carolyn just spent two weeks meditating on Koh Samui, Thailand—meditating mostly on the extremely poor marital choice Carolyn made as a young girl.
The post Leaving Her appeared first on ALL AT SEA.
