Water – to make or not to make, that is the question. Whether ’tis nobler to collect water from local sources or to suffer the cost and noise of making your own is a debate among cruisers today on par with what I heard surrounding interior kerosene lights in the 70’s. When considering water acquisition solutions for long-distance cruising, you are really left with two options; passive water collection or active water making.
Passive, Water Collection: Collecting water from a municipal tap, a communal or private well or cistern, or from a natural spring, brings with it its own adventure, exercise, and local interaction. When plentiful and accessible at desired locations, that is to say, places you actually want to visit, it’s the simplest option and the most economical. Once a source of potable water has been identified and permission granted or purchased, the cruiser either fills her jugs or, if close enough to shore, connects his water hose and fills directly his tanks. Cruisers concerned about sediments, externally strain cloudy water through one or two sediment filters (discussed in more detail below) before it enters the boat’s water tanks. Sediment filters aren’t fine enough to block bacteria, so for every 10 gallons of water, it’s recommended to pour about a teaspoon of household bleach into the water tank (or other safe to consume antiseptic), and internally pull that solution through a combination carbon (chlorine) and KDF* (heavy metals and bacteria killing) filter as it is pumped electrically or manually (foot pumps typically) to and through the freshwater spigots. There are also on-demand ultra-violet light therapies available as well, which require electricity and spare bulbs. In either case, voila – good tasting, safe drinking water.
Cruisers following this practice are often prepared with long lengths of garden hose, several 5-gal. plastic jerry jugs (with arms stretched a little longer from the weight of carrying two +40 lbs. jugs at a time), and with a willingness to tie their vessels up briefly to docks, piers, and wharves if need be.
Rainwater collection is another passive water collecting technique. Most cruisers are in some way equipped to capture rainwater from their sails, canopies, and/or decks. Boats have been known to chase squalls in the middle of the ocean, sometimes even engaging their diesel engines in an effort to capture the freshest of water supplies, “liquid money” as farmers call it.
Passive water collection (not so passive, really) tends to make for a more conservative use of the ship’s water. Washing, rinsing, cleaning, bathing, and even cooking rely on fresh seawater (as opposed to seawater extracted from a cove or harbor). When sailing aboard Getel in 1976 with my uncle and his family of three from Ventura, California to Nuku Hiva, Marquesas, over the 30-day passage, the five of us collectively consumed less than 50 gallons. For the 18 months we were in French Polynesia, I personally carried and rowed nearly every gallon brought aboard, Papeete and Uturoa excluded as these ports offered access to taps and water hoses when we were Med-tied to their wharves. Being Med-tied is when one end of the boat is tied to the quay; the other end, anchored away from the quay, pulling the boat off far enough so as to not hit the top edge of the concrete wharf or wood-decked pier when a wake bobs the boat up and down, but close enough to support the use of a wooden plank between your boat and the quay’s edge.
Active, Water Creation: Another option available to cruisers is to make water with a desalinator, employing ever-popular reverse osmosis (RO) technology. (Read the blog post titled: RO 101 and see the video for a more detailed description of the process)
Owning a desalinator is a bit like caring for a pet: it needs to be tended to regularly. Because of marine life build-up on the membrane, even if it were rinsed with freshwater, desalinators must be run every 3-7 days to flush the membrane’s surface. If a cruiser isn’t making water every three to seven days, he or she must instead push freshwater through the system at the same interval of 3-7 days. A freshwater rinse takes from 3-5 minutes. Left un-rinsed, a membrane will build up hydrogen sulfide gas, a by-product of sulfur eating bacteria consuming remnant sea life. This reaction produces water tasting like rotten-eggs. “Yum, yum . . . sign me up!” If this happens, there is a cure: soak the membrane in a food-grade antiseptic, a process otherwise known as “pickling.” This is also what you do if you plan to leave your desalinator dormant for a while, preventing the issue in the first place. You can leave a system pickled for 6 months or more before you’ll need to re-pickle it again. So for those sailors with desalinators without an automatic flush feature must enlist the assistance of a fellow yachty (cruiser) to “feed” his or her “pet.”
Even though the RO process doesn’t pass bacteria, a cruiser still needs to add a little bleach to the water supply to keep algae from growing in the tank, and carbon filters to lose the bleach taste and to protect the watermaker’s membrane when flushing with freshwater (chlorine kills the membrane). It doesn’t hurt to pass the drinking water through a KDF filter as well.
Having a watermaker is a commitment of scheduling, money, and space (the unit + supplies + possible generator and gasoline). But cruisers accepting this commitment afford themselves the luxury of freshwater for cleaning and showers, the freedom to go and stay in areas less available to those who can’t make water, and most importantly, a supply of safe drinking water. In some cases, yachties have been known to supply remote families or villages with much needed water. As desalinator supporters say, “No one ever complained about having too much water.” For these reasons, we decided to install a desalinator, anticipating that the advantages of safety and freedom will be far greater than the cost and inconvenience of having an expensive “pet”. We chose to go with the dual membrane AC model offered by Cruise RO Water and Power. (The blog post Aquarian Rite describes the commissioning experience)
Footnote:
* “Kinetic Degradation Fluxion (KDF) is a high-purity copper-zinc formulation that uses a basic chemical process known as redox (oxidation/reduction) to remove chlorine, lead, mercury, iron, and hydrogen sulfide from water supplies. The process also has a mild anti-bacterial, algaecidic, and fungicidic effect and may reduce the accumulation of lime scale.” –-Home Plus Water
When painting the bottom outside portion of the hull, the part that lives submerged underwater gets covered with a special paint designed to inhibit marine growth. Copper is toxic to marine life, especially as it oxidizes (rusts). The sailors of old covered the ship’s bottom with copper sheeting and copper nails.
HMS Bounty arrives in Tahiti 1788 (Painting by Jon Clayton)
In Tahiti, HMS Bounty had a problem with her crew and the islanders pulling the nails from the ship’s bottom for their personal purposes of trade. Not good for a ship needing to sail back to the other side of the world, or even just to Pitcairn Island.
The green rust that forms on the surface of copper is called cuprous oxide. In solution, cuprous oxide is used to clean algae from pools and ponds of water or the insides of water beds. If you staple bare copper wire around a flower bed, snails won’t cross it. Today, boat owners paint copper on the bottom. The price of the paint follows the price of copper. Currently, copper is expensive. A gallon of high copper concentrated paint sells for about $200. Alternatives exists, some more environmentally friendly than others, and each U.S. state has its own environmental laws identifying which active ingredients they permit for use in marine bottom paint.
Painting the bottom of a boat, the boat owner must decide how far from the bottom of the boat’s keel to paint the bottom paint; where to draw the boot stripe, the strip of paint that separates the upper hull from the lower hull, usually a different color from the two. For example, Kandu’s hull is white, her bottom is regatta red, and her boot stripe is forest green, matching her trim, the stripe along the upper hull that stretches just below her deck. So where does the boat owner draw the line? If it’s too high, exposed expensive bottom paint does little to protect the boat; if too low, marine life (algae, worms, barnacles, etc.) will form and have to be scrubbed off regularly, wearing down the shiny white expensive gelcoated surface (everything on a boat is expensive). In determining the waterline, boat owners must take into account how much equipment and stores they plan to stow aboard their boat. The more stuff you put in a boat, the lower the boat sits in the water, the higher the waterline must be. We bought Kandu from a couple that had sailed to Australia and back. When we purchased her, their waterline lay about 8 inches above sea surface, indicating that when they had Kandu fully loaded for their trip, she sat 8 inches lower. So we went with the previous owners’ line, maintaining the bottom paint at their previous level. For the four years we’ve owned Kandu, 6″-8″ of bottom paint has been exposed, but that’s now changing.
The darker part of the red bottom paint is the portion previously exposed.Close up, you can better see the cuprous oxide within the air-exposed portion of bottom paint.
Over the past three weeks, we’ve been loading Kandu. To state that not everything is loaded is an understatement. Additionally, because of the heavier equipment loaded into our shower (our “rec room” storage), we’re currently listing (as in leaning) to starboard. On the starboard side, we’ve about an inch of bottom paint exposed. To balance her out, we have to find objects to stow on the port side, heavy ones.
Kandu’s starboard waterline today.
Will we bury Kandu’s waterline or will we have her at the perfect level? It’s too soon to tell. By the end of next week, we’ll know. Keep your fingers crossed.
The nine-year-old boy who made model planes and, from his living room floor, flipped through pages of images of America’s fastest planes came back to life as the crew of Kandu visited NASA’s Air Research Center yesterday. Previously called the “Dryden Flight Research Center,” in March the center was renamed “Neil A. Armstrong Flight Research Center,” after the first person to walk the moon’s surface. My brother, Tom, a NASA project manager at the center, offered last weekend when he and his family visited aboard Kandu, to give us a private tour of the facility, as its not open to the public. Located on the Edwards Air Force Base in the Mojave Desert lives this iconic ‘Disneyland’ of American flight engineering.
Nasa’s Armstrong Air Research Center from above (photo from Wikipedia)Crew of Kandu registered with the Visitor’s Center.
We were able to see and touch many of the favorite flight craft of my childhood fantasies: the sleek and mysterious “Blackbird” SR-71, the aggressively simple F-104A, a piece of the crashed X-15, and, most emotionally satisfying, the historic Lunar Landing Research Vehicle (LLRV), one of only two remaining in existance. The other three trainers were destroyed in flight tests. The LLRV and the Lunar Landing Training Vehicle (LLTV) were required flight training for all of the U.S. space program’s moon-landing astronauts. Knowing that every astronaut that ever walked the moon had flown the very craft I was touching somehow connected me in a small way to their greatness. At that moment, I hoped that some of the mojo of their courage and dedication might rub off on me, helping me guide our family’s exploratory watercraft safely around earth’s oceanic surface.
“Blackbird”“Starfighter”
Tom arranged for us to examine his team’s latest project: a Gulfstream III jet modified with their Adaptive Compliant Trailing Edge (ACTE) flaps. A week earlier, they had successfully completed their first full flight test. His press quote summarizes the project goals: “’The first flight went as planned — we validated many key elements of the experimental trailing edges,’ said Thomas Rigney, ACTE Project Manager at Armstrong. ‘We expect this technology to make future aircraft lighter, more efficient, and quieter. It also has the potential to save hundreds of millions of dollars annually in fuel costs.’” What happened next would be Leslie’s favorite part of the day, for Tom gave us a rare inside look of the test jet. The flight engineer allowed Bryce and Trent to sit in the pilot seats, panel lights on, sporting headphones with mics. Scrat, the acorn-obsessed saber-toothed squirrel from the the animated film series Ice Age, is the engineering team’s unofficial mascot. A mid-sized stuffed plushy of Scrat hangs from the aircraft’s ceiling, above racks of test equipment. The equipment measures something like 20,000 parameters.
The modified Gulfstream III outside its hanger. (photo NASA)View of the ACTE flap modification. (photo NASA)Drawing emphasizing the ACTE modification. (NASA)Ready to board the GSIIILanding alongside chase plane. Note the difference in wing shape between the experimental Gulfstream and the traditional chase plane. (Photo by NASA)Brother, Tom, boarding his team’s project test jet.“Ikhana,” a modified Predator drone, Tom’s previous NASA research project.
After lunch, Tom accompanied us to the Center’s fight simulator area. Walking through its second floor corridor, we passed sets of steel double-doors with each’s ceiling placards hanging above, identifying the craft that is simulated inside. We entered the one marked “Gulfstream III,” the actual jet that Bryce and Trent sat in earlier. We all got a turn at taking off, flying, and landing the plane that Tom’s team so deftly modified. Then it was off to the F-18, the fighter jet that chased the Gulfstream during its test flight.
Co-piloting the Gulfstream III simulatorSeated in the F-18 simulator cockpit.Piloting an F-18 over the Mojave Dessert at mach speed.
From the simulator center, we were off to the gift store where we said good-bye to Tom, and thanked him for the greatest of days. When Tom was 8, he drew rockets on pieces of lined paper and then dropped them into neighbors’ front door mail slots, ringing their door bells to alert them of the gift’s arrival before running off. To know what has become of that eight-year-old boy is a source of great happiness for me. Trent asked how old I was before I knew what I wanted to do. The experience of seeing Tom in his element may have triggered Trent to wonder when he might discover his career passion, or in my case–passions.
Bryce’s favorite experience was seeing the M-2/F2 drop plane, the predecessor to the futuristic Dream Catcher spacecraft whose simulator he briefly sat in. Trent liked seeing the Cessna Dragonfly trainer jet. Fortunately for Leslie and me, they both like the smaller crafts!
Bryce’s favorite aircraft, the M-2/F2, predecessor to the “Dream Catcher.” One of these crafts crashed landed here at Edwards. The footage was later used in the introduction of the 1970’s television series, “The Six Million Dollar Man.”Trent’s favorite, Cessna’s “Dragonfly” trainer jet.
Leaving the base, its Air Research Center and museums, the nine-year-old boy in me smiled with satisfaction, having been briefly brought back to life, making real as an adult what had previously been a childhood dream. The Center has a saying, “To create what others only dream.” We got a chance to touch dreams, making them real for me. With what rudder we have in the water, we hope to create a little of the same as we prepare to lead our own planetary adventure.
To prevent galvanic corrosion, boat owners strategically install “zincs” between proximate metals, objects that share the same saltwater (electrolyte) space. Zinc metal is used because it more readily gives up its electrons (anode) than most other, more stable metals (cathode) such as bronze and stainless steel, metals which are prevalent underwater on boats. Zincs thus protect bronze from being depleted by stainless, and one type of stainless from another type. In this arrangement, zinc is what is commonly referred to as a sacrificial metal. Over the past two years, the notion of “sacrifice” has often come up in conversations. More recently, my mother-in-law suggested I ask too much of Leslie and the boys: the hardship, the lack of convenience, and time away from family and friends.
Exclusionary Sacrifice: Last week, Dina Pielaet, our media partner, interviewing me for our future YouTube channel, asked me to describe the sacrifices we’ve endured in preparation for our adventure. As I spoke, my words seemed hollow, almost winey. “Well, to save for the trip we didn’t travel as much, we didn’t visit our friends in Europe or my brother in Australia. I didn’t join Leslie and the boys on their extended visits with friends and family. We didn’t purchase fancy new cars, or RV’s, or vacation homes, . . . .” On reflection, I rarely, if ever, missed a family event, and did pretty much what I wanted. We had everything we needed and most of what we desired: nice house in a nice neighborhood close to work, great job with great benefits, good public schools and multiple after-school activities (sports, music, scouting), dependable transportation, scheduled professional house maintenance, frequent entertainment (dinners, movies, plays, operas, concerts, museums), and we vacationed in Hawaii, Tahoe, Palm Springs, and the San Francisco Bay Area. What, then, did we really give up? This type of sacrifice is more about choice than about living without. We experienced the stresses and strains that come with living dense and full lives.
Choice being one of two truly owned ‘possessions’ (attitude being the other), when making a choice, the options not selected become the sacrifice. Picking rocky-road over any other flavor sacrifices the other 30 ice cream flavors. In short, the sacrifices I’ve experience before moving from Los Angeles have been that of exclusion, the things I didn’t experience as a result of the choices I made, a result of my preferences. Selecting one experience minimizes or excludes my ability to experience other compelling options. After career, family, health, and working toward the goal of our trip; there was little time left to develop friendships or volunteer as I would have wanted, had I the time. But I made choices, and in the big picture, I liked what I picked. The demands surrounding our adventure minimized my time with friends and my ability to volunteer with the boys’ activities. These were my sacrifices up until the time we moved from Los Angeles. Now moved aboard Kandu, we are giving up everyday comfort and conveniences in exchange for a constant state of disrepair in a cramped space with few conveniences.
Transformational Sacrifice: Leaving our home of 16 years, parting with possessions long-owned, and packing the more sentimental ones was a monumental effort, both physical and emotional. Uprooting Bryce and Trent from their routines and dropping them into new circumstances of school, nomadic housing situations (not knowing where we could live or for how long), and relationships was dramatic; more so for Leslie than for the boys. Parting from her hard-earned dream career having performed 12 years with Los Angeles Opera, including a coveted role in an upcoming regional opera, was heart-breaking for Leslie. Seeing the toll it was taking on Leslie was difficult for me. I tried to find the silver lining. Leslie and the boys made terrific new friends and she enrolled the boys in wonderful activities in Ventura. Bryce had his picture in the paper within the first month and earned a lead in a professional Christmas Spectacular. Trent loved his new teacher and school, and made several friends, the best friends he ever had. Acclimating helped a lot, but did not solve the problem. Leslie wanted to be “going.” Every month we were delayed upset her. She gave up a lot to go, and go she wanted. But as she also states, the moving, the letting go, the adjustment to boat life are all part of the journey. “Although we haven’t left Ventura, our adventure has truly started.”
The sacrifice associated with the transition phase, leaving land life and preparing our boat for a five-year nomadic life at sea and aboard, is likely the hardest part of the entire journey–super-strength sacrifice. We’re gambling that once the boat is ready and we’re sailing, the intended benefits will infuse our lives, making all the work and frustration worth it. Still, along the way of transition, we’ve been blessed. The boys have been active in surfing, Ripstick and skateboarding, basketball, Kendama play, choir, wood shop, clarinet lessons, and performing on stage. We’ve been blessed to spend time with friends in Ventura we’ve known previously and with the friends recently made. We’ve been blessed by the generous help and advice offered by well-traveled live-aboard neighbors (other people who live on their boats in the marina), several who have sailed long distances for many years, including one couple who has sailed around the world a couple times. The many problems I’ve been forced to solve has taught me much about our boat, and what is needed to maintain our lifestyle. It has built a foundation of knowledge that brings with it a greater confidence. In eighth-grade metal shop I learned that when steel is heated to a near melting red-hot temperature, then dipped into carbon powder before being plunged into a cool water bath that sizzles and crackles with the dramatic temperature change, the process creates hardened steel, capable of doing more than it could have prior to exposure to extremes–the metal was transformed into something greater than its origins. In large part, I feel the same is occurring for us.
Sacrifice of Proximity: Postponing our trip has allowed us to experience some important family events. These past two weeks afforded multiple opportunities to participate in important family events: a rare reunion with my three brothers and our families with our dad; a cousin’s wedding with friends and family from around the world; the engagement announcement by my youngest and closest brother; and the loss of a friend to cancer. Had we left on the Baja Ha-ha rally as planned, we would have missed these events. Appreciating our circumstance, we relished more intensely the experiences. The culmination of these family events makes clear all that will be missed when we leave. I’ll miss several weddings of people important to me. I’ll miss annual holiday gatherings with family, birthday celebrations and graduations. I’ll miss hearing the details about the joys and sorrows of friends and family. Their triumphs and tragedies will be bullet points in an email or text. I won’t be there to share remembrances of those close to me who will pass on. Absence will be our sacrifice each week we’re away, the flavors we will not savor. But what of the flavors we will enjoy; the weddings and birthdays and holidays we will celebrate with new life long friends, remarkable people from around the world; building an intense family bond with our sons, imparting confidence and skills and memories to last a lifetime. We’re temporarily trading experiences with those who have been geographically close to us for many years for those persons and families who will be close to us as we travel–relationships of proximity. The shared adventure, the daily delving into foreign realms, the bond with nature, and so much more; these are the flavors we will taste as we sacrifice our ability to share experiences with our California family and friends . . . absent not forever, just for now.
Mettle: Will the experiences we will have gained by trip’s end have been worth all the various forms of sacrifice paid? Leslie and I wouldn’t accept these sacrifices if we thought it would not. It’s a reasoned choice, we argue. I have deep faith that the adventure on which we are about to embark, and truthfully have already started, will be the single greatest gift we give ourselves as a family, that it will establish how we interact the rest of our years together, giving the boys the confidence and the know-how to determine their dreams and achieve them, building an intense strength of spirit that should enable us to forge ahead despite difficulties, like hardened steel. Just as I appreciate the sacrifice of electrons which occurs beneath our boat, I whole-heartedly and fully welcome the strengthening effects of our ‘sacrificial mettle.’
Leslie’s Kitchen
Leslie’s Galley
Post Script: Last week, we attended our young cousin’s wedding. I spoke there because I wanted to share some marital advice with those who might marry in my absence. Although I didn’t say everything I wanted that evening, I’d like to include as a post script an outline I’d said there:
Key Traits to Successful Marriage
Communication
Regularly throughout the day
Listen
Two ears, two eyes, one mouth
If a communication is crucial, repeat the other’s communiqué in your own words to the other’s satisfaction
No individual owns the truth
First seek clarity and understanding, over acceptance
It’s not a competition
Seek humor, laughter, and humility over winning/being right
The tone of communication is remembered more than the words.
If angry, wait 24 hrs. before responding; never insult or use derogatory language toward each other.
The written word carries more weight than the spoken.
Shared Values
Money, differences have marriage killer potential
Family, friends, and children
Free Time
Compassion and forgiveness; especially yourself
Romance > Sex
Weekly date night, flowers, scented candles, soap notes on the mirror, picnics, wine and chocolate.
Recall the best, “I’d rather be me looking at her than her looking at me.”
Foster a comfortable relationship, a sharing friendship with each other. A reclining chair in a living room may not be as exciting as a stool in a singles’ bar, but it’s a heck of a lot more satisfying.
Humor
Pursuit of Happiness
Declaration of Independence
U.S. forefathers, ahead of their time, chose to tout the “pursuit of happiness” over Locke’s “property.”
It’s one’s civic duty!
Supporting each others purpose
Twain, “The two most important days of a person’s life are the day they are born and the day they discover why.”
Quickest way to happiness is helping another achieve theirs, service to others
Having an advocate for your happiness is powerful
Gratitude
Happiness requires effort. Misery comes automatically.
Make many purposeful “happiness” deposits to help offset the unintentional, but inevitable, “misery” withdrawals.
Everyone has a good excuse. Excuses are like rectums, we all have them and they all stink.
Half full or half empty matters less than if there’s any water in the glass. If so, then game on!
Live each day with intention.
Maintain good friendships in addition to your spouse
Sacrifice
Choice and attitude are the only things we truly own.
Possessions possess us. Memories are our only true treasure. Build beautiful memories.
Today, as secure and comfortable as most Americans are, sacrifice is more about choice, not about the loss of life essentials.
Even a trip to Disneyland requires sacrifice, examples: money, time, physical effort, and crowds.
As mentioned in Part 1, initial efforts to retrieve the prescription sunglass my father-in-law, Ron, dropped from his shirt pocket and into the drink over our neighboring mooring slip failed. The mishap provided an excellent opportunity to try out some cool gear; 1) our Spare Air (mini-SCUBA tank) device, and 2) Jim’s, a neighbor’s, pony tank (small SCUBA tank). I learned about how long each allowed me to stay underwater at around 15′ below the surface and to not panic as I cautiously ascended without air in my lungs, to meet head-first the barnacled underside of the floating dock. I experienced what it is to dive in near zero visibility as my movements stirred the silty marina bottom, clouding my view like thick smoke from a slow motion house fire. And I received instruction from Jim on how to proceed in the manner taught to search and rescue divers.
Ron’s glasses fell in the water on a Saturday afternoon. Later that day, Bryce and I made our first attempts to retrieve them, as described Part 1. It wouldn’t be until Tuesday afternoon before I would be able to make another attempt, this time with our tethered compressed-air solution. Some call it SNUBA, a cross between snorkeling and SCUBA diving. Others call it a hookah system (if you try looking it up on the Internet, be sure to include “diving” in the search perimeters to avoid getting pages of links to marijuana devices) because of how it provides compressed air via a long hose tethered to your waist. It took days before I dove again because I wanted to find time to read the instructions and make sure I properly commissioned the unit into service. It’s an expensive piece of machinery that if improperly used, could kill a diver–no exaggeration.
SCUBA 101 (skip the next two paragraphs if you’re not interested in learning how compressed air can kill or maim one of us): Breathing compressed air is serious business. As a diver descends, the combined weight of of the air and the water above put into play physical forces that require serious consideration and respect. Ignorance is no shield against improper practice. Having had SCUBA instruction, I knew some basic practices: 1) at fifteen feet of depth, I could safely stay underwater for a long time, more than an hour, 2) to always be in a state of breathing, either exhaling or inhaling, slowly and deliberately–never hold your breath, especially ascending, 3) if you lose your regulator (the mouth piece from which your air is drawn), blow small bubbles, 4) do not ascend faster than your bubbles; 5) make a safety stop 10 feet below the surface for a few minutes before finishing the ascent (unless you’re out of air, then ascend blowing bubbles), allowing your body to release excess air stored in the recesses of your body and giving your ears an opportunity to acclimate to the lower pressure (I get dizzy the last 8 ft.). If a diver fails to adhere to safe practices, the physical laws of gas and fluids can work against the diver, releasing gases stored within their body tissues and blood stream (Henry’s law), creating painful air pockets between their lungs and chest, or sending air bubbles to the brain, like bubbles released from a freshly opened soft drink (Boyle’s law), killing or paralyzing them. Why does this happen? At depth, a diver needs higher air pressure to counter act the increased atmospheric pressures of the water surrounding the diver. At 33 feet below the water’s surface, the atmospheric pressure is double that of the surface which is about 15 pounds per square inch (psi), so 30 psi at 33 feet. At that depth, an air-filled basketball would be half its size. If you wanted the basketball expanded to full size at that depth, you’d need to fill it with twice as much air as with what it was filled at surface, which is the same thing as filling it with air that was compressed to twice its surface pressure. That’s why you can’t just take a long piece of hose and breath from it from the surface like a long snorkel. The air at surface is not pressurized (heavy) enough to expand a diver’s lungs at depth. With a long snorkel, you might be able to dive 2 feet underwater, but not much more. At the same time, if you don’t release the air from the basketball that’s now filled with twice the air at 33 feet, as it approaches the surface, the heavier air inside will expand to match the lower air pressure of the approaching surface, causing the ball to ascend faster and eventually explode. Okay for a basketball, not okay for lungs. By the way, without a lot of weight strapped to his or her body, it would be nearly impossible for a diver to swim a basketball down a few feet. A dolphin might be able to (basketballs underwater), but not many humans. Although, the deeper you get the ball, the smaller it gets, the easier it will be to push it down.
Another key factor surrounding diving with compressed air is the quality of the air compressed. When compressing air, the air compressor siphons air from around its intake, the very air we breath at the surface, and squeezes it into higher pressures. If the air it captures is polluted, the diver will breath concentrated pollution. This can easily happen if the compressor breathes the exhaust of a gasoline or diesel engine, which puts out carbon monoxide, a toxic gas. In our case, our compressor works off AC electricity. To create AC electricity, the kind of electricity that comes from the outlet of your walls, we use a gas-powered generator. If the generator’s exhaust is sucked into the air-compressor, the diver could be poisoned. When we want to dive at a location other than directly under Kandu, we may take our dinghy out to a better diving location. The interior space of the dinghy is small, so the generator and the compressor will be near each other. We will need to be extra cautious, separating the two as much as possible and making sure the compressor only breathes fresh air. We must place it up wind from the generator with its own snorkel and carbon air filter. So avoiding engine exhaust and other pollutants is crucial. And there’s one more thing that breathing in will kill you: oil, any oil, even food grade oil. In the harsh marine environment, metals rust. To help prevent rusting, we coat our metals with a light oil spray (CorrosionX or Boeshields T9) to minimize contact from the oxygen and salts that cause corrosion. The air compressor is no exception, so we must be extra careful to spray only its metal parts and not the air filter. We must spray the compressor after each use, allowing time for the solvents in the oil to evaporate and for the oil to “dry” on the metal surfaces. In this way, we insure the diver doesn’t breath compressed oil. If a diver breaths compressed oil, his or her lung walls will be coated with the oil, preventing the lungs from absorbing air, causing the diver’s lungs to fill with fluid. Even surfacing won’t save the diver. So you can see how important it was for me to read the instructions describing the proper use of our new air compressor, and why it took awhile before I was able to dive for Ron’s expensive sunglasses.
End of lesson. Back to the story.
With the knowledge of the air compressor’s proper use firmly saturating my brain, I gather up a few more items previously not incorporated in my earlier recovery attempts: a multi-colored spring wetsuit (short sleeves and legs) à la early nineties to keep me a little warmer in the cooler water for an extended period, a weight belt to make it easier for me to remain at depth underwater, a large underwater light lent by Jim, and an 8-foot tether tied to the top of the anchor shank that will help me create my search-zone. We deploy the aluminum anchor just as we had the previous attempt, directly over the recalled drop zone. Once suited up, I start the compressor. The manual clearly states that to prevent deadly electrical shock, a wet diver should not turn on or off the compressor. Someone who is dry, wearing rubber soled shoes, and not standing in water should. I am dry for the start, but Ron, in his smart and dry street clothes, will turn it off and on from this point forward.
The new weight belt provided with the air compressor system has six little pockets within which to place weights of various size. The pocket technology allows the diver to easily adjust weights, readily adding or removing as necessary. It also allows a diver in trouble and needing to surface quickly the ability to loose a portion of the weights, making for a more controlled emergency ascent than were they to release the entire weight belt, which is the standard protocol. So, with marker anchor deployed, marking the focal point of my intended search area, I slip into the water; face mask covering my eyes and nose, regulator in mouth, fins on feet, anchor chain in hand.
First order of business, determine the proper amount of weights needed to attain neutral buoyancy (Archimedes’ principle): having the top of my head float at surface, breaking the surface as I inhale, and sinking as I exhale. Wet suits float, so I find I need 12 lbs of lead weights (2 x 5-pounder and 1 x 2-pounder) placed evenly around my weight belt to properly float (and sink) me.
Adjusting Weight BeltFinding Neutral Buoyancy
Jim’s large light strapped to my right wrist, I slowly begin my descent in to darkness. The regulator underwater amplifies each tin-can sound inhale, like that of Darth Vader’s. Each time the compressor’s ridged yellow hose touches my mask, I hear the rapid-fire thump of the compressor’s motor in my head, as if the compressor were on my shoulder. I push it away as I can. Although it is a sunny Tuesday afternoon, I can’t see much past arms lengths–just a dim light from the large lamp. I can see the anchor chain, but little more. The murky dark cotton-textured bottom behaves like the top of a cloud, the closer I get to it, the more it envelops me. Jim’s idea of using the light to visually inspect the bottom before resorting to touch is proving fruitless. At bottom, I can’t see the light beam through the water, let alone anything resembling the sea floor. If I’m unable to use it, then I don’t want to lug it around, stirring up the silty bottom. I consider ascending so that I may remove the cumbersome light from my wrist and leave it on the small concrete dock that separates Kandu from the neighboring boat. Just before I direct myself up, I feel an inanimate flat object under my righthand. It’s the 18″x30″ outdoor carpet mat that Trent had dropped many months ago, that I discovered during my previous attempt to find the glasses. I decide to take it with me. As I ascend, the light fades up and I can see what’s in my hand. Black silt streams off the small carpet like coal exhaust from the stack of an old fashioned steam-powered locomotive.
Ron, hoping I had been lucky, is disappointed I hadn’t found the glasses so quickly. To better feel the bottom and better plant myself in one spot, I remove my flippers and leave them on the dock too. Now I will be able to feel the bottom with both hands and feet. I dive again, my left hand sliding down the anchor chain, guiding me to my starting point. No longer encumbered by the spotlight, I am ready to feel my way over the silky bottom, determined not to quit until I recover the lost sunglasses.
Arriving at the upright anchor, its squarish crown sides are planted straight down in the silt, its erect shank pointing skyward. I untwist from the top of the shank the small white nylon lanyard that I tied earlier that day. I can barely make it out, but somehow I’m able to see it. It takes me awhile to get oriented. I’m a little lost at first, but calm down and begin implementing the plan: while holding the end of the lanyard in my left hand as far from the anchor as possible, I extend the reach of my right hand and both feet. In a leg-spread push-up position, I first move my right leg as far to the right as possible and gently poke my toes into the silt, moving my leg up and down, side to side. The bottom is soft. My toes easily sink into the fine, saturated silt. I cannot see but the dark grey-brown cloud that encircles my head. Were there somewhere else near me, I could not know. Just as in life, I know the immediate circumstance that surrounds my senses. The focus of my task is here, not elsewhere. If conditions are better someplace else, I don’t know, and don’t care to know. Once the right leg is done, I stretch the left leg as far left and away from the anchor as I can and begin carefully examining the bottom, first moving my foot up a couple inches at a time until my knee is to my chest, then a little to the right and back down again, a couple inches at a time, hoping to feel something rigid, not super soft mud. The water temperature is cool, probably in the upper 60’s. With my wetsuit, I know I can stay for about an hour before I begin to get hypothermic (cold enough where I’d have to consider surfacing), and that with the compressor supplying me with air, I can easily stay an hour or much more if needed. At a depth of fifteen feet, one hour of compressed air will not cause any physiological problems. So long as I ascend slowly and take a minute break at 10 feet, I’ll be fine. At the same time that my feet are working, my hands are performing a similar, but opposite pattern. It’s a bit like rubbing your head and patting your tummy. With an eight foot lanyard wrapped around my left hand and my body outstretched, I figure my toes are about fourteen feet from the anchor, creating a search diameter of about 32-ft., plenty large enough to capture my prize. Once one piece of the pie has been carefully felt up and down, maintaining my push-up position, I crab walk to the right a couple steps, past the area I think I’ve examined, and start exploring another piece of the dark black-brown cotton-ball pie, looking for the cherry pit in the pie. In New Orleans, they bake a pie with a little baby Jesus figurine mixed inside the almond paste filling. No one knows which slice will contain the prize, so you very carefully bite into your slice until you or someone else discovers it. Well, that’s a bit like what I’m doing. I’m carefully feeling my way through each piece of pie, first from the outer edge, then I’ll move closer to center and feel my way around the inner circle, looking for my prize.
I find and collect objects as I sift through the muck, clothes pins and a roll of tape. Each time, a little disappointed it isn’t the “little baby Jesus.” So I continue my pattern, hopeful that this systematic slice-of-the-pie approach will bear the intended fruit. I am determined to find it. Before descending, the dockside pundits, other live-aboard sailors, mocked my determination, sighting how they were not able to find objects ten times larger than the one I was seeking, figuring that the current had taken it far away. It’s taken me about 30 minutes, as best I can sense time, to complete the outer circle. Knowing my air hose and lanyard are now wrapped around counter-clockwise around the anchor chain, after moving up close to the anchor, I begin my search routine again but this time I move left, clockwise around the anchor, to slowly unwind my tethers. Fifteen minutes later, about halfway around the anchor, I am a little discouraged. I’m starting to get cold. Being careful not to stir up the bottom, I’m not moving around enough to elevate my body heat. I don’t want to start doing underwater burpee exercises for fear it will stir up the contents of the sea floor, possibly dislodging the sunglasses to drift away in the mild current. I tell myself I’ll stay down as long as it takes. Police search and rescue divers don’t give up, and neither will I. Maybe the anchor set on top of the glasses. I check, but they are not there. I continue with my search pattern.
At first I hesitate to believe it. The object that brushes against the outside of my right hand doesn’t feel like a clothespin and it doesn’t swim away. My numb hand feels something a little larger. I carefully examined what I’ve touched. They are the glasses, my “little baby Jesus.” I found them! Yippie for me. Kenny from New Jersey isn’t going to believe it! With the anchor chain in my left hand, and the sunglasses in my right, I carefully stand up from the bottom, gently moving the glasses through the water to wash away the silt. Standing there, I exhaust some of the compressed air from my body, not really a necessary step for the shallow depth I’ve been working, but it’s my practice. Still unable to see, I take time to swish the glasses underwater before placing them on my head, above my black mask. As I slowly ascend so as not to disturb the glasses from my head (I really don’t want to loose them now!), I begin to see what’s around me and I can see the air hose above me. I move around the anchor chain to complete my circle and unwind the hose from around the chain. The whole time I was down there, about 50 minutes, Ron had been monitoring the compressor and the air hose, taking up the slack and letting it out as I needed. As I break the surface and remove the regulator from my mouth, I declare that looking any further for the glasses is fruitless. Not seeing the dark glasses above my dark mask, Ron agrees and thanks me for the effort. He said he’d just have to drive to Mexico and get another pair. Unable to hold back any longer, I lift the glasses from my head and ask, “Like these?” He bursts out with a laugh of disbelief, and says, “If nothing else, you’re one persistent guy.”
While I rush up to take a hot shower, Ron works to rinse off the equipment with fresh water from the dock hose. Although some may say sunglasses didn’t warrant such an effort, I am pleased that I got the opportunity to try out our Spare Air and our hookah diving systems. I appreciated the education Jim gave me regarding search techniques. The overall experience was valuable and will help me in the future. And, the glasses provided me the excuse I needed to take a break from working on the boat, time away that was greatly appreciated. Plus I saved my father-in-law a drive to Mexico and back, and he got to experience first hand just how stubborn I can be when I’m determined to achieve an outcome. Although there was no guarantee of success, the value of persistance paid off . . . this time.
Another underwater salvaging event just occurred. Look forward to “A Tale of Two Skateboards.”
Anchor Used to Locate “Baby Jesus”Ron at Home with Sunglasses
Surfers in Ventura, and probably elsewhere, use the word ‘quiver’ to denote the group of surfboards that a surfer owns. It’s not unusual for avid surfers to stock a dozen or more boards in their quiver. Some have 50 or more and drive large cargo vans. Waves at each location differ from waves at other locations, at any given time, the particular waves at a given location differ depending on weather and sea conditions. This phenomenon of uniqueness, of only-here-only-now, is what makes surfing so compelling to many surfers: every location is unique and no wave is the same as another. This characteristic is something Robert Weiner, the acclaimed surfboard maker, expressed to us when we purchased two more of his world-renowned surfboards. Bryce and Trent’s surfing abilities have improved over the fall, causing them to want smaller, 5’6″-7″ boards. Smaller boards are more maneuverable than larger, but also less stable. They are easier to duck dive under waves, but not as fast to paddle. Robert warned the boys to not be discouraged by the difficulty they would experience as they learn to control these shorter boards. He said, if they give up, they miss the opportunity to enjoy surfing even more than they already do.
Robert advised Bryce and Trent on their choice of some great used five-finned boards (with five fin boxes at the tail end of the board, surfers have many fin configuration options to choose from, depending on the type of surfing they want to do). Trent picked out the Get-Up G board recently surfed by professional 16-year-old surfer, Nolan Rapoza. Bryce picked out a similar shaped board, a Black Punt, one inch shorter and tad thicker than Trent’s, but no art work. Robert taught Trent how to peel off the stickers Trent wanted removed and how to clean up the left over adhesive with Goof Off. He then instructed Bryce how to prepare and paint his board, if that’s what he wanted. He even offered to paint it for him if he wanted. It’s apparent that Robert wants children and their parents to be excited and comfortable with surfing. He wants surfing to be a positive experience in a teenager’s development. With all of Robert’s hands-on help, Bryce asked if it might be fair to state that Robert was sponsoring him. In response, Robert said that ‘because they only surf Roberts boards, and that he helped them with their boards, they now represent his shop, and as such are responsible for making his brand look good by treating other surfers with courtesy and kindness.’ The boys nodded approvingly. He told them that their upcoming sailing adventure would bring them great wisdom and awareness of the world and other people. He wants from the boys a full report of the best surf spots when they return. I asked if he’d mark up a map for us, letting us know some of the great surf spots that he knew of around the world. He graciously agreed and we returned home to show mom the new boards we just bought.
Although we don’t have a lot of space on the boat, Leslie and I feel the boys’ passion for surfing warrants the effort to find a way to transport the boards. Besides being physically demanding, surfing might inspire the boys to seek out remote beaches around the world, an adventure for the whole family, and provide them instant entree into surfing communities that exist locally, all around the world.
The next day, Bryce drew a design on paper for his board. I read an article on the Internet and went off to buy the supplies. We found them all at Michael’s craft store and headed back to the boat to prep and paint his board. It took nearly all day, but the board turned out great. We just need to add three layers of clear coat to finish the job and we plan to do that today. Working with Bryce to make his vision of what he wanted his board to be allowed me to take time away from working on Kandu. Painting the surfboard provided a great excuse to work with my son and show him how to paint something, a skill he will soon need for Kandu. Painting a surfboard is something I would have never imagined doing, and wouldn’t have done had it not been for the excitement and desire Bryce so earnestly expressed. His eye for color and design impresses me.
While I taped up Bryce’s design on his board, Trent practiced duck diving his new board in the marina in front of Kandu. He loved how much easier it was than with his first board. The last few weeks of surfing brought large waves. Not able to duck dive his large board because it’s too buoyant for his weight, the surf beat Trent up, concerning him that he may drown. He wanted a smaller board that he could duck dive under the waves. It was Trent who first wanted to add a smaller board to his quiver (well, one board may not qualify as a quiver, but anyway . . . ). So after an hour of practice, Trent was ready to try his skill. We reminded him of Robert’s warning, to not be discouraged if surfing the new board wasn’t fun at first, and off he went to Mondo’s Beach, the Waikiki of Ventura. The waves were not large, but Trent’s desire to master his board was. On his first wave, he popped up and away he went, turning and maneuvering like he’d had it for months. Trent’s athletic abilities impress me. His ability to put into effect the training he receives is remarkable.
The boys want Leslie and I to surf too, so I guess we’ll find some room to bring our long soft-top beginner board too as the Kandu family prepares to stock a quiver of memories.
Bryce’s Design Represents His Country and His Board MakerTrent on Rapoza FireMade for Nolan Rapoza by Robert WeinerRobert Weiner on his board before selling it to Bryce, Bryce’s first board.
While putting away the plastic folding chairs borrowed for yesterday’s Open Boat (see “Excited? Not Yet” post), one of the chairs fell into the water. My father-in-law, Ron, retrieving it, dropped his expensive pair of newly purchased prescription sunglasses over the dockside, adjacent to Kandu. Bryce assured his grandfather that he would immediately retrieve them and donned his wetsuit. After all, it was only a month ago that he performed the very same exercise to retrieve Trent’s skateboard that Bryce had dropped in the drink. It was low tide, about 15 feet deep where we stood. After half a dozen free dives, following the anchor and chain we had deployed to orient his decent, Bryce was successful and the board salvaged. A couple of new bearings, and it’s as good as new. Papa was really upset about losing his glasses, so before plunging into what Bryce sensed to be certain success, Bryce thought he might extract a little extra incentive from Papa, “Whatcha ya gonna give me if I get them?”
“He’s your grandfather. He doesn’t owe you a thing. Just do it for him,” I barked. And down he went, several times, without success. If you’ve never free dived to 15 feet (not deep by free-dive standards, but significant for newbies) in a wetsuit (which floats you) without weights or fins, in murky water with a sun low to the horizon without a flashlight, with a silty bottom, then you may not be able to appreciate the difficulty of the task Bryce was trying to achieve. To get him down, we’d pull the anchor up, Bryce would hold it, take a deep breath, and then we’d drop the anchor with him holding it to the bottom. So I offered to drive to our storage unit to get weights and an underwater flashlight. I went there and picked up my own snorkeling gear while I was at it. After several more unsuccessful attempts, Bryce gave up, washed off, and went to play Kendama with his marina friends.
I wanted to see what Bryce was up against, so I donned my gear and took the plunge (after several dockside burpee’s to warm my body temperature). My novice ears hurt around 12 feet and I couldn’t see a thing, nada, and I couldn’t hold my breath long enough to do a thing. Bryce’s feat impressed me all the more (I need to tell him that). If I was going to find Papa’s sunglasses, I would need compressed air. He own options: 1) a Spare Air device, a mini-SCUBA tank with a regulator built-in the stem. It holds about 4-5 minutes of air. We have it Velcro’d under our top companion way (the opening from our cabin to our cockpit, our ‘front door’ if you will) ladder step, ready to be deployed, except we haven’t had time to fill it with compressed air. 2) a hookah system, an electric (AC) air compressor that sends air down a hose to a regulator from which you can breath up to 60′ deep. We purchased the two-diver set up, but it’s still in the box, unopened.
I thought about which live-aboard (a person who lives on the boat full-time) on our dock is a dive enthusiast. There’s often one close by. I recalled that Jim, a retired police officer, an experienced cruiser of many years, and a very helpful guy; was a diver and walked over to his boat with my Spare Air. With the sun setting, he immediately offered to fill my little tank, and without either of us having read the instructions (not the best practice), after some trial and error, filled the yellow cylinder successfully. Off I skipped to the scene of the crime. Papa said to forget it. It was getting dark, I was diving without a wetsuit, and dinner was being prepared, but I was attracted to the challenge. I wanted to see if what the Spare Air could do, how it worked, and how I’d work with it. I wanted to see what the bottom was like, the bottom that other boat owners warned me of. So down I went, pulling the anchor chain (I need to buy a weight belt!) with my right hand, the same hand that held my light, while I held my Spare Air unit in my mouth, it being neutrally buoyant.
After about 9 feet into the decent, it was dark. I could barely see a thing. The flashlight’s beam would come and go, in and out of visibility. It took longer to clear my ears (equalize pressure by gently blowing while squeezing my nose shut) than when I use to dive, probably due to a combination of cold, nervousness, and a lack of practice. The silt was silky soft. Holding the aluminum anchor’s shank, I gently touched the bottom, trying to feel around for anything as I dangled upside down like a party balloon. If I let go the anchor, disoriented as I soon became, I could very easily rise too quickly to the surface and risk developing an air embolism in a lung, or worse, my brain (stuff you learn in SCUBA class). I thought to myself, if were I to lose control, I would exhale most all the air from my lungs to prevent an embolism, as well as lessen the rate of my ascent. So close to the surface, I wasn’t worried about reaching the surface with no air in my lungs. As I felt around never letting loose my grip from the anchor, I recovered the hair cutting scissors I’d dropped months ago giving Trent a haircut. I found the piece of grounding wire I’d dropped the day before, and I found the rug mat Trent dropped. I collected the scissors and wire, but left the rug as I did not want to disturb the silt any more than necessary. When my Spare Air ran out, I calmly rose to the surface blowing bubbles (just as I was taught in class). Lacking experience, I didn’t count on the dock that was now over my head, preventing me from the much desired surface. Not panicking, knowing the dock was only 5 feet wide and that I could hold my breath for another 30 seconds, I traced with my hands the barnacled edge of the dock, and rose to the top, only to hit my head against Kandu’s hull before surfacing. Ouch, but I was on the surface now, able to easily breath again, with all my equipment and goodies in tack. From the bottom, although I had entered the water from our neighbor’s slip, where the anchor chain hung off our dock, I had no idea that I was actually working directly under the dock that separates Kandu from our neighbor’s powerboat. The anchor, when we dropped it, must have glided under the slip between our two boats. Next time, I’ll slowly lower the anchor instead of dropping it.
As I pulled myself onto the dock, Jim walked up with his ‘pony’ tank, a small tank of air with its own regulator and hose designed to help a SCUBA diver surface safely in the event his primary system fails. It was five times bigger than my Spare Air. As night fell, I descended once again, this time with Jim’s pony tank wrapped over my right shoulder like a purse, not the normal practice. As I slowly descended, attempting to not disturb the bottom, giving me time to clear my ears, my light caught the bottom; a mini moonscape. I tried to methodically and gently press down the fingers of my left hand, like a piano player lightly touching five keys. Suddenly, from the sea floor a form quickly approaches my face. Knowing that panic kills, I suppress my flight instinct and hold my position. “There’s a perfectly reasonable and benign event occurring,” I reason to myself. “It’s probably the silt percolating up from something disturbed by my right side,” I surmise, and continue my search until again my air runs out and I’m forced to surface. Again I’m under the dock, and again I rise under Kandu, but this time, I’m not surprised.
After a hot shower and I rinse all the gear off with fresh water, Jim tells me of his underwater, search and rescue exercises, learned as part of his certification. Tie a lanyard (small rope) to the anchor and gently swim around the perimeter that the lanyard allows as you circle the anchor (approximately 8′ radius), looking only (he lent me his big underwater spotlight), no touching. If I’m not successful just looking, then I gently touch the surface, again using the lanyard as search perimeter tool. So today I pulled our hookah system and Honda generator out of storage, and plan to put them into service for the first time, checking them out, and finding those glasses. The adventure continues . . . .
Before School, Trent Demonstrates Spare Air Placement
Today, after a full day of working on Kandu with Uncle Bill and Jojo (pulling the water heater and install a multitude of electrical items), while I cleaned up down below and Trent & Leslie were at soccer practice; Bryce decided to do what he’s been asked many times not to do–play on the handrails. “It’s not like it’s gonna break, Daaad,” was often his reply, choosing to believe my instructions were intended to prevent fun rather than breakage or injury. He was surprised and I was frustrated when his jump-up/pull-up abruplty pulled down the 80″ solid teak bar fastened above the galley.
I bit my tongue. Fortunately no one was injured, nothing else was damaged, and we can likely repair it, making it even sturdier. I texted a photo to Uncle Bill. His response, “Better now than later.”
I told Bryce that we scold certain rambunctious behaviors because of their high injury or breakage potential, reminding him that jumping down the companion way was as equally foolish a practice. Will he learn better to follow orders and appreciate the intention behind his parents’ directives? Easier at twelve than 16, I suppose. I certainly hope so.
Living aboard Kandu, our Tayana Vancouver 42, in Ventura creates an unexpected feeling of pointless discomfort, akin to living in an RV on one’s driveway while purposefully avoiding the house. We sense how we could so easily be more comfortable living inside a house. In some ways it feels like we are unnecessarily taxing ourselves, navigating the confines of boat living. The challenge comes from straddling two different lifestyles. We have not moved aboard to live a landlubber’s life on the water, as many of our neighboring live-aboards have done. If we had, we would be making different choices, like clothing, galley, and on-deck storage solutions. We are, instead, preparing for long-distance, mostly tropical, cruising and making decisions based on that future paradigm. In some ways, we’re becoming more like the proverbial fish out of water . . . and sucking air is not enjoyable. It’s not evolution; it’s de-evolution. The extra burden comes from having to support a land life, which is so much easier from a house; while at the same time incorporating far-away, self-supportable, small-spaced, warm weather, humid solutions. Schooling and extracurricular activities and all the inter-family networking still occur with homebound counterparts we meet from Bryce’s and Trent’s schoolyard friendships. We’ve done it before, when we lived in a house, and we did it well. But things are obviously different now. In the morning, we will design a large no-see’m net to fit over our cockpit. I’ll order the materials over the Internet, and Leslie will sew it using our bulky and powerful sailmaker’s sewing machine. I make lists as to what all needs to be done before I feel we can safely and comfortably leave America and sail to fifty other countries across multiple oceans and seaways. In the afternoon, we drive to soccer practice, attend a science fair or a choir performance, or drive to LA for a Cub Scout event. Sleep-overs on the boat, while it’s torn apart and we have to use facilities that are 1/4 block away, are difficult to consider and thus, for now, avoided. We do much of what we did from a 1500 sq. ft. house, only now from within a 250 sq. ft. sailboat in repair/upgrading. For this, it’s cramped living. Leslie estimates everything requires 40% more effort to get anything done, especially daily chores like cooking, dishes, laundry, typing emails, taking a shower, etc. Trent states, “You know what I’m looking forward to when we get back? Moving into a house.”
Of course we recognize that this is a transitional period, perhaps the most difficult part of the whole process (so the experts told us last week at the Strictly Sailing Pacific show, another landlubber activity). We get how important it is to get the living space right, to adapt it for our needs and preferences, to work out the kinks . . . but we sometimes feels like we’re Noah, getting ready for the big flood—we’re the only ones in the village preparing a boat for a five-year “flood.” As a result, sometimes you feel you’re a little crazy, and have to talk yourself into the dream again, remind yourself of all the great reasons for taking on such an unconventional and all-encompassing journey. I’m glad we have the time we do to get ready. We need it. We’re getting a lot of great work accomplished. And there’s no place I’d rather be than in Ventura, doing all this “transitioning” . . . but it’s still a pain in the aft.
It’s the night before Easter. Time to go to bed so the Easter bunny can hide baskets and eggs for Bryce and Trent. One thing we’ve learned about a cruising boat–there are nooks and crannies aplenty within which to hide things!
Hanging out at the Strictly Sailing Pacific boat show in Oakland, CA last week, I had the pleasure of meeting Marty and Sven of Sailology. Their WinchRite product turns every winch on Kandu into an electric winch, enabling everyone on board to crank in the furling gear, hoist up a crew member to the top of the mast, or lift our dinghy safely on board deck. Both Marty and Sven are very resourceful, a this video proves:
