Day 1
Noon Position: 35.40.61N, 124.45.32W
Course: SW
Speed: 7 knots
Wind: 18 – 24 NW
Sail: Single reefed jib; double reefed main.
Bar: 1018
Sea: NW 6
Sky: Full Cloud
Temp: 63
Miles since departure: 145
The Figure 8 Voyage has begun. MO and I departed Horseshoe Cove at 1pm yesterday and sailed into a fog bank that immediately erased the point on which my wife and friends stood. I turned to wave one last time and found that abruptly they were gone.
Brisk winds under the bridge backed off even before Mile Rock, and Mo, heavy with her year’s supply, was sluggish and slow as she climbed out of the slot. The small fleet of friends accompanying us to sea, Heather Richard in her lovely aluminum sloop loaded with a film crew, John Woodworth in OWL, Randy Liesure in TORTUGA, and an unknown well-wisher in ERGO, pealed off outstide Point Bonita and we made our slow way over the bar where the fog lifted but the sky stayed lead.
MO and I tacked west in search of the NW sea breeze, which we found half way to the Farallons, and here I eased sheets and made our course SW.
Tired. Relieved. Apprehensive. Queasy. Sad. Cold.
Departures are difficult for me, but usually they are done in private and at my own pace. No previous departure has prepared me for this. To leave the company of my wife … for a year … by choice. The pursuit of one dream requires the suspension of others, and I am finding painful what I know must be suspended while I am away and what is risked by going.
As the sky darkened I forced down a can of soup. By 8pm, I began my sleep cycle. Ships everywhere, so sleep was brief and fitful, though what there was, welcome.
MO rounded up at midnight, From my bunk I could feel her quicken, and on deck I found the Monitor paddle had popped out of its locked position. Re-locked. An hour later, same. I put MO on autopilot until morning and returned my attention to sleep and shipping.
Several experiments today have not revealed why the locking lever loosens. It is new and beefed up especially for the coming enterprise. But I have decided to make miles today rather than heave to for repair. Winds go very light in this sector in two days, and if I push hard I may be able to get just S and W enough to miss the worst of the coming calm.
By 10am today, Black Footed Albatross and water that is clear and blue even under this heavy sky indicate that we are truly at sea. The last ship, PELICAN STATE, is now to the S on its way to Los Angeles. San Simeon is 115 miles E. The Figure 8 is ahead.
It’s a strange feeling being the wife of an adventurer. Strange because in the preparation stage you’ve been beside your husband. Beside him during those first tentative and curious conversations about an idea that seemed utterly insane and completely amazing. Beside him during the endless discussions about this boat or that boat when trying to pick the perfect boat for the voyage. Beside him while having your heart break when you realize that your old boat Murre, a boat so full of memories will be sold and off on new adventures with new owners. Beside him, all the way through to the constant knock at the door from the Amazon delivery guy with cases of soup stacked so high it makes you a little ill, to the tiniest lightest box with a part so small inside it makes you wonder. Beside him every step of the way.
And yet, on Saturday October 28th 2017, as the wife of an adventurer, my physical place by Randall’s side will cease. I’ll be standing on the San Francisco shore watching him sail under the Golden Gate Bridge. How I will feel at that moment, I’m not entirely sure, but I have a hunch.
“How are you ok with this?” “You’re letting him go, alone, for a year?” “Aren’t you going with him?”
These are the most frequent questions I get from Randall’s startled admirers. Startled mostly because I exist at all. Most of the sailors he knows think I’m a figment of his imagination! Shocked that not only am I supportive of this idea but a driving force behind it. As they are the most common questions, I thought I’d go on the record with some answers.
How are you ok with this?
You see, I’m a huge fan of any enormous, life-changing idea. I was at a cocktail party recently, and a guest who knew me told another person, “Be careful sitting next to Joanna. If you have an interesting idea, she might convince you to do it.” I could go on about life being short and how playing it safe is just boring, but my motivation is much more about the journey. We all struggle with figuring out WHAT we’re supposed to do with our time on the planet. Most of us have no idea and are just looking. Randall’s known since he was about 10. I figure it’s about time he went out and did what he’s supposed to do.
Aren’t you going with him?
If you follow me on social media, you’ll know that I’m liberal with the hashtag #roadwarriorprincess. The key part of that phrase is “princess.” When Randall was 10 he was getting starry-eyed about the ocean. I had the slightly over-the-top experience of staying in a luxury hotel in Monaco. That experience in French Riviera solidified with many fabulous vacations since has decided a future for me that includes adventures with fabulousness. A year at sea with no shower, no fresh fruit and veggies, and in several occasions freezing temperatures capped with no sleep does NOT sound like fun to me. It is certainly not fabulous and not fitting of a princess.
You’re letting him go, alone, for a year?
Haven’t you said recently, “I can’t believe it’s been a year?” Yes, it’s a long time, and yet it’s not a long time. I do not doubt that there will be moments that seem to go on forever for us both; however, at the year I have no doubt we’ll both say, “That went by so fast!”
Of course, there is far more depth to all these questions and more to say. If you liked hearing from “the wife at home” about my experiences during Randall’s adventures, let me know. I’m thinking of making a post on the Figure 8 Voyage a regular thing.
My hunch on my reaction on launch day? You’re only going to get humor and sass from me. Why? I’m British. Being publically emotional and deep for British people is just bad manners, and we don’t do it. So as I stand on the sea wall on Saturday waving goodbye to Randall, I will be doing my very best not to cry in front of anyone. Trying to pull off the best acting job I’ve done in my life. Pretending that I won’t miss having Randall banging around the house every morning. Telling people I won’t miss our often ridiculous and hilarious conversations at the dinner table. Not admitting that I will stand in his closet once in awhile taking deep breaths, just to remember his smell. Nope, I’ll probably crack a completely inappropriate joke and tell everyone who stands still long enough how proud I am of what Randall is doing. I’m counting the days until I see him again.
Randall, my one request to you. Come back to me.
A message from John Woodworth read, “Day before departure and I see Moli is missing her prop.”
Indeed, Mo is again on the hard at KKMI Boatyard where, on Thursday, I extracted her propeller, shaft, and thrust bearing two days before she was to sail under the Golden Gate Bridge.
New Figure 8 departure date: October 28.
What’s going on?
Here’s the back-story.
In August, when I hauled the boat to inspect her rudder and drivetrain, I found that the plain bearing that carries the after end of the propeller shaft had failed. The material, a soft metal alloy called Babbitt, had fractured in several places.
View of the inside of the old Babbitt bearing. Note fractures in the casing.
By today’s standards, Mo’s drivetrain is ancient technology. Instead of the standard stuffing box and water-cooled cutlass bearing arrangement, Mo’s propeller shaft passes through a long tube filled with grease. Two plain bearings (no moving parts) hold the shaft in place, and two lip seals at each end of the tube hold the grease in and the water out. This was cutting edge machinery when the Model-T came rolling off the line but is now only found on old fishboats.
How this shaft bearing had failed was unclear, but I decided to update the old Babbitt with a high-tech plastic called Vesconite, a product that is used as bearing material by the tugboats in the Bay Area.
While everything was apart, I also decided to replace the thrust bearing.
Once back in the water, problems with the drivetrain began immediately. The shaft tube spat its grease into the bilge after only a few hours of operation, and on one occasion, I heard the shaft squeak as it rotated. I also noted that the new thrust bearing wobbled slightly and got warmer (160 degrees Fahrenheit after several hours of hard motoring) than I thought warranted.
I’ve been working the problem with Mo in the water these last weeks. Did I damage the lip seals while installing the new shaft? Had I popped them by pumping too much grease in the tube? Had I used the wrong grease? Had I damaged the thrust bearing while pressing it in place; was the press a straight one? Most importantly, could I live with these issues for the duration of the Figure 8, including 5,000 miles of mostly motoring in the Arctic?
All this was happening in the run-up to departure. Food, water, and fuel were aboard; charts had been audited and augmented where necessary; new electronics were installed and tested. Mo was otherwise ready and the season, getting on; so, I decided to worry about this problem later. I bought great quantities of grease and explored places to haul the boat in New Foundland when I arrived in the spring of next year.
But the last straw was plucked from my confidence when I noted the new thrust bearing, a non-serviceable part, was spitting its own grease. I had another look at Figure 8 weather windows and, after a conference with Joanna, decided a two-week delay here carried less risk than a departure with such problems below the waterline.
So, we moved Mo’s sailing date from October 15 to October 28, and I hauled the boat last Wednesday.
As Mo slid into her slings, I thought I was looking to solve two problems, a leaky grease tube and a leaky thrust bearing. However, a third issue quickly made itself evident: the new plastic bearing had melted.
New Vesconite bearing going in back in August.
Vesconite bearing as found last week. Note scoring.
Thomas Merton never reached deeper into his soul than have I these last days. With so few moving parts, disassembled with the help of Caleb at KKMI and now laid out singularly on a table, one would think the problem to be as evident as a pot-hole on a country road.
It is not. Bent shaft? Nope. Misaligned shaft? Nope. Injured lip seals? Nope. Bearing swell due to exposure to grease and water? Nope. Wrong tolerances for the new bearing? Unlikely, as work was done by a professional shop. Wrong grease (Calcium-based axel grease)? Maybe, but unlikely to be the cause of such extreme failure.
Dave at The Prop Shop checking the shaft for true with a dial indicator.
Lacking a definitive culprit and with no time for further experimentation, I’ve decided to ditch the new technology in favor of the old. Though I have a spare Vesconite bearing, I’m having a new bearing machined from Babbitt. On Friday, I visited RotoMetals in San Leandro and bought nine-pounds of Babbitt ingots, and on Monday, Dave at the Propeller Shop will pour and then machine a new bearing to meet the exact specifications of the bearing that has worked in Mo for 30 years.
Nine pounds of Babbit ingots plus their elemental breakdown.
And with that done successfully, the Figure 8 will be back on schedule…
Nope. Not expired. Neither the sailor nor the project.
Rather, a long absence from this site indicates that both have been, as can be imagined, busy. The former is readying self and boat for an extended voyage while the latter, said voyage, keeps creating previously unimagined urgencies that translate into yet more items on the task list, a list that refuses to shrink no matter how much gets done. Which is to say, things are progressing about as they have for pretty much every expedition, ever.
Being a recovering procrastinator with plenty of experience at foregoing until the morrow the anchor-weighing scheduled for today, I have given myself a wide sail-away window, simply stated as “the first part of October.” But even by this measure, I am well within 60 days of quitting the shore for a very long cruise. Necessarily, blogging has had to be deprioritized for a time, to be picked up again prior to departure as/if things ease off but more likely after the adventure commences.
I have been posting daily progress reports to FaceBook here, so, not all is silence.
While I’ve got your attention, let me say how grateful I am for your contributions to my Virtual Stowaway Go Fund Me campaign. I’d like to send video updates from sea while on the Figure 8, an expensive proposition, and I’ve been humbled by your interest in my project and your generosity. Most importantly, we’re getting close to the final number. Last month, media tech company, WideOrbit, offered to match contributions toward the goal, which has really accelerated our progress. So, thank you to WideOrbit and to you.
Well, since you’ve made it this far, here are a few project updates…
Moli was hauled in June by the good folks at KKMI, the rudder was removed and the propeller shaft, propeller, and stern-tube bearings were all replaced. This began as an inspection job only, but one should not go looking for problems without some expectation of finding them. In this case, the bearings were worn beyond salvage, and the 30-year old feathering propeller had several broken teeth. So, better to start fresh with high-tech Vesconite bearings and a new, four-blade propeller from Variprop. While at it, I rebuilt the Aquadrive thrust bearing.
Mo is back in the water and I’ve just returned from a couple days of put-putting around the bay at high revs and into stiff breezes and chop (an imitation of the Northwest Passage to come). Thus far the new propeller is delivering a much-needed boost in power and the rest of the drive train appears to be operating as should.
Provisioning is now mostly complete, though food-stuffs are still clogging up the living room. This week, I’ll build out storage lockers in the forepeak and begin migrating boxes and bags to the boat, much to the relief of my wife, who wants her house back.
I’m now living aboard several days a week, am sleeping in the bunk I’ll use when on the Figure 8, cooking on the new stove, re-organizing the galley, testing-out the new electronics, tweaking the rig. Mo is in a berth that allows us to come and go at will for tests of various gear. It’s time to start imagining the boat on the move. We’re getting close to the starting line…
“What are the chances you won’t be ready?” asked my wife one evening.
It’s not crunch time yet, but it’s getting close. My first-of-October departure is now less than four months out, and though many, many items have been crossed off the expansive (to be kind) list, the items undone still trail to the floor. I’ll admit I’m getting nervous. At this point in the project, I’d like to be packing lockers, studying charts, testing gear; instead, I’m still tearing stuff apart.
“Zero,” I said. “The question is how much won’t get done before I go. I’ve got to ensure none of it is critical.”
This is what plays out in every adventure book I’ve ever read. Said adventurer, whether he be Shakelton or Tilman and regardless of experience, resource or expedition size, finds himself in a rush at the end. On that morning that his mooring lines slip from the bollard and his bow turns toward the horizon, he can only hope he’s not forgotten his sea boots.
–
For a week I was able to work on deck, a real privilege after messing about with fuel tanks and wire runs.
Where the mast passes through the deck, I installed a gasket of Spartite. The rubber shims that had held the stick in her partners for 30 years didn’t survive my mangling of them when stepping the mast in Homer, and from below I watched as she pumped and whined all the way across the Pacific. This would not do in the more serious winds of the deep south.
The rebuilt furlers, now slick as snot, were installed into their headsail foils, new halyards and sheets were whipped and run, and the sails were bent on. I tuned and then retuned the rig.
Moli looked like a rocket ship again and even went for a couple quick sails in the estuary, one with Robin Sodaro of HOOD Sails in Sausalito, whom I’m excited to announce as the Figure 8’s newest sponsor (more on which soon).
That fun past, it was time to dive back into Mo’s interior. While in Hawaii last summer, I’d spotted some hull corrosion below the insulation in the galley, and had vowed then to inspect the other below-the-waterline areas of the boat when I got home. “Inspect” here entails ripping out insulation, polishing the hull, inserting a plastic spacer (to allow air circulation between insulation and hull) and new insulation, a not insignificant commitment of time.
Another vow from Hawaii was to inspect the water tanks and measure their contents. Mo carries all her water in two large tanks in the keel, the forward of which had a habit of putting brownish sediment into my drinking glass on rougher days. Once open I found that brown sludge cowering in the bottom (easily vacuumed out), but the tanks were otherwise clean. Great.
Filling the tanks with a flow meter showed one to contain 95 gallons and the other, 101.
With luck, that will be it for interior jobs for a while. Next up? Mo was hauled at KKMI last Friday so we can drop the rudder and have a look at the post and prop shaft…
After days with my head in Mo’s bilge or the now typical 3 a.m. wake-and-worry, I sometimes need a pick-me-up, a reminder that this part of the process does, in fact, lead to the launching of a ship into that wild blue yonder, a thing for which both ship and sailor yern.
In years past, I would have reached for a much-thumbed copy of The Long Way or Ice with Everything or any of a number of friendly volumes just to the right of the chair. Recently, however, I’ve been rereading my logs from previous voyages. Read More
“Great literature is nothing more than an extended complaint,” said my good friend Dr. David R. Kelton. “Dante’s Inferno, Hamlet, For Whom the Bell Tolls, and all of quality in between, can be seen as but artfully woven epics upon the theme of ‘Oh, woe is me.'”
This lesson came in response to my missive titled, “Dammit, I am so tired of boat work!” in which I made the case that moral and physical ruin would soon issue from Moli’s seven-day-a-week refit schedule.
To me, writing up the adventure is half the fun of having it. Sinking the land, being entirely, irretrievably at sea, is like breaking earth’s orbit and entering beautiful, untresspassed, limitless space. It’s not just freeing, it’s exhilarating, and those who have followed my previous passages know this transition tends to light the afterburner on my keyboard.
But for the Figure 8, I’d like to take adventure communications to the next level. I’d like to (please forgive the mixed metaphor) stream from sea.
During this expedition, I’ll be visiting some of the remotest places on the planet, the wild Southern Ocean, the Arctic’s Northwest Passage, places less frequented than the summit of Mount Everest.
And for this attempt, I’m shooting to send back video reports of the voyage as it happens.
Amazingly, this is possible.
Yes, satellite solutions exist that allow small yachts like mine to transmit and even stream video from these remote places. But the technology is expensive, is well beyond my means.
So, I’m excited to announce the launch of a Go Fund Me campaign targeted at allowing you to join me as a “virtual stowaway” on the Figure 8 Voyage.
Want to stay connected to the journey as it unfolds? Please visit my Go Fund Me page below.
Many thanks to the folks at Latitude 38 for their May 2017 feature of the Figure 8 Voyage.
Moli is back at KKMI and is again in pieces. The life raft, the dinghy motor, and the autopilots have all been sent out for overhaul or repair; the fuel tank lids are off in preparation for a good scrub, and the headsails are down, their furling drums disassembled on a bench in the pilot house. Tools and boat parts are scattered everywhere, creating a sense of chaos that could hardly be improved upon by a hand-grenade.
So, when Latitude’s reporter, Tim Henry, came by for a gam, I was sure it would take all the guile I could muster to convince him Mo would ever sail again!
You can judge my success by jumping to page 60 and 61 in the magazine’s electronic version, below, or simply keep scrolling…
Friday, March 31
The show manager, Jorgen, had been quite clear. “Your vessel will be accepted into the Pacific Boat Show marina before noon on Tuesday, but after that the basin will be closed.” A reasonable enough requirement as I had known about it since the previous January.
But it was now the Friday before that Tuesday, and I had a peculiarly boat-refit kind of problem. After three months of seven-day work weeks, Mo was still in pieces. Read More
This isn’t my first rodeo. It’s my second. I should know better.
The first rodeo was a 31-foot Far East Mariner built in 1972 that my wife and I purchased in the summer of 2001. I liked the boat because she liked the boat, whose interior spaces felt vast next to the 24-footer we’d been using for weekends on San Francisco Bay, and because the ketch rig and full keel reminded me of Moitessier’s Joshua and because it was what we could afford. Read More
Nothing is quite so sobering as the realization that the Figure 8, this seemingly massive undertaking, this voyage that is a test of imagination (not to mention intellect, physical stamina, and funds), has already been done … and by one’s own boat!
Moli is a rare bird. Her purposeful, stout beauty would be obvious to a baby. But I never would have guessed that first time I Read More
“Faye. Faye! Psst. Wrong envelope.”
—
When not cleaning coffee grounds from the floorboards during last summer’s 7,000-mile shakedown cruise in Moli, I kept myself occupied by shooting passage video.
The exercise was an experiment intended to answer three questions:
- What is the minimum technology required for video capture at sea? Read More
“I’m looking for a boat named Moli,” said a friend, Burt Richardson, as he stepped up to the KKMI front desk.
“You bet,” said Emmy, “just head to the back of the yard, make a left at the water, and keep an eye out for the covered wagon.”
—
The first order of business on Mo has been largely cosmetic, to refasten the non-skid tread and lay down new deck paint, jobs any novice knows would be better timed for Read More
A brewer like the It’s American Press doesn’t come along every day.
For starters, it’s surprisingly beautiful–in the way that complexity is beautiful when rendered, reduced, refined; rethought and redrawn until what remains is the perfect balance of form and function.
I know what you’re saying, “Hey, it’s just a coffee maker!”
But, as coffee makers go, this press is Read More
In the previous post, a critical boat system–coffee making–failed in such dramatic fashion (twice) that, months later, I am still cleaning grounds from between the floor boards. Once home this launched a search for the perfect boat brewer, whose requirements are:
- Be easy to use in rough weather. Read More
On day nineteen of last summer’s passage from Hawaii to San Francisco, Moli suffered a critical systems breakdown.
We had been climbing into winds of 25 knots for several days. Seas were steep and breaking. On that morning I rose at the usual hour and made my coffee in the usual way: cone with paper filter balanced atop a ceramic cup, the ceramic cup swinging on the gimballed stove.
In 20,000 miles of solo passages, this teetering miracle has never failed me.
Until this morning.
Since the last refit report, I’ve moved Moli two miles up the channel to KKMI, a big, resourceful yard with a sense of humor and a small but practical chandlery that (bless it) requires no driving to get to.
Here the first order of business has been to pull the mast so as to initiate the rerigging project.
The ease with which this operation came off was disheartening and left me nothing whatever to write about. At 10am on a clear morning, two guys in green hard hats clambered aboard and before I could say, “Hold on, what about the…,” the mast had been launched on its way to the cradle.
Aboard Moli is a small hardbound book titled Rund Amerika, the story of my boat’s initial adventures with then owners, Clark Stede and Michelle Poncini. It’s in German. I can admire the photos, like the one above, but I can’t read a word.
So, I was grateful to receive this week the below Yachting Monthly article from 1991 where Stede/Poncini, in translation, describe their Northwest Passage in Asma.
WARNING: for several months to come, many of these blogs will wander off into the badlands of boat refitting. My apologies if block-and-tackle-type discussions are not to everyone’s liking, but the work is a necessary prerequisite to minimizing excitement levels during the voyage itself, and writing about them, nearly so.
With the Figure 8’s September of 2017 launch decidedly in view (seems as close as next weekend), the race to the starting line has commenced in earnest, a race that has largely to do with preparing Moli and her skipper for a year at sea.
The first weeks of flying down the Atlantic were interesting enough (it’s been a year of record times), but only as the boats encountered the difficulties of the Southern Ocean did my interest become acute.
Once I got her home to San Francisco, the first job on Moli was a quick haul at KKMI in Richmond.
While at anchor in Hanalei Bay the month before, I dove on the hull and found two lengthwise scratches in the new bottom paint so expertly sprayed into place by the guys at Homer Boat Yard.
The September 25th discovery of abandoned vessel Wavesweeper left me with an interesting mystery whose many clues are outlined in the previous post. At the start of this investigation, I had thought to find a single failure that would lead, step-by-step, to the Wavesweeper disaster, a failure profound enough in itself to seal the boat’s fate. But the evidence does not so neatly resolve, and to my reading no such central clue has emerged. That said, what does emerge is compelling and equally horrific.
To review, the key questions are
- What event(s) disabled Wavesweeper?
- What was done to save the vessel and over what period of time?
- Why was such a well-found vessel (floating on her lines) abandoned?
What event(s) disabled the vessel?
The narrative that sifts from available information suggests that Wavesweeper succumbed to not one but a series of compounding failures precipitated by a knockdown, or knockdowns, events that injured her rig and mechanical systems beyond recovery.
It has been a summer of unusually strong winds in the North Pacific. This is corroborated both by my own experience during the recent Pacific crossings in Moli and by the remarks of racers I met in Hawaii. By way of support, the opening sentence from the 2016 Pacific Cup race results:
Kaneohe, HI, Saturday, July 30, 2016 – The 2016 Pacific Cup will be remembered for the big wind and seas that challenged some racers with broken boats and bodies, but pushed many in the fleet to record-breaking passages.
This wind map shows typical 2016 summer winds, in this case for June 30th, and the red dot is Wavesweeper position on July 15th.
Also characteristic of the year was a generally unstable Pacific high-pressure system, often with multiple centers that bounced around the north and were augmented by frequent lows. A sailor passing through these regions could easily experience multi-directional eight to ten-foot seas and winds to 30 knots, as Wavesweeper reported, and such seas could easily generate the occasional something much larger. On a small boat in such conditions, a knockdown would not be difficult to come by.
Given evidence from the photos and the July 19th report where Wavesweeper’s owner (henceforth referred to as “Skipper”) states, cryptically, that “weather had torn the sails on the vessel’s lower mast,” one can imagine a sequence of events like the following:
- Wavesweeper is in brisk weather and steep seas under a partially reefed genoa and main when a first knockdown fills the headsail with water and parts the furling line. The sail pops open, and before Skipper can release the sheets, it wraps fatally.
- The main also fills; and under such sudden and extreme weight, the halyard parts.
- When Skipper attempts to replace the halyard with the topinglift, another knockdown pulls it from his hands. While the boat is down and the mast is in the water, the line wraps the masthead.
- This second wave shears the pin in the mainsheet shackle, at which point the boom goes over the side. Skipper hasn’t seen that the toppinglift-cum-halyard is now wrapped (like me, he may wear glasses, which have been swept overboard). He retrieves the toppinglift, attaches it to the head of the main and hauls the sail halfway up before the line jams hopelessly, having bound to itself at the masthead.
- Before the second knockdown, Skipper has also readied the staysail, but as the boat is laid over, that halyard becomes fouled in the lower spreaders. No amount of tugging frees it.
- With the jib halyard jammed, the main halyard lost into the mast, the toppinglift bound on itself, and no mast steps, Skipper has no way to get to the masthead to free-up a line, even if weather allowed.
- And without functioning halyards, Wavesweeper’s rig is beyond Skipper’s control. Her genoa is in its death throes, dragging the bow off dangerously at every gust. Skipper attempts to quiet things by cutting the sail down, but above head-height, it simply won’t tear away. Left with only one option for control of his boat, and as a hedge against a third wave, Skipper deploys the drogue.
The above sequence accounts for the state of the vessel as I discovered her, but given scant corroboration, many such scenarios are possible. One could argue, for example, that much of the visible damage occurred after Wavesweeper was abandoned. But my hunch says that’s not the case.
What was done to save the vessel and over what period of time?
To all outside appearances, nothing. In fact, with decks all ahoo–lines tangled or jammed, staysail loose and main and solar panels at odd angles–and no evidence of attempted jury rig, I assumed upon arrival that the scene was fresh; I even thought there might be a person in the water nearby.
Wavesweeper gave the impression that the scene was fresh.
Frustratingly, the two articles describing ship visits do little to clarify interim events. The APL Singapore report from July 15th makes no mention of Wavesweeper’s troubles save that she is short of water. Did Skipper not mention the injury to his rig or how long he’d been out? If not, was the crew not curious enough to ask about damage that was clearly visible? The only clue here is that the water drop was intercepted. If sails were useless at this point, as they must have been, then Wavesweeper still had engine power as of July 15th.
The second report from July 19th adds the mention of sail damage and that the “operator” was “having issues with [the boat’s] engine and batteries and was running low on water.” The jugs on the cabin-top and life rings on the stern rail, which had been retrieved from APL Singapore a mere four days earlier, make that last remark a nonsense, but it is conceivable that during a first or second knockdown, Wavesweeper took enough seawater below to kill her charging system.
For example, a wave down the companionway hatch could have soaked the various regulation devices for the engine, solar panels and wind generator and shorted-out the alternator, all without disabling the batteries or engine. This would explain the solar panels being askew (why bother to align them to the sun if they are no longer useful?) and the secured wind generator.
An inability to produce power would also explain the water shortage. If we assume an early May departure from Mexico and a slow, 100-mile-a-day crossing of the 2,700 miles to Hilo, Hawaii; if we assume a brief, one week stop-over and then a departure to the north in the first week of June, then Wavesweeper could have been underway for only four or five weeks at the time of the first ship intercept.
According to the Reliance specifications, the boat’s original design included 130 gallons of water tankage, enough for a solid four months of passages without rationing. But Wavesweeper’s tankage may not have been built to this spec or may have been modified and supplemented with a watermaker, now useless because Skipper was “having issues with engine and batteries.” With far less water to start with and no way to produce more, a call for potable water would have been of first importance. And that the call was for “30 or 40 gallons” suggests that as of July 15th, Skipper thought he could save his vessel and make landfall.
Why was such a well-found vessel abandoned?
That Wavesweeper floated on her lines 68 days after abandonment makes it tempting to think she was abandoned without cause. But floating is only the half of it; a vessel must also be able to make way. Without functioning sails and lacking the ability to produce power, Wavesweeper was out of options.
Skipper would not have expected to drift ashore in any reasonable time frame. Even if winds were pushing him east while he was aboard, he must have realized that the coast’s prevailing northwesterlies and the increasing number of southerlies would have prevented a close approach based on drift alone.
Even after 68 days of drifting, Wavesweeper was still 600 miles offshore and positioned to trend along the coast for a very long time.
He could not have motored the distance either. The Reliance specifications show fuel tankage at 70 gallons, so that even if Wavesweeper’s engine was operable after the accident (as the water retrieval exercise suggests) and even if he carried extra fuel in jerry cans (there’s no evidence of this), the boat’s range under power would have been insufficient given her position 1,000 miles west of the Columbia River.
What happened, then, in the intervening four days between the call for water and the call for rescue? The attempt to save disabled Wavesweeper, even to simply exist on her after the accidents, must have been deeply fatiguing. Especially after the first knockdown, the rough weather, flogging sails, and waterlogged cabin would have made sleep all but impossible. Could it be that a tired Skipper accidentally and irretrievably foul his own halyards? Or was it that a second knockdown after the water drop did that work, putting further repair beyond his reach?
Whatever the case, by July 19th, Skipper had decided to call it quits. Wavesweeper’s drift was setting her slowly south of the shipping lanes; Skipper knew that if he didn’t act soon, he risked moving forever beyond rescue. He made another call. When OOCL Utah arrived to take him off, his fatigue and feelings overwhelmed his seamanship, and he failed to scuttle now dead Wavesweeper.
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Hopefully, the above reconstruction reveals more than just my bias, my affinity for a solo sailor who got into trouble where trouble is so easy to come by. One could argue, as my friends have done, that a 70-year old Skipper became overwhelmed early and simply gave up, that he should have continued to fight as long as the vessel floated.
But another conclusion emerges when the evidence is taken in total. Wavesweeper is well-equipped and well-maintained. Her return to the north Pacific comes after several years of cruising and several long, successful passages. When given the first chance to abandon, Skipper chooses to remain aboard and keep fighting. All this suggest a man who knows his business, and I contend that only when Skipper is out of options, out of ways to get Wavesweeper safely to port, does he unwillingly leave her to make her own way on the sea.
