Into The Mystic

The Journey Begins...

Mon, 03 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

The Journey Begins…

I know I said I wouldn’t discuss the pain and difficulty of transferring a boat from one registry to another, but I think it’s worth it in the vague chance someone else has to go through the bureaucratic process. I won’t do it right now, though!

This post tells the tale of our relaxing sail from Santo Stefano al Mare in Italy to Valencia in Spain, by way of Saint Tropez and Barcelona. All four locations are very much worth visiting.

The boat sale concluded on April 15th, of 2025. From that moment forth, “Into The Mystic” was mine. My father used to remind me that the two happiest days in ones life are the day you buy the boat, and the day you sell it. Having bought and sold a few boats in my time, I’m not sure he was totally correct. The joy and excitement on the day you take ownership of a new boat far outweighs any sense of relief you feel when you sell your previous boat. This was definitely a day of overwhelming emotion. I have wanted to own a Hallberg Rassy for quite a considerable period of time. I was beginning to think I would never actually own one.

Having flown to see the boat twice, and having helped deliver the boat to Imperia for the survey, my first opportunity to spend a night on my own boat happened on Saturday, April 26th. I spent a week on board, working from the boat. I also had to add decals with her new name, as part of the re-registration process. I managed to get all the formalities in place, including filing the insurance and registration paperwork with the marina.

The next trip was in late June, and this was to wave goodbye to Santo Stefano and begin the journey to Ireland! When we’re done, we’ll have covered a distance of almost 2,000 nautical miles. But first, the job at hand was to get to Valencia Mar where she was booked in from early July until mid-September. I’m sure I’ve said this before, but moving a boat from one location to another, isn’t always the idyllic experience you might expect. Usually these moves are dictated by the calendar and by the availability of vacation days, etc. When you have a flight booked, departing from a distant airport, and you’re weather-bound somewhere along the route, it can be very frustrating if not stressful. So you’re trying to balance how much distance you can reasonably cover against worst-case scenarios and other factors. From Italy to Spain, the big unknown is the Gulf of Lion. Winds can get funnelled through this gap between the mountains, and the Mistral can blow up with short notice. Wikipedia says it “produces sustained winds averaging 50 km/h (30 mph), sometimes reaching 100 km/h (60 mph). It can last for several days.”

To be absolutely sure of an up to date weather forecast, the plan was to sail to Saint Tropez. We could then see what the three day forecast looked like, and if it was clear, “shoot the gap” to Barcelona. A lot of boats go further inland to Marseilles but Sain Tropez seemed more convenient and anyway, a nicer place to visit. Saint Tropez Marina is not cheap, but it is very centrally located in the town, and an excellent facility. This raises an interesting routing choice. Normally my ideal route would mix a day or two on the hook with a marina day, but when you’re doing a delivery with unknown weather conditions, marina stops are a better choice. When it comes to choosing a marina, I make the decision based on my length of stay. For example, as we had only planned a single night in Saint Tropez, choosing the expensive marina in town is a no-brainer. If we were intending to stay for a few days, or if we were planning to leave the boat unattended for a longer period, I’d have chosen a cheaper marina. Generally the trade-off is the quality of the facilities in the marina and also the proximity to the town/airport. In Saint Tropez for example, we were a short walk from the centre of things.

So this all kicked off on June 21st. I flew to the boat, and again spent the first week working on board. I had purchased a local SIM and a MiFi device for this purpose, and apart from the 30C heat, it was a breeze. Last-minute preparations always take longer than you expect, but I had already done quite a bit of work the previous April. This had involved installing a new chart plotter and VHF radio, as well as reprogramming the AIS with our new MMSI. Ruth flew out a few days later, and we departed in the late afternoon on Friday, June 27th. We sailed overnight and arrived very early in Saint Tropez. I was keen to leave Santo Stefano al Mare before it got dark, and it wasn’t that long of a trip. The wind ranged between zero and four knots, so sailing was out of the question. We actually arrived around 7AM, and radioed the marina as is the norm. In fact, the office wasn’t open and they weren’t prepared to accept us until late afternoon. They were surprised to hear from us so early, which I find amusing. Most modern marinas are used to boats arriving at all hours, as it can be very difficult to plan an exact ETA when you’re subject to the vagaries of wind and tide. They usually have a night staff of security people who can assign a berth for you and you can complete the formalities in the morning when the office opens. Saint Tropez is a visiting spot for a lot of superyachts and other very expensive craft. So much so that their marina office has its own VTS (Vessel Traffic Service) operating on VHF Channel 9. They told us to come back in an hour or so when the office was open. We were pretty tired at this point, so we motored around the bay, slowly. Eventually it was time to call them again and this time they told us there wouldn’t be a free berth until after 4PM! We asked if they could at least direct us to a buoy or nearby anchorage and they relented. They found us a “temporary” slot in amongst all the oversized tenders. As usual for Saint Tropez (apparently), we then had to wait until the marina crew could meet us at the port entrance, which thankfully didn’t take too long.

They met us in a large RIB and we followed them to our berth. They helped us squeeze in and took our lines. After a short nap, it was off to explore Saint Tropez. We had a lovely day exploring the town and it was Ruth’s first time to arrive in a different country by sailing vessel. We had changed the courtesy flag from Italy to France during the night. They offered us a better berth later on that day, but we were happy with the temporary one. Especially as we would be leaving the next day.

Into The Mystic is unusual for a ‘352 in that she has a smaller diesel tank. The previous owner had found a leak in the main tank and installed a smaller tank inside the main one. Our total capacity on board is now around 120 litres. We also carry two jerry cans with 20 litres each, for a total of 160. A conservative estimate on fuel usage would say we should burn around two litres per hour. Our number was higher than that. Probably closer to 4 (more on that, later!). Even at 4 litres, we would have 40 hours of motoring, without an issue. To avoid having to worry about it, we decided to top up before we left for Barcelona, a habit/tradition we would repeat in every port. As the fuel dock was awkward for us and we wanted an early start, we decided to use the jerry cans. We emptied both into the tank and refilled them by carrying them ourselves to the fuel dock. Tiring work, but it was great to have full tanks again when we departed. The weather forecast was for light to no winds for three to four days, so we headed for Barcelona.

The trip out from Saint Tropez and around the corner, was amazing. We threaded our way through a few little islands before venturing out into the Gulf of Lion. One or other of the islands was a French naval base. The officers housing was on the Western side of the island, and the houses were bathed in beautiful hues as the sun set. It definitely looked like a nice place to live and work. Again we motored through the night, with little to no wind. On our second day out, the wind picked up a bit and we managed to get the sails up for the first time. The winds ranged between 8 and 12 knots, which isn’t exactly a lot for a 6.7 tonne boat like a Hallberg Rassy. They are renowned as blue water cruisers, who can take bad weather in their stride. The down side to that is they need a good breeze to get going. We found we were furling and unfurling the sail, and starting/stopping the engine a lot, while we took advantage of whatever breeze showed up.

The AIS was a god-send because we could see all of the main shipping traffic crossing in front and behind of us. More importantly, they could see us! In the early morning, Ruth watched as a fleet of fishing boats came alive on the AIS, going from dormant targets to moving obstructions. Eventually, we could make out the entrance to our marina, Port Olimpic very close to the centre of the city. Again, we chose a marina which was close to town rather than a cheaper one further out. Expecting a similar reception to Saint Tropez, we called them on VHF 9 and anticipated a two-man crew on board a RIB to meet us. No such luck! We tried to explain in bad Spanish that we had a long keel and if they had a small RIB or inflatable boat to help push us into the berth, it would be appreciated. They misunderstood our request, and asked that we pull alongside the fuel dock, instead. After a lot of confusion, due to our lack of fluency, they told us where our assigned berth was, and wandered over to take our lines. We wasted no time in exploring the city, or at least that part of it which was in walking distance from the marina. It is truly a lovely experience to make sure everything on board the boat is secure, shore power is connected, you’ve changed out of your sailing clothes, and are walking to a nearby restaurant for a well-deserved beer and dinner. There’s nothing quite like it. I can safely say that this, and the guilty pleasure of jumping off the back of the boat into warm, azure water while at anchor, make even the stormiest passage worthwhile.

While I’m not usually a fan of those open-top tour buses, my reluctance to Ruth’s plan was entirely misplaced. The next day, we bought a ticket for the bus, which allowed us 24 hour access. We managed to get to grips with all of the various districts in the city and our recurring refrain was “we’re coming back here…” We of course visited the Sagrada Familia and naively thought we could visit the famous cathedral. After downloading the app, it informed us that there was ticket availability for July 15th! A week after we had returned home. Our pre-trip planning had told us to avoid La Rambla, which seems to be a bit like our own Temple Bar on the scale of “Tourist Traps To Avoid”. We were worried that we might not have anywhere else to visit, but we were incredibly wrong. There is so much to see in Barcelona that it is safe to say, you’d need at least a week. In our case, our original timetable had us leaving on the second of July, but we quickly revised our itinerary. First off, if we left late in the day, we would arrive in Valencia quite late, which should always be avoided. Not just in Valencia. Personally, I prefer to arrive in a marina in the early afternoon at the latest. This gives you time to complete the formalities and explore, a little bit. Ideally, with a “day off” the next day, to tour the new location. Arriving under cover of darkness is not for the faint-hearted.

We decided, on mature reflection, that another day in Barcelona, followed by an early start, would put us in Valencia in the early afternoon. We didn’t need a lot of convincing. We still had some hours left on our bus ticket so we decided to try one of the other routes. The issue here of course is that our ticket was due to expire at around 11:30 in the morning. We got on the bus without any problems, but once that epoch had passed by, we knew that getting off the bus would mean a long walk, a new ticket, or an expensive taxi journey. We persevered. This did involve baking in the noonday sun, while touring the Olympic grounds at the far-end of the city. But overall, it was worth it. We both agreed we would definitely return.

As usual, our early start wasn’t as early as we would have liked. We decided this time we would motor up to the fuel dock again, and refill the tanks. The trip from Barcelona to Valencia wasn’t as long a journey and doesn’t involve things like the Mistral, but we worked on the basis that “if it’s available, we should stock up.” This, however, meant waiting for the fuel dock to open up, which didn’t happen until 9:30AM so our planned departure time was delayed somewhat.

The trip to Valencia was again an overnight journey and again passed off without a hitch. We motored through the night due to the lack of any breeze, and closed on Valencia itself in the late afternoon. Valencia has at least two main marinas and it’s important to know which one you’re heading to. In my case, I had read complaints online from people who had gone to the wrong one, so I did my homework before ever we departed Dublin. One marina is to the north of the main port, and the other is to the south. Valencia Mar was to be our home until September 2nd, and to reach it, you must first cross the TSS in front of the entrance to the main harbour. Traffic Separation Schemes require that sailboats cross at right angles and as quickly as possible. We sailors are in total agreement that we want to get across quickly. It is like a frog crossing a motorway. Just because we broadcast an AIS signal does not mean that large ships can steer around us. With Ruth down below at the chart plotter, studying the AIS signals of the ships entering the port, and me on the helm, staring at the large metal objects speeding towards their destinations, the tension levels were higher than normal. We watched as one large container ship made her way to the port. We decided to aim close for that vessel, and steer behind her. Off in the distance was a ferry from Ibiza or one of the other islands. Ruth noticed that the other boat, the ferry, was actually increasing speed. They went from around 18 knots to over 22 knots! We had to again steer at a right angle to our desired course and head further away from Valencia, to try and avoid the behemoth. Sure enough, it streaked past us at a rate of knots, and we were finally able to turn towards Valencia Mar, and cross the TSS. At this point, we had gone so far out of our way, that we were crossing at the start of the TSS.

Eventually we motored up to the entrance of the marina, just as it was getting dark. Valencia Mar is actually one of three marinas all with the same entrance. We were heading right once we entered. We couldn’t find a fuel dock or office building, so we motored in. Usually I would use the handheld VHF radio as I approach, and talk to the marina staff while also looking around and steering. There was no answer from the staff on channel 9. On the next leg, I discovered that my handheld VHF radio can’t be heard by the marina staff on their radios. From now on, we will always use the main radio to contact the marina.

Eventually, as we slowly motored around the marina, we could hear one of the evening staff shouting. They directed us to our berth, and finally we were tied up. I am still a bit hesitant to berth “stern-to” given the tendency of the boat to ignore any and all instructions from the helm, when travelling in reverse. There is a technique which involves going to neutral, turning the wheel exactly the way you don’t want to go, dropping into forward gear with hard revs for about four seconds, dropping back to neutral, and swinging the wheel where you do want to go, followed by reverse gear. Attempting this in a busy marina at night is not recommended. Especially if there’s a cross wind. The bow will fall off the wind very quickly. As she was going to be berthed in Valencia for two months, we judiciously decided to go “bows to”. The down side of this of course is that you have to climb over the bow pulpit to get on and off the boat. The marina in Valencia is quite low, as well.

No matter, we had arrived. In around ten days of sailing we had covered 900 nautical miles, and spent some enjoyable days in Saint Tropez and Barcelona. By the time we had secured everything, and chatted briefly to the marina staff, it was around 10PM. We were operating under the illusion that Spanish restaurants stayed open until all hours. We discovered the two restaurants at the marina were no longer serving food. We quickly called a taxi and asked him to “take us to the restaurant area.” This turned out to be a tourist-y area on the north side of the harbour. Again, most restaurants were closing their kitchens, so we hurriedly ordered food and returned back to the boat. We didn’t get any time to explore Valencia as our flight was around noon the next day. Just enough time to secure the boat for her two month visit, clean up, get rid of any leftover food (we donated it to a nearby boat), pack our bags and grab a taxi to the airport. It’s a pity, because we were looking forward to exploring Valencia.

Photo by Theodor Vasile on Unsplash

Hello Faro!

Tue, 28 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Greetings from Portugal!

Well, things have been quiet on here for the last number of months, but don’t think we’ve been sitting around, daydreaming. Quite the opposite, in fact. In a previous post I mentioned I had purchased a Hallberg Rassy 352 and she was berthed in Santo Stefano al Mare , on the beautiful Italian coast near Genoa. I also had to vacate the marina by the end of June. In the meantime, I had to close the sale, and transfer the boat from the Italian Ships Registry to the Irish one. I mentioned that the plan was to move her to Faro. This involved over 900 nautical miles of sailing and motoring through the western end of the Mediterranean, and through the Strait of Gibraltar.

Suffice to say, we managed to get all this done and she was lifted out of the water today and placed on dry land for the winter. For now, we’re just enjoying our wonderful memories of a summer spent sailing along the Italian, French, Spanish and Portuguese coastlines. Next year, we need to complete the journey, and bring Into The Mystic to Kinsale. But that’s for next year!

Over the next few days and weeks, I will upload the missing blog posts describing our adventures from Italy to Portugal. These ranged from fabulous sunsets, being overtaken by very large cruise ships, engine problems just outside Valencia, and being becalmed with almost-empty fuel tanks about ten miles south of Torremolinos. To say nothing of the once-in-a-lifetime trip through the Strait of Gibraltar or indeed the rudder-eating Orcas from Gibraltar to Faro. I’ll probably spare you the gory details of getting a boat transferred from one registry to another. Unless of course, that “floats your boat” (I’m here all week!).

Anyway, lots to share. After we’ve had a chance to unwind after our summer of sailing, I’ll post the other updates.

Photo by Felipe Castilla on Unsplash

A Bit of News...

Sun, 23 Mar 2025 13:24:38 +0000

So now it’s a Hallberg Rassy 352!

So, this has been a long time coming, but I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure. Last week, the surveyor completed his survey of what will very soon be my very own Hallberg Rassy 352! She is currently on the hard in a yard in Imperia, Italy. This was so the surveyor could complete his task. Her current home berth is a marina in Santo Stefano al Mare in Italy. Over the course of the next year to eighteen months, she will make her way to Ireland.

The boat was built in Sweden in 1987. Hallberg Rassy built a total of 802 of these boats from 1978 until 1992, and this is one of the later models with the taller mast. She is around 10.59 metres long, and draws 1.68 metres. Like most Hallberg Rassy’s, this boat features a centre cockpit. These are like Marmite to a lot of people but personally I love the fact that there is a large stern cabin. I don’t have any issues with the supposed height above the waterline nor with the distance to the stern. I have been an admirer of Hallberg Rassy yachts since stumbling across a HR42 at the San Francisco Boat Show in 2002. In fact, the HR42 has long-been a dream boat of mine. Over the past number of months, since we made the fateful decision to sell Nikea, I have found myself in the role of Post-captain and it did not sit easily. With the Achilles looking less and less likely to ever see the high seas again, and Nikea fast becoming a distant memory, was it time to take up golf? As usual, I started window-shopping for boats when the weather turned dark and cold.

But unlike previous experiences, this time I found myself thinking seriously about hitting the “Buy Now!” button. I specifically started looking at Hallberg Rassy’s but decided on the smaller (and obviously cheaper) 352 model. I had foolishly discarded this choice in the past, favouring the 42 (or 43) as the only reasonable choice. That may be true if you’re a lottery winner, but should I stay on dry land and stare at beautiful posters of new Hallberg Rassy 43s or should I buy the boat staring back at me. It’s a lot smaller, but I am reminded of Henry’s words yet again; sail the boat you have! I could afford the 352, and I can not afford a new HR43.

The decision was easy, although I did panic once I had informed the broker that I wanted to proceed. There are still formalities to complete. The boat is on the Italian registry and I need her to be on the Irish registry. The major hurdle was the survey. As I explained to the broker and to the existing owner, there are three surveys in one. The first and most important is for me. I need to know that there is no osmosis and that I am not buying a problem boat. My own examination of the boat had shown it was very well cared-for, and I wasn’t anticipating any issues, but there is nothing as comforting as an official survey report by a professional surveyor. In fact, I would go so far as to say that it is essential to get a professional survey before purchasing a boat, unless you can afford the loss. Sure, if it’s a Topper and you’re buying it for €600 as-is, you’re not going to spend money on a survey. But if the boat qualifies as one of the most significant purchases in your life, having a professional perform an extensive examination of the vessel prior to purchase should be mandatory.

The second survey was for the insurer. In order to insure a boat, the insurance company will want to know that the boat has been professionally surveyed in the last few years. They will also want to ensure that you have addressed any issues (small or large) raised by the survey. The third survey is for the Irish registry and mostly concerns the tonnage. Getting all three in one was quite handy, but involved a nail-biting period of time waiting for the official report.

Now that the survey has been completed, and the yard is addressing some minor issues raised, it is safe to say that the boat is mine, or will be once the final Bill of Sale is executed. This will be happening on or before April 15th. As I said, there are still some hurdles to overcome, and nothing can be taken for granted, but barring any major obstacles, from April 15th, Into The Mystic will be a Hallberg Rassy pulling at her mooring lines, in Italy.

One of the delights of yacht ownership is the planning process. It may sound strange, but it is wonderful to spend time in the cold winter evenings, considering the possibilities and permutations of moving a yacht from Italy to Ireland. I have decided to spread this journey over two sailing seasons. More than likely, she will spend the winter in Faro (Portugal) and will complete the journey in 2026. So I need to plan for a journey instead from Italy to Portugal, via Gibraltar. It looks like the marina will be available until the end of June, all going well. So I am considering a halfway point of Valencia in Spain. In that case, some time between April 15th and June 30th, I will need to sail her from Italy to Valencia. Probably quite close to the end of June, I suspect. The distance is around 800 nautical miles and I could do this in a single hop, taking 7 to 8 days. But I’m not sure I want to do that. The two other main choices are to sail direct to Corsica (distance 85nm), down the west coast of Corsica to Sardina, and then over to Valencia via the Balearic Islands or to hug the French and Spanish coastlines. I could quickly sail to Cavalaire sur Mar which is quite close to San Tropez. Then I could sail across the Golfe de Lion to Barcelona, or again hug the coastline and make my way in a series of short hops.

I’m a staunch opponent of delivery trips in the sense that your sailing is operating to a strict schedule. I have found from experience that the worst kind of sailing is where the boat must be moved. There is nothing joyous or pleasurable about banging into strong headwinds to get miles under the keel. Unfortunately, life does try to limit us because there are return flights to consider, jobs to be returned to, and weather to be avoided. So one must thread the needle between enforced timetables and properly experiencing the nomadic lifestyle of moving a boat from here to there. I will, hopefully, some day write a longer blog piece about my experiences as an unpaid delivery crew. But not today. Today, I’m looking at pictures of the new Into the Mystic, and daydreaming about adventures to come.

Lithium Batteries (Part Two)

Tue, 18 Feb 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Batteries and Boats (Part Two)

So, another word (or thousand) on batteries, following on from Part One. This time the focus is on LFP batteries. We have pretty much exhausted the conversation on lead acids! I mean, my previous post on this subject was over 4,000 words long. This one will be shorter because we’ve covered the basics already.

At the risk of repeating myself and labouring the point, this is about Lithium Iron Phosphate batteries (LFP or LiFePO4), not Lithium Ion. If you don’t know the difference, read Part One again. If you still don’t understand the difference, feel free to leave a comment, below. Apart from your phone, tablet or laptop, do not put Lithium Ion batteries on your boat, ever! Re-read that previous sentence again, and make sure it is firmly implanted in your brain. An LFP cell has a nominal voltage of 3.2 volts. A Lithium Ion cell has a nominal voltage of 3.7 volts. That is all I’m going to say about those things.

So LFP batteries have a great Joule/kg energy rating. A lead acid battery has around 80,000 Joules per kilogram. In other words, how much energy can you store, per kilogram on your boat. LFP by contrast can store 580,000 J/kg. Over seven times the energy density. That might be enough to swing your purchasing power towards the newer technology, but the price comparison is painful. These batteries are coming down in price, but they’re still pretty expensive. They could cost anywhere from 2-4 times more than an equivalent lead acid. But wait! There’s more!

Remember when I said that running a lead acid battery to 0% charge was a really bad idea? Well, the same cannot be said for LFPs. You might not get to 0%, but draining the battery to 10% isn’t a big deal. Looking at this a bit closer, an LFP battery “lifespan” is measured in charge/discharge cycles. Imagine that you drain your house battery overnight, every night. You then use the engine or the solar panels to recharge it during the day. The typical life of an LFP battery says you can do this between 3,000 and 4,000 times. You’re doing the maths in your head, aren’t you? At that rate of going, assuming you are on the boat every day to discharge the house battery, it will last ten years. But it’s not that the battery will just roll over, point its toes to the sky, and stop working after 3,000 cycles. What happens is the capacity drops by perhaps 80%. So, today you buy a 280Ah house battery and in 2035, it’s only good for around 225Ah. But it’s still good! It’s just not as good.

So, these things sound wonderful, right? There are some things you need to worry about. First off, in my previous article I differentiated between cells and batteries. If it’s OK with you, I won’t repeat myself. An LFP cell has a nominal voltage of 3.2V. Not much use on a boat with 12 volt electrics. So you put four LFP cells in series and now you have a nominal voltage of 12.6 volts. That should be fine. But the charging voltage is 3.65V per cell which means your battery now has a charging voltage of 14.6 volts. The maximum voltage your lead acid charging circuit might show is 14.4 volts. Is the extra 0.2 volts going to make a difference? Probably not. But…

Whereas the Lithium Ion cell will catch fire if overcharged, LFP has no such terminal state. If you overcharge it, it will die. Silently. It will convert itself into a very heavy doorstop. Likewise, if you let the cell voltage drop too low, it will also die. You might think this isn’t an issue, and you can just make sure that you never let your boat battery voltage go below 10 volts, but you are making an assumption about balance. Let’s try a hypothetical example. Four cells. Three are fully charged and showing a 3.2 volt nominal voltage. One has been discharged and is showing 2.5 volts. The battery voltage is 12.1 volts. Fine, you say. Keep pulling amps. But the cell with the low voltage will now roll over and die. As they’re in series, your entire battery will stop working. The same thing happens when you’re charging the battery. You never want the cell voltage above 3.65 volts. But what if one cell is already fully charged? You will overcharge it and it will die.

There is a solution. It’s called a Battery Management System (or BMS) and it is essential. It has a connection to each individual cell and measures the differential voltage so that it can determine the state of charge of each cell. In the case of undervoltage in one or more cells, it will disconnect the battery from the load. Likewise if one or more cells is in danger of over-voltage. Without a BMS, you will ruin one or more cells very quickly. Fancy BMS units can also rebalance cells so that the charge voltage is directed mostly to the cell with the lowest charge. Most, however, will just passively monitor individual cell voltages to make sure no single cell is under- or over-charged.

As I mentioned last time, you should always use a lead acid battery to start the engine. Engine starter motors and lead acids were made for each other. Don’t mess with that relationship. But this raises an interesting issue. You might, for example, have a smart relay which connects the engine and house battery together, when the engine is running. Remembering our lead acid voltages, anything over 13 volts would indicate that there is a charging voltage present. Generally all batteries on the boat will have a common ground. When a charging voltage is detected, the relay will close, connecting the battery positives together. The charging voltage is then shared between both batteries, and the current is shared on an as-needed basis. Do not do this with LFP batteries. Firstly, there is no real float voltage with LFP batteries. Secondly, they can take considerable current when discharged. They will easily burn out your alternator (or the fuse, if there is one). Victron manufacture a DC/DC converter system which can be used to bring the charging voltage from the alternator to the LFP battery, without undue stress on the alternator and even though the charging voltages between lead acid and LFP are different. As they say, don’t leave home without one.

The same could be said for solar charging. Very fancy smart relays can also detect that there is a charging voltage on the house battery side as well as the engine side. The gain here isn’t enormous because the engine battery should always be at or close to 100% so the ability to charge the engine battery from the solar system probably isn’t worth the investment. Mind you, some sort of “in case of emergency” mechanism for diverting solar charge to the engine could be worth consideration. Something as simple as a cheap solar/battery unit and a A/B selector switch to send the solar power to the main MPPT and LFP charging system, or to the cheap lead acid charger. It might get you out of trouble.

One thing to consider, if you’re switching from lead acid to LFP for your house batteries, is the “front of house.” In this sense, I mean those big motors up near the bow; namely the windlass and the bow thruster (if you have one). In an ideal world, these items would have their own lead acid up at the bow and would charge from the engine or solar at the stern. When you think about it, a windlass isn’t all that different from a starter motor. It takes a large current draw for a relatively short period of time. Likewise, a bow thruster. It is quite possible to run these off a LFP system as they are capable of large current loads. But the use-case fits that of a lead acid battery more than an LFP. You’re never in danger of fully discharging the battery, unless for example your anchor has hooked some massive underwater chain and you’re actively trying to haul up half the sea bed. The issue with a lead acid at the bow is that it is a lot of weight in the wrong place. If you’re lucky enough to have a boat big enough to carry a lead acid at the bow, then separate your anchor windless and bow thruster from your house electrics. This also has the added advantage of reducing the I2R (I-squared-R) losses in the cable from the stern where your battery bank probably resides, all the way to the bow, where the windlass lives. On some boats, I’ve noticed that the anchor windlass is connected to the engine battery on the basis that you would normally run the engine when using the windlass. The disadvantage to this approach is if you need to adjust your anchor at 4AM in a gale.

Another consideration with LFP batteries is the discharge curve. Unlike lead acids, it is quite flat. What this means is that the nominal cell voltage of 3.2 volts is maintained from 90% state of charge right down to around 25% SoC. So how do you tell if your battery is at 90% SoC or 25% if you can’t just measure the voltage and apply a formula? Do you just keep pulling power until you hit the 25% SoC “shoulder” and the voltage quickly drops off? Ideally here you would measure current to and from the battery. You might find a BMS which will do this for you, or it might be part of the solar charging system. The system knows the rated amp-hours for the battery and tots up the current consumed/replaced. It needs to know that the battery is either fully charged or fully drained, before it can accurately predict the state of charge. It is nothing more than a system which says “well, they’ve been pulling ten amps for the last fifteen hours and it’s a 280Ah battery and it was fully charged to begin with. I’m going to say that the battery is at 46% of rated capacity.” Remember that this is an estimate. It assumes the battery is indeed 280Ah. It also assumes that the battery was charged and discharged through the shunt resistor and that no extraneous loads (or indeed charging current) has been provided out of band.

Overall, while LFP batteries aren’t as rugged as lead acid, and require specialist management and charging systems, they offer a new lease of life on the worn out house battery. Even deep cycle lead acid batteries weren’t really designed for the 100% to 10% cycling of your average house battery. Before switching from your current (pun intended) setup, make sure you have a proper BMS in place, you have a way of charging the house batteries from the alternator in such a way as to not burn it out, and you have a mechanism for connecting your solar (or wind) power to the battery. Also make sure that any sensitive electronics on board can handle the different voltage ranges.

On a final note, I have heard through the grapevine that insurance companies will request proof that any LFP battery bank has been installed by a “qualified professional.” This is quite the hurdle to overcome if you’re thinking of installing your own system. For starters, it is not for the casual DIY-er because you need to make sure you have essential components such as a BMS. You also need to make sure the batteries are kept in a dry area and free from seawater as much as possible. Bear in mind that when an insurance company says “qualified professional,” what they really mean is someone with a professional liability insurance policy. They want to be able to transfer any claim to the installer. Even if you’re smarter than the average marine electrician and have completed ABYC certification, you may run into issues because you don’t have any indemnity insurance.

Life is short

Fri, 31 Jan 2025 13:41:31 +0000

I have a decision to make. Work on the Achilles has slowed to a standstill for a variety of reasons. Do I continue, or do I get on with my life and direct my sailing attentions elsewhere? Neither alternative is particularly ideal. Let me explain, why.

First off, let’s take a cold, hard look at the value of the boat. I’m not talking about her “value” as a nebulous term, involving the freedom to sail the high seas, and so on. I mean the cold, hard cash one might expect someone to pay to take the boat off your hands. You can purchase an Achilles 24 in the UK for around £4,500. That works out to around €5,400 in todays money. At that price, she is probably in mint condition. In all likelihood, better even than when she rolled off the production line. Mind you, thanks to Brexit, if you’re in the EU you’re going to have to pay VAT on that. In Ireland that would bring the total price up to €6,642.

My own Achilles is showing her 51 years of age. With a lot of effort, attention and expense, I could bring her back to a nominal state where she could be sold for at best, €3,500. But at what cost? For example, when I stored the boat at the side of the house, I propped up the road trailer on blocks and removed the wheels. The wheel hubs were also in a bad way, so I removed them.

In late 2022, I decided that the worst issues were the holes in the cockpit for the Morse gear and the original engine hatch. I decided that the best course of action was to reinstate the road trailer and tow the boat to a yard, for remedial works. In other words, “whatever it costs, make this boat seaworthy!” I purchased four wheel hubs, four wheels with tyres, and a new tow hitch. I was motivated to get the boat into a roadworthy condition, so I could tow her to a yard. The replacement trailer parts cost around €1,800. As I can’t tow a boat of that weight with my car, add another €500 to have her towed to the yard. The yard might have charged me (at a wild guess) €2,000 to do the repairs. So now I’m spending €4,300 on my own boat, which might have a resale value of 80% of what I spent. I didn’t care, because I had decided that the true value of the boat wasn’t the sticker price but instead, the value of having a sailing boat. In other words, I was happy to pay over the odds to restore her.

Boat economics: spend €4,300 on your pride and joy, and have a boat worth €3,500.

Unfortunately, I made a fateful discovery. The road trailer supports were heavily corroded. The black paint was holding them together in places. Yes, yes, I should have discovered this before ordering trailer parts. There was no way this trailer was going to make it 80 or 100 kilometres to a yard. I ended up re-selling the trailer parts at a discount. You can probably see where this is headed.

In the short term, I decided I would have to do the fibreglass work myself. I persuaded myself that if I could repair any leaks (all are above the waterline), she could be launched. How I move the boat from my driveway to the sea is another issue. I would also need to insure the boat before launch. Insurance would require a survey. A surveyor would say the keel bolts needed to be removed/inspected and most likely replaced. Whatever about the standing rigging, and who knows what else they might discover? Again, this negative equity situation of boat economics was predicated on having a boat to sail. Eventually, the question raises its head: “would you not be better off, buying a second-hand boat in sail-able condition, and sailing that?” Nikea was just that boat - I could fly to Greece and sail for two weeks without worrying about fibreglass repairs. But here’s the thing - Nikea is now up for sale.

So, I suddenly find that my sailing options are reduced to a boat which is a long way from the sea in all respects and I’m not getting any younger. Most of us, I’m guessing, postpone our sailing dreams for a future date when whatever stars we need in alignment, suddenly find themselves in the right position. I’m not the first person to say “life is short.”

It seems like the end of the road for the Achilles. The sum of her parts are definitely worth more than the whole. The mast is in good shape. Similarly, the boom and the spinnaker pole. New winches were added, a few years ago. The sails aren’t terrible, and so on. But here’s the thing - the Achilles 24 is a design by Chris Butler of Butler Mouldings. Only a fixed number were made, and many are still navigating the high seas. It would be a complete tragedy to take a perfectly-good hull and carve it up because of the implied cost of restoring her to a useful condition. The options distill down to these paltry three:

Repair the fibreglass (etc) and re-launch the boat.
Sell or donate the boat to someone willing to take on the work.
Sell off the parts, cut up the hull, and dump it in a skip.

To date, I have been focused on option #1, but I’m now of the opinion I don’t have the time or the facilities to complete this work. I have long-since given up on the idea of selling the boat, or even giving her away. I’m not sure there are many people as daft as me, willing to take on such a project. But option #3 is so final, so terminal. It’s not like the boat is unseaworthy or that the keel is liable to fall off, or some reason to justify a total write-off, so it seems terribly unjust to take a saw to one of the remaining Chris Butler hulls. At what point does a “project boat” become unsalvageable?

I am going to try an experiment. I am going to offer the boat for free (or close enough), with some ground rules. The first rule is simply so that someone doesn’t come and take the mast and say they’ll “come back later” for the rest. Now I have a boat which doesn’t have a mast - that’s definitely a chainsaw job. Take the hull first or together with everything else. The second rule is a bit trickier. Someone can show up, decide “yeah, I want it…” and then disappear into the ether. I don’t want to put time constraints on someone having to move the boat from my house to wherever they plan to do the work. I know first-hand that it can be hard to arrange such things. But I also don’t want to find I’m still looking at the boat a year later, and now I can’t do anything about it because I “sold” it to someone. So the second rule is you need to come and get the boat in a timely fashion. Sure, it will take some organising. I don’t mind if you’re contacting me to say “it’ll be another week” or something like that, but I really want to avoid the situation where I’m writing a blog post this time next year, with a boat still by the side of my house. I’ll create a mini web site (off this one) for people who might be interested. I wish it hadn’t come to this, but there you go.

On the plus side, I am now in the market for a new boat. One which is in the water and ready to sail. Life is too short!

No more syndicate

Fri, 17 Jan 2025 15:30:19 +0000

If you read my most recent blog post about Nikea, you would have picked up a certain “vibe” regarding the syndicate. Nikea is an old boat. A Beneteau First 345 built between 1984 and 1988. As a fibreglass hull, and a great engine, she still has a lot of life in her. However, what she needs is time and money. Money to pay for some more modern equipment and the time to fix a lot of small but niggling issues. We could probably hire someone to do a lot of the work, or we could fly there and do the work ourselves. But Greece isn’t what it once was. It’s overcrowded and getting very expensive. Sure, you can still eat out and have a carafe of wine very cheaply, but mention “boat” in any purchase, and the price matches the worst excesses of everywhere else. But really it’s the overcrowding which ruins it for me.

Just this month (or last?), Yachting World mentioned “berthing anxiety” and specifically name-checked Lefkada. Berthing anxiety is that feeling, as you slip your lines, that when you arrive at your destination, there will be no room on the quay wall. This would be fine if anchorages were plentiful, but they’re not. This, more than any other aspect of sailing in the Ionian Sea, has persuaded me to motor from location to location, rather than hoist the sails and take my time. If you picked up anything from perusing this blog, you will appreciate that I don’t like to sail to a schedule. I especially don’t like the thought that “if I don’t get to Kalamos by 2PM, I might as well not bother…”

There are other reasons for the demise of our syndicate, but I can only speak about the ones which have helped me form my own decision. Although it has been a great ten years (notwithstanding Covid), it is hard to justify the complicated travel arrangements and a two week stint on a boat in a foreign port. Especially when so much time is taken up, doing repairs on location. While it is far more expensive, a charter makes more sense - the boats are much newer, you can choose to go somewhere else each year, and everything has been checked out ready to go, when you arrive. If you like cruising in company, a flotilla is an even better idea because they will pre-reserve the quay for you in each destination. Personally, I would give up sailing before going on a flotilla holiday, but that’s just me.

I did consider the possibility of buying out the other syndicate members. If I could bring Nikea to Ireland for a winter period, with some on-the-hard location to do the work, I think I could bring her back to her original glory with several months of weekend effort. But delivering a forty year old yacht across the Mediterranean Sea and up the west coast of Spain and Portugal would be a big ask, given that she needs some TLC. I don’t fancy flying to Greece in the off-season and trying to do the work there, either.

Probably the best solution is to sell her, as-is, to someone who does want to spend a bit of time fixing her up and having a boat in Greece (or indeed Turkey or Croatia). That leaves the Achilles 24, which is also in dire need of a lot of work. This year (2025) is the year of renewal in terms of sailing. It is time to think big, make hard decisions, and get back out on the water on a regular basis.

As of now, Nikea is currently on the market.

A word about batteries

Mon, 06 Jan 2025 18:43:21 +0000

I am of course being sarcastic when I say “a word” about batteries, as entire books have been written on the subject, and many more could still be written. As we had some excitement with two flat batteries last year, I thought it might be a good idea to add to the extensive number of “words” written about batteries. This is the first of two parts, on the subject. I will start with an introduction to the technology, and a fairly detailed discussion of lead acid batteries. In Part Two, I will talk about Lithium Iron Phosphate batteries.

Still here? Keep reading…

First off, I will keep this exclusively about batteries in a marine environment, to try and rein in the subject matter. I will also try and steer clear of discussions of electric motors in sailboats as that is also worthy of a full blog post. There are two or three main categories of batteries in use today. The classic, and most common, is the old reliable “lead acid”. Essentially some lead plates suspended in a water solution with a hint of sulphuric acid. A battery in the true sense is actually a collection of cells. You could think of “battery” as the collective noun for cells. A lead acid cell has a nominal voltage of two volts (2V). So your average car and boat battery has six cells in series. The second category is Lithium Ion. Here the cell voltage is 3.7V, and you can combine 3 of these in series to get 11.1V, or if you dare, 4 cells to get 14.8. Your mobile phone and your laptop both use Lithium Ion cells. They’re not appropriate for boats, so I won’t discuss them too much further. It is debatable whether Lithium Iron Phosphate or LFP batteries go under the heading of “Lithium batteries” so I’m keeping them as a third category. Lithium Iron Phosphate batteries are often named for their chemistry, which is LiFePO4. LFP is easier to say, and easier to type! They have a nominal cell voltage of 3.2V.

Just to elaborate, the reason Lithium Ion batteries are not appropriate is because they don’t like seawater, and they are unstable. If they catch fire, it is extremely difficult to put out the fire. Convinced, yet? Also, they can catch fire if physically damaged, overcharged, or allowed to under-charge. Generally, your phone and laptop use something called a Battery Management System (or BMS) to make sure the Lithium Ion battery never get overcharged, or drained too much. But they’re a hazard on board a sailboat. Avoid their use and choose LFP instead.

As another segue, I want to discuss some terms here, which get interchanged incorrectly. Voltage is what a battery gives you. It represents the strength (in a way) of the battery. Current is what you take from the battery. Think of this as the load (again, this isn’t exactly accurate but useful for our purposes). The product of voltage and amperage is power. It is possible to design a very small battery which produces a high voltage, but is unable to turn a starter motor because it cannot deliver the current. By way of contrast, a stick welder uses a very high current and a very low voltage. Both of these are low power examples. A diesel generator can produce power anywhere from a couple of kilowatts up into the megawatt range.

Energy is power multiplied by time. The most common unit of energy that we are familiar with is the kilowatt-hour. In actual fact, the kWh isn’t an official unit of anything, but it is widely used. The official metric equivalent would be the Joule (one Watt-second). One kilowatt-hour then is actually 3,600,000 Joules. People regularly get confused between power and energy, and it’s understandable. Think of it this way. If you drive your car really fast, from point A to point B, you will need a lot of power. By contrast (and ignoring air resistance and friction), if you drive the same distance much slower, you would need much less power but would use the same amount of energy. You used a lot of power but only for a short time, in the first example. In the second example, you used far less power but needed to use that power for a lot longer. A lot of batteries are rated in Amp-hours. This, as you can imagine, is a form of energy specification but it is deceptive because it is independent of voltage. A 2 volt cell which has a capacity of 100 amp-hours does not store as much energy as a 12 volt battery which has a capacity of 100 amp-hours. For a car battery, multiply the amp-hours by 12 to get the watt-hours which is a more realistic energy measurement.

Lead acid batteries provide quite the kick in terms of amperage. They were designed, don’t forget, to turn the starter motor on a cold engine. As the ubiquitous motor vehicle has been with us for quite a while now, and it is far and away the #1 client for a lead acid battery, those batteries are designed with the car in mind. The inrush current of a starter motor can be up on 400 amps. That electric heater by your feet is consuming 10 amps and it’s one of the bigger current draws in the house, so that should put 400 amps into perspective. The running load of a starter motor is around 200 amps. Also bear in mind that car engines have their own electricity generating capability via the alternator. When the engine is running, the car is self-sufficient, electrically speaking. So, you end up transporting a starter motor and heavy lead acid battery in your car, purely for the two or three seconds you’re starting the engine. I’m probably labouring the point here, but a lead acid battery exists to provide a high current for a very short space of time. The fact that we use them to keep the fridge cold on a sailboat is an anomaly. Lead acid batteries from the car world are almost always 12 volt (yes, I once had an MGB which had two 6V batteries in series, but what’s your point?). Their difference is in their energy capacity and “cold cranking amps.” A quick look online shows a typical car battery with 85Ah of capacity and 800 Amps of starting current. In theory, it could deliver that 800 amps for only 6 minutes, before it was completely flat. As we’ll see, the reality is very different.

Even though watt-hours is a more official measure of energy capacity in a battery, as long as we’re talking about 12 volts, we can multiply all the numbers by 12 in our head, and just refer to amp-hours so that it is possible to compare actual batteries. Given our example starter battery has 85Amp-hours (or Ah), it would be easy to assume we could pull that energy in any way we wanted. Unfortunately, this isn’t true. When they measure amp-hours, they do it over ten hours. So they load up this example battery with an 8.5 amp load, and it can provide power for ten hours. This is known as the C10 rate. Giving us 8.5A x 10 hours, or 85 Amp-hours. What if we had an 85 amp load? In theory, it could power this for a full hour. It doesn’t, though. The efficiency falls through the floor. We might get 45 minutes of discharge, giving us an effective capacity of 63.75Ah. We might not even get that. Sometimes, capacity is specified at the C20 rate, which means you can get 4.25 amps consistently for 20 hours.

On the other end of the scale, if we only took a tenth of an amp, could we expect the battery to last 850 hours? Possibly (your mileage may vary, etc, etc). But this isn’t perfect either. Batteries have an internal leakage resistance. Which means a fully charged lead acid battery, with nothing connected to it, will lose energy. Not a lot, but not zero, either. Furthermore, lead acid batteries do not like being discharged fully. It is hard to charge the battery over 80 or 90% (this takes a long time) and discharging below 30% is bad for them. So, after all that, our energy capacity for the battery is only half of the rated 85Ah and only if we consume it at no more than 8.5 amps at a time. There are alternatives called “deep cycle” batteries which are much more agreeable to being fully discharged and recharged.

Before we talk about practical uses, it’s worth discussing how you charge a lead acid battery. Ideally, we would also charge it at the C10 rate, which would mean an 85Ah battery should be charged wit no more than 8.5 amps. We’re going to ignore that, though. Most high output alternators can put out over 100 amps of current, which (in theory) would charge the battery in less than an hour. To discuss charging, we need to consider some of the voltages, as well. This is why a digital voltmeter is essential equipment on a sailboat which has an engine, or a battery. Measuring the voltage across the terminals on battery, with no load, can tell you a lot about the state of charge of the battery and a little bit about the overall state. A fully-charged battery, with no load (in other words, the isolator switch is off), should read around 12.5 volts. There is some difference of opinion around what a dead battery should read, but it is not 0.0! Some will say that anything under 12 volts and the battery is flat. Personally, I tend to be more optimistic. If the battery is reading 10.5V though, everyone would agree it is totally discharged. How is it possible that a battery which is saying it has 10.5 volts of potential difference, does not have a charge? Surely it must have some energy if it can move the meter needle or the DMM display? What you will find is that a battery with that kind of voltage, cannot provide any kind of load whatsoever. Digital Multimeters consume milliamps or less. The battery will not turn the engine, nor drive a cabin light. By the way, never leave a battery in a fully discharged state.

On the opposite end of the scale, do not put more than 14.4 volts across the terminals of a lead acid battery. Imagine if we had a nuclear power plant, capable of insane power output. We ask it to provide 14.4 volts at any current demanded, and hook that across a flat lead acid battery. The battery would consume “infinite” current, in theory. In reality, due to internal resistances, it wouldn’t manage that. It would also get extremely hot. We would do untold damage. So it’s not enough to limit the voltage to 14.4, we also want to limit the current. If we were nice, we would limit it to 8.5 amps (for our typical example). But we could limit it to 50 amps as per the alternator. Current limiting like this involves reducing the voltage from the charger so that the demand current never exceeds our designed maximum. This is called the bulk-charge stage of battery charging. It will consume the maximum current until such point as the voltage within the battery itself starts to come up high enough that we can no longer get that maximum current into the battery without also raising the voltage above 14.4V (which of course we would never do!). So now that the voltage has reached 14.4, we will notice the current demand drop away as the battery continues to “fill up.” This is known as the absorption stage. Eventually the battery will take only a small trickle of current. If we were charging the battery using an external charger, it is now that we would need to intervene and remove the charger. If we continue to maintain 14.4V at the battery terminals, even though the battery is only taking a small current, it will boil dry. We need to switch to the third phase of charge, called the float stage. An interesting and useful aspect of lead acid batteries is if we maintain a voltage of 13.7V at the terminals, in room temperature, the battery will neither charge nor discharge. This phenomenon is used by alarm companies. They include a “Sealed Lead Acid” battery inside the alarm, and apply exactly 13.7 volts at the terminal. The battery will stay charged, and the equipment will be powered by the 13.7 volts. Should the AC mains fail, the battery will start to discharge but will continue to provide power to the alarm circuits until it goes flat or AC power is restored. A couple of caveats here; firstly, that float voltage is temperature-dependent. High-end charging systems will measure the battery temperature and adust accordingly. If your boat is in the Caribbean, expect the float charge to be less than 13.7 and in fact, you will overcharge your battery using 13.7 volts. Secondly, a floating system like this is very slow to re-charge the battery as it doesn’t have a bulk- or absorption- stage.

Using a voltmeter then, if the battery is reading exactly 13.7V then we can assume the charging system is floating the battery voltage and the battery is not being charged or discharged. It’s probably safe to assume the battery is fully charged. If the voltage is higher than 13 volts then the battery is either floating or being charged. If the voltage is 12.5, then we are running off the battery alone, and it is fully charged. Anything lower than 11 volts and we have an issue.

I mentioned that voltage gave us a slight indication of battery state. Let me elaborate. As mentioned, a flat battery can read 10.5V or even 11V and be without any charge. If we try the starter motor it might make a clicking noise, but little else. To really test the battery, we need to measure the “open circuit” voltage as well as the “under load” voltage. Garages have a battery tester which is just a defined load and a voltmeter. They measure the voltage while the battery is under significant load. These are handy, but probably not worth carrying on board. You could measure the battery voltage with everything off, and then measure it as the engine cranks. If the battery is flat, the voltage will drop down to zero (or close) as you try to turn the starter. It is also useful even if the battery is fully charged. Measure the voltage as the starter motor turns and you will have a very good indication of how much life is left in your engine battery.

Any kind of fixed load is good, but ideally it would be fairly stressful for the battery. Personally I think a 10 amp load is sufficient, and doable. If you’re in port or on the hard, it could be worth buying a battery load tester to keep ashore. A somewhat good test is to listen to how well the engine turns, when the battery is fully charged. If it springs to life, your battery sounds like it is OK. If the engine has all the enthusiasm of a teenager going to school on a Monday morning, it is quite likely that your battery is past its prime. Bear in mind though that old and cold diesel engines can sometimes add a significant load to even the best batteries. Get into the habit of listening to how “lively” the engine starts, and think about either replacing or load-testing the engine battery if that starting enthusiasm fades away.

Now that we’ve gotten the technical stuff out of the way, and at the risk of writing an entire book on the subject, let’s switch to talking about the typical boat configuration. Leaving out solar panels for now, a small 24 foot-er with an inboard engine would have a single battery with perhaps a capacity of 120Ah. You’re running the navigation lights, interior cabin lights, instruments and VHF off the same engine battery. While this isn’t ideal, it probably isn’t worth switching to a two battery solution. Think about it - you arrive in a secluded anchorage after a long day’s sailing. You turn off the instruments, turn on the interior lights and the anchor light. You wake up in the morning, turn off the anchor light, and find that the engine won’t start. This is a catch-22 because you need the engine to charge the very flat battery. In my Achilles 24, this was a regular occurrence. Luckily, it was possible to hand-crank the Yanmar 1GM10. So, after breakfast, the first job of the day was to crank and crank and crank until the single cylinder engine roared to life. At that point, the alternator was spinning and charge was being restored to the battery. On a larger boat, you’re not going to be able to hand-crank the engine in all probability. So you split the roles. You have an engine battery which is connected to only two things; the starter motor and the alternator. Ideally it is a completely closed system. At most, there might be an isolation switch, but beware of switches which connect the two batteries together. It shares a common ground with the other battery, but never run any of the instruments or lights off that battery. A second battery, ideally a deep cycle one, connects to the internal switch panel (via an isolator switch).

We can see how this approach means there is always a fully-charged battery available for starting the engine, even if we run the cabin lights and anchor light all night long. If it’s a deep cycle battery, it won’t mind too much if it is completely discharged overnight. The problem is, how do we charge the house battery? Some boats use a four way switch and a common power rail. The power rail can be connected to battery #1 (the engine battery), battery #2 (the house battery), both together, or nothing at all. Turn it to off when you’re not on board. Ultimately the weakest point here is when other people turn the battery switch to the first position (engine), or to both without realising that the domestic draw is now coming from the one place it shouldn’t be - the engine battery. A solution is to remove the four-way switch, install two isolation switches, and a voltage-activated relay. This is a device which sits between both batteries and is activated by any voltage above 13 volts. The engine battery stays isolated, but when the engine is running and the alternator is producing power, the relay automatically engages, and shares the power with the house battery. Some of these can operate in both directions, so if a solar panel is connected to the house battery, the relay will also operate so that the solar panel can provide a bit of charge to the engine battery. A slight concern here is if you’re starting the engine while this relay is engaged, it is very unlikely to be able to handle the enormous starter motor current, should that be provided by the house battery rather than the engine battery. It is entirely probable that 50% of the starting current will be pulled across that relay unless there is something to prevent it being activated while the engine is started. A separate isolation switch connecting the two batteries together can be handy in the rare or unusual case that the engine battery is flat and the house battery is not. If you’re using any technology other than lead acid (like LFP for example) as your house battery, make sure you never, ever connect the two together. Also, don’t let your LFP battery near the alternator without some form of protection. More on that in part two.

So, bringing a solar panel or two into the equation, it is best to connect these via an MPPT controller, to the house battery. The reason for this is twofold. Firstly, it is the house battery which will exhibit the most charge range, dropping from 100% to 20% for example, over the course of a day or two. The engine battery, if properly isolated, will always be at or close to full charge. Secondly, you want to use the solar power for more than just charging the batteries. Ideally your fridge would run directly off the solar power. In fact, I make a point of turning off the fridge on Nikea at around 4PM or 5PM on the basis that the solar panels aren’t producing any more power effectively, and it is cool enough that the fridge will stay cold until first thing the following morning. In an ideal world, you can calculate the amp-hours needed for the house battery by removing items such as the fridge because it will be powered by the solar panel. You can then prepare a smaller energy budget, based on expected usage for lights and instruments alone. Once you know what size battery, you can then determine how much solar power is needed to charge it over six to eight hours of daylight, with room to spare. Add in the power needed to run the fridge. Add a healthy margin to allow for cloudy days and now you know what size solar panel you need.

At this juncture, it is worth mentioning the state of the world of isolation switches. It is a good idea to connect the solar panel MPPT output directly to the house battery (with an inline fuse) rather than the other end of the isolation switch. The reason is that you want the battery to charge even when you’re not on the boat, and especially over winter. Similarly, on many boats the alternator is connected directly to the battery so that there is no risk of running the alternator without a load. In case you didn’t know, running an alternator in an open circuit configuration is fatal for the alternator. In the engine battery case, the only thing the isolation switch is doing, is isolating the starter motor. You could easily argue that the isolation switch should really disconnect absolutely everything and isolate the battery entirely, which is what it is supposed to do. I am of the view that the engine battery should be 100% isolated by the switch. I would like to think that turning the engine battery isolator to “off” meant there was zero possibility of an electrical short while I was working on the engine. That is not the case if the alternator is still “hot”. Also, it would be very unusual to start the engine without actually turning on the isolator switch as it connects to the starter motor. So personally I’m happy for the engine battery to be completely isolated when the switch is off, and I’m happy for the solar panel to have a direct connection to the house battery so it will charge even when all the isolation switches are off. I would recommend a fuse or a small on/off switch between the MPPT output and the house battery, just in case you want to completely isolate the battery. I would go further and put a small, three-way toggle switch between the MPPT output and the two batteries (assuming they are both of the same technology). That way, I can completely isolate the battery if need be, and under some circumstances, I can choose to send the solar power to the engine battery. See my blog post about flat batteries to see why that is a good idea. I would however mount that switch near the batteries and away from regular use. People can often flip a lot of switches if they think something isn’t working and you don’t want to find that both your batteries are dead at the start of the season because someone turned off the output from the MPPT controller.

FYI, people often think it is bad for the alternator to be permanently connected to the engine battery because it adds a continuous drain, but this is incorrect. The battery circuit has an independent rectifier (six diodes) which prevent any battery power from feeding back into the field coils. However, leave the ignition switch on as well, and you will find that the field coils are pulling power from the engine battery. If you do connect the alternator directly to the engine battery, make sure it is just the charge voltage from the alternator and not the ignition power.

The only thing left to mention about lead acid batteries and solar, is winter lay-up. I like the idea that the house batteries are being topped up by winter sunlight. I can also choose to run some small Arduino-like board to monitor the boat while I’m away, without worrying that it might be the cause of a dead house battery! But what of the engine battery? Wouldn’t it be nice if it got a bit of a top-up over the winter, too? It is tempting to connect both batteries together to serve this purpose (and again I repeat the warning about not doing this with dissimilar battery types), but personally I’m happy for the engine battery to be fully charged at lay-up and to leave it completely isolated until the new season. If you have access to the boat over the winter, and it’s not in some foreign marina, you can flip the MPPT output switch to engine battery every now and then, ensuring that it is getting a bit of charge.

A final note about lead acid batteries. Unlike their “sealed” cousins, they can off-gas some dangerous gases while charging. Make sure they are vented to the outside world, and strapped down so they don’t go jumping around as you launch the boat off the top of a wave.

Anyway, I think that is probably all I could possibly say about lead acid batteries on board sailboats. I will cover the revolutionary Lithium Iron Phosphate technology in part two.

Bye bye, Nikea

Mon, 16 Sep 2024 12:49:52 +0100

It is now Monday morning, September 16th, Nikea is on dry land, and we are packing up the car. Our flight isn’t until next Saturday (21st) but we’ve had enough of storms and crowded ports.

Our time in Sivota came to an end. We said we’d leave after two days, which was yesterday. We also came to the conclusion that when the yard opened on Monday morning (today), we would lift out. It hasn’t been the most enjoyable of our trips to Nikea and to Greece, and in many ways, it feels like the end of an era. The forecast for the next week shows another series of systems and in all likelihood we would have to spend the week, dodging gales. We come here for the sailing and a relaxing holiday. If we wanted to constantly stay in front of weather systems, while doing anchor watch in the rain, we’d just stay at home in Ireland.

In the short time I’ve been coming to Lefkas and the Ionian, the number of boats seems to have doubled. Now, it is essential to constantly call ahead and plan your route so you are assured of a quay wall or pontoon. It takes the fun out of it. The towns seem to love flotillas. What’s not to love, I suppose? Ten or fifteen boats arrive in a group, they all eat in your taverna, and they’re gone the next day, to be replaced by another group. Those of us sailing on our own, are squeezed out. I once arrived in Kalamos and some guy (not Greek) told me the entire quay wall was “reserved” for his flotilla. Needless to say, I wasn’t impressed. Mind you, George dealt with it magnificently, as you would expect.

There does seem to be a worldwide problem with over-tourism, and I’m as guilty as anyone. Residents in tourist destinations in Italy and Spain have started to object quite vocally. That’s before ever you consider the carbon footprint of all these charter flights. We have definitely enjoyed our time in the Ionian, and I won’t say we will never return, but as it stands right now, we’re not jumping up and down in anticipation of a return. It’s also quite expensive in many places. Sure, if you’re off the beaten track in Greece, everything is very affordable, but it is still a costly destination if you’re eating out in these high-tourism locations. Our beloved Office restaurant in Vlicho has closed down, too. Probably a casualty of the pandemic.

Anyway, we said we would leave Sivota on Sunday, and that’s what we did. We were hoping to tie up alongside the pontoon beside the yard, but that didn’t work out - someone else had the same idea. Our inshore (starboard) neighbour left, first thing. The guy in charge of the pontoon for Stavros had a system. He launched his inflatable, tied a line to their bow, and as they motored straight out, he acted as a bow thruster, swinging their bow hard to port. On our starboard side was a 46 foot monohull and across from them was an enormous catamaran. We needed to come out sharpish, and turn hard to port, to motor between the two boats. However, even if we could have squeezed between their bow rollers and anchors, we would have fouled lazy lines on both sides. Luckily, the catamaran was leaving at 3PM, so we decided we would skip out after them.

We decided it was a good time for showers and laundry, so off we went. We were barely through the drying cycle when word came that the catamaran was leaving. However, the fly in the ointment is that another catamran was motoring up the channel and planning on taking their slot. In other words, leave now, or stay for another day. Usually, I would declare that Neptune was forcing our hand, and we should stay another day. However, we had decided on the lift-out, and had already booked an apartment in Lefkada, so we rushed back to the boat. I was first on board, not waiting to help retrieve the clothing. I fired up the engine, and started preparing for departure. I was grateful for the fact I had no-one either side, and the pontoon opposite was only lightly occupied. The helpful pontoon guy was busy untying lines, when I had to stop him, as I was short a couple of crew. I could see them sauntering back, slow as you like, carrying the mostly-dry laundry. I tried to attract their attention and let them know we would be departing within the next few seconds! They jumped on board, I released the starboard line completely, popped into forward gear, dropped the lazy line, and sheeted out the port-side line. The boat swung nicely to port, and I was able to release the last remaining line while having a decent heading out between the pontoons. I will say this for Sivota - it’s great for practicing your mooring technique.

Once again, we were heading to Vlicho, this time hopefully to occupy the pontoon. It is reserved for boats which are lifting out, as it is right in front of the slipway. We couldn’t imagine anyone else was lifting out, so we figured it would be empty. Not the case. As we didn’t have to be back in a hurry, it seemed like a great time to do some sailing in the immense bay south of Lefkas. As Martin hadn’t really done a lot of helming under sail, this was a great opportunity to have him experience the visceral thrill of a large sailboat under power of the wind. Up went the main, and the headsail. We headed south west, away from the Meganisi Strait, which is where we needed to be. No matter! The Strait could wait! Secretly, I remembered the boats which had sailed north on our way down, under headsail alone, flying along in the southerly breeze in the channel. Unfortunately, however, the wind was now from the north, so we would once again have to beat upwind to get to Nydri and on to Vlicho.

We sailed around for an hour or so, and finally decided we would head north up through the Meganisi Strait. The plan was to furl the headsail, but motor-sail up the channel. Then, once we were north of the island of Meganisi, we would unfurl the headsail again, and do some more sailing. A last fling, if you will. As the wind was straight down the channel, we hardened up the main, and began motoring up the channel. Now, all the boats heading south were able to enjoy the breeze. We had just started up the channel, when a very strong gust hit us from the south. It was a squall, of sorts. The wind swung around 180 degrees and doubled in strength. The main was fully sheeted in. It ripped the main sail all the way along the foot, leaving the sail blowing up against the shroud. I strongly suspect that the main is as old as the boat, which is around 40, give or take. It was toast. It ripped like tissue paper. We swung around to the new windward direction, and dropped the main onto the deck. A new main for a Beneteau First 345 runs between €1,500 and €3,300 depending on the sail quality. We had hoped that the local sailmaker might have been able to do something with it, but we weren’t optimistic. Generally, if a sail rips on the seam, they can fix it. If it’s a small rip in a panel, they can patch that or even replace the panel. When the sailmaker finally saw what was left of the sail, and the quality of the remaining panels, he declared the patient dead on arrival.

We motored sombrely back to Vlicho, and had to anchor as the pontoon was occupied. Another night at the Vlicho Yacht Club. At this stage, we should have just booked a room beside the club.

This morning, I took the dinghy ashore to arrange a lift-out. As it turns out, they plan these things a long way in advance and it isn’t as ad-hoc as I had assumed. We had not notified them because it was a Saturday when we decided to lift-out, and assumed no-one wanted text messages on a Saturday, regarding some or other boat wanting to be lifted out. Rabbit came to the rescue and persuaded them to lift us out. The catch was that they had just lifted out two boats, and we were next! The second boat was just being dropped into her winter position in the yard, and they were insistent that if we were ready by the time they got back to the slipway, they’d lift us out. Otherwise… I rushed back to the boat to find breakfast was under way. Once again, our tranquil day was interrupted by having to deal with a rushed timetable. We fired up the engine, lifted the anchor, put out fenders and lines, and motored to the pontoon. We were on the hard, within fifteen minutes of them agreeing to lift us out.

And so began the laborious and dirty work of preparing the boat for winter. We dropped the anchor and all the chain onto the ground, supporting it on a forward support, so it wouldn’t sit in the mud and wet. We dropped the headsail, ran the outboard engine until the carburettor was empty, and so on. We loaded up the car, and as I write this, we are about to drive to Lefkada to find that apartment. We are discussing a road trip to Vassiliki to go scuba diving, a touring trip around Lefkas, and perhaps a trip to the Nydri waterfall.

We came as late as practically possible, to avoid Greek heat and busy ports. Instead, we found inclement, stormy weather, and busy ports. I can’t help but wonder if this is the end of an era, aboard Nikea.

A tight squeeze in Sivota

Sat, 14 Sep 2024 17:08:15 +0100

Continuing on from where we left you, we were awaiting the storm in Vlicho bay. Anchor set deep, food and beer consumed at the Vlicho Yacht Club. The last time we were here, it was due to blow from the south, but instead blew a strong gale from the west. This time, we anticipated the storm from the north-west. Being at the bottom of the bay meant if we dragged the anchor, we would end up in shallow mud. Also, the fetch across the natural harbour (such as it was) could have made for a bumpy night. I have sat in the cockpit during a north-west storm in Vlicho, watching solar panels fly off the roof of a house on the shore. The wind can funnel through this bay quite dramatically, and the venturi effect can increase the wind speeds considerably. Not so, this time. We expected north-west, and it blew from the south. The perfect place for that would have been on the quay wall in Spartochori!

Anyway, it wasn’t as bad as our previous encounter, so we upped anchor the next morning headed for Sivota. As this whole area is now extremely busy, it is essential to call ahead everywhere and try to book space. We had an interesting experience the last time we were here, on Brexit Day. I’m not of a mind to repeat that experience. We couldn’t raise anyone on the phone at Stavros’s restaurant so we couldn’t find out if his pontoon was booked out. Again, given that the alternative was a night in Vlicho bay again, we decided to take our chances.

To get to Sivota from Vlicho and Nydri, you have to sail down the very pleasant Meganisi Straits. We came here once by car, and was amazed at how short a drive it is from Vlicho to Sivota, compared to an hour or so under sail/motor. The wind was barrelling up the Meganisi Strait, and it’s not particularly wide so we decided against sailing down. Lots and lots of boats were sailing towards us, using the strong breeze to their advantage. It’s tough being the “motor” boat because you miss the fun of sailing on a downwind sled run through the channel. Also, you have to stay clear of all the boats who are sailing. This also raises the question - why are they all going in the opposite direction…? No matter! Onward we go, fearing nothing but quay walls.

At the bottom end of the Lefkas peninsula, we turned west to head for Sivota and were met by a series of squalls and Irish-style rain. My two crewmates abandoned me for the dry cabin. No point in all of us getting wet! The entrance to Sivota is hard to make out even at the best of times. On this day, it was shrouded in rain clouds and mist. Finally we managed to get someone on the phone, and yes, we could reserve a spot on their pontoon! They asked how long we intended staying. At that point, the consensus was somewhere between “six months” and “forever!”. We tentatively said “two days” and they agreed. Usual arrangement - eat at their restaurant, and have a free marina berth with water and electricity. Not a problem as it’s a fabulous restaurant and we’d eat there even if we weren’t on their pontoon.

As we entered the harbour, the weather cleared up. Out came the fenders and dock lines. But just as we approached the pontoon, another squall hit, and I did an about turn. I motored back out again, conscious of the fact that there were at least three or four boats behind me, who now fancied their improved chances of a berth. Really, if I haven’t said it before, the Ionian is way too crowded. It is no longer a pleasant experience.

I motored long enough for the rain to stop, swung around again, and aimed for the pontoon a second time. When we last sailed in here, Taverna Stavros was the only enterprising restaurant who had purchased a pontoon for their prospective customers. As mentioned previously, not everyone follows the unwritten rule that you patronise the establishment that paid for your overnight facilities. As we approached, I was amazed to discover that there were any number of pontoons, now. In fact, it’s hard to get in anywhere because they’re so close to each other. It feels like Sivota bay is now one large marina. Unusually, there was no-one on the pontoon to take our lines, as we approached. There was a spot near the end, so I once again drilled the new member of the crew on the operation of lazy lines and stern-to mooring. I swung around, and gracefully (if that’s the appropriate word) backed up on the pontoon, trying to maintain a straight line. Nikea has a staggering amount of prop walk, and she will generally go anywhere but the direction you want. I have discovered that the key is to make sure there is a solid amount of water flowing over the rudder, which means giving the engine a second or two of “welly” in reverse. This works really well at showing Nikea who’s boss, but it also attracts a lot of nervous heads from neighbouring boats. They peer out their companionways, wondering what manner of eejit is coming into the tranquil harbour, at full speed. It doesn’t take much, though. A second or two to get enough water to influence the boat direction.

If I say so myself, I did a fabulous job of backing up to the pontoon, stopping just short. My crew took lines ashore, and I took the lazy line to the bow. Just then, of course, I encountered the personification of one of my many nightmares. On the other side of the pontoon, was the guy charged with taking one’s lines. He was in an inflatable dinghy, motoring madly in our direction, and waving his hands. It would appear, it seems, that he wanted us to drive out again and reverse into a tiny spot much closer to the shore. I doubt my Laser II would have fit into that space. One minute, I was salivating over that beer I would have in the very near future. The next, I’m abandoning a perfectly-parked mooring to try and squeeze a 36 foot boat into a space fit for a dinghy.

He jumped onto the pontoon, and pointed to the tiny slot farther in. We retrieved our lines, dropped the lazy line back into the water with a sadness which could only be described as “infinite”, and motored out. I then started to back up between the prominent bows on one pontoon and the prominent bows on our pontoon. The 90 degree turn I would need to make to slot into this tiny berth wasn’t worth considering. Oh well. Onward, ho! Rather than stand on the pontoon as usual, awaiting my stern, he jumped on board the neighbouring boat farthest from us, and made his way to their bow. I guess this is a typical experience for the guys who manage this now-crowded bay. When I came close to him, and attempted to get the bow to swing out without benefit of a bow thruster, he grabbed our pushpit (the chrome bars at the stern). He man-handled the the stern around while we fended off the bow of our other neighbour. We managed to perform a 90 degree turn by sheer force of will, rather than using the engine or the imaginary bow thruster we don’t have. Slowly we crept back, forcing an opening between our neighbours. It was quite the squeeze, and I would hate to be reincarnated as a fender, under those circumstances. We were so tightly packed in, that I could imagine us popping out like a cork, should our stern lines come free. We arranged and rearranged our fenders (and our neighbours fenders on both sides) until we had what we felt was the most secure arrangement. Another storm was forecast, but frankly I doubt a hurricane could have budged us.

Today is our second day here, and even with a few squalls, it has been very pleasant. We will need to move again on Monday, and our enthusiasm for dodging storms is at an all-time low. I think if I mention anchoring in Vlicho bay one more time, I will be consigned to the dinghy without an engine, and with enough food and water for at most, three days. In the meantime, however, dinner upstairs at Taverna Stavros this evening, a carafe or two of wine, and all is right with the world.

Now, I just hope I remembered to isolate the engine battery…

Always keep the engine battery charged

Thu, 12 Sep 2024 21:38:00 +0100

Whenever new people come onto the boat, apart from the brief safety talk, I usually explain why boats have two batteries. I go through the whole “don’t ever disconnect the batteries while the engine is running” stuff, to put the fear of god into them. I show them how to move the battery selector switch from 2 (House) to 1 (Engine) when starting, and then when the engine is running, I show them how to set it to Both and finally back to 2 when the engine is stopped. You’d think I would pay attention to my own blathering lectures!

We had a nice day in Spartochori, but as with everything this year, the fun was short-lived. Jerry, the usually-very-friendly co-owner of Taverna Spilia, and the guy who takes your lines when you arrive, was at pains to tell us that a bad storm was coming through, from the north-west. You go Bows-To here because there is a lot of spoilage and rock beneath the quay, which would make short work of your rudder. It’s fine. Come in with your bow lines ready, and Jerry will get you sorted. There’s a lazy line so you don’t even need to kedge your way in. The only down-side is having to get on and off the boat via the bow.

However, a gale from the north or thereabouts will bring a large fetch into the bay and your bow will surely bounce off the quay wall. Even if you stretch out the bow lines and pull in on the lazy line, it would not be a comfortable night’s sleep as you await the dreaded crushing noise of fibreglass against concrete. Over the course of the day, boats slipped their lines and headed for shelter. Boats which arrived, were turned away. We did our usual morning coffee, and prepared to depart. Only to find the engine battery was very dead. House battery and engine battery, deader than dead.

I’m not sure if I mentioned this, but the trick to happy cruising power is to keep the engine battery for one function only. That function is starting the engine. Think of this as Rule One of battery management. The engine will repay it by keeping it topped up. On Nikea as with most boats, the solar panels drive directly to the house battery. When it’s particularly sunny, you don’t need to put the battery selector to both (which connects both batteries together, and shares any charging voltage). This is because the engine battery should always be at 100%. Just keep it away from running the fridge, the lights, the phone chargers, and everything else. Definitely share the engine charge with the house battery, so depending on your setup, connect them together or set the selector switch to both when the engine is running. As your engine battery shouldn’t need much energy restored from the starting operation, it’s only fair to let the house battery have some of the alternator power.

So, on our first day, Rabbit used the engine battery to turn over the engine and try to prime the fuel system. Absolutely nothing wrong with this, except I should have remembered that. I should have considered that I now had an engine battery which was not anywhere near a full charge. We motored from Vlicho bay to Spartochori, a journey of perhaps less than an hour. The engine battery would still be in a low or critical state. In addition to this, I discovered the battery switch had been left at both which means the engine battery would have shared what meagre solar power was on offer, but in turn would also have shared the load. I should have checked. I didn’t. Well, I did when I went to start the engine.

So here’s the problem. We’re in a bay which has an impending, bow-crushing storm approaching. We can’t sail backwards, so hoisting a sail won’t do anything for us. We have no battery charge and no charger or indeed shore power. What are the options? We could possibly tow ourselves into the bay using the dinghy and the very meagre outboard, drop the anchor, and try to brazen out the storm and the swell in the middle of the bay. We could take the ferry to Nydri and charge the battery or buy a new one, except it’s now getting late. However, we do have a solar panel…

Engine batteries and toilets have one thing in common. Have you ever waited for a toilet cistern to fill, then decided it was full enough and operated the lever only to find it wasn’t anywhere near full enough, and now you’re back at zero again? A starter battery has the same fatal flaw. It really should have a name. You can charge the battery for an hour, decide that should be enough juice to spin up the diesel engine, so you give it a go, and suck all of the hour’s worth of energy out of the battery and now you can start the timer again. The trick is to wait as long as humanly possible. Longer, even.

We disconnected the house battery entirely, and connected the solar panel to the engine battery. Luckily there’s a decent voltmeter on board (don’t leave port without one of these!). I know it’s decent because I bought it. Forget your €6.99 cheapie things in the chandlery unless you can’t find anything else. If you have any concerns about electricity on board a boat, and I mean even the slightest concern, buy a decent “Digital Multimeter” or DMM. Expect to pay upwards of €40 but your sanity will be assisted greatly. So, we sat in the cockpit, considering our fortunes, and every hour, checked the battery voltage. Hour by hour, it crept up. I figured we had until around 4PM at which point, given the landscape in Spartochori, the panel would not produce any more power. Whatever energy was stored in the battery at 4PM was going to have to do us. Meanwhile, a very agitated Jerry kept telling us to move. We explained about the battery and the solar panel, but he seemed to think we were making excuses and trying to overstay our welcome. At 4PM, we duly restored the power circuits to their original condition, set the battery switch to 1 (Engine), and cranked the engine. It started! Relief all round. We slipped our lines and decided to head for Kalamos.

I’ve written about Kalamos before. It’s a tricky harbour to get into, and it’s not a great swimming location. However, it’s very sheltered from anything westerly or indeed northerly. Plus, George (the harbour master) is very friendly and it’s a delightful place. But it’s now after 1600 hours and I can’t be the only one to think Kalamos is a safe harbour against the storm. It is likely to be full. The only other alternative is another night in the cockpit and rain in Vlicho. So normally I would say let’s not bother. But an anchorage such as Vlicho is never ever crowded. You can arrive at any stage and find a bolt-hole. Kalamos is quite a distance away, but we’re using the engine, and it would be nice to get both batteries to 100%. We decide we might as well burn some diesel and motor towards Kalamos anyway. At the same time, we tried to make some phone calls to ascertain how full it might be. We got to the northern tip of the island, when we finally got through on the phone, and yes, not an inch of quay wall. So much for travelling at the end of the season!

We did a 180 and headed for Vlicho. Sigh! The bright news is we got a very solid charge on the batteries, and I can now go back to lecturing people on the importance of never letting the engine battery go flat! We are now at anchor right where we started two days ago, at the southern end of Vlicho bay, waiting for whatever Mother Nature might have in store for us.

Spartochori At Last!

Tue, 10 Sep 2024 22:54:00 +0100

An interesting couple of days, to say the least! Boats, eh? Between engines, storms, and busy ports, it has been a challenge. Let me elaborate…

The boat had spent the summer on the hard, as there was a long delay from when Tim launched her in May and it seemed reasonable to put her back on the hard until we arrived, in September. Rabbit had kindly arranged the launch for us, and tied her up alongside his father’s barge.

Yesterday, we decided to leave straight away and have breakfast en route to Spartochori, our usual “day one” destination. Due to some confusion about the laundry, we went in search of a missing third bag. It turns out the yard in Vlicho doesn’t do laundry any more, and this was a surprise to me. I guess I wasn’t paying attention. Anyway, no-one knew the whereabouts of the missing bag, so we decided to head away and would figure it out, later. Unfortunately, we had waited around until the yard office opened, to query the laundry situation, and this meant it was closer to 10AM before we got to cast off from the barge. I know I have said I don’t like schedules and I prefer a lazy departure time, but everyone was in agreement that we needed to untie from the barge and get to the azure waters of Meganisi as soon as possible. That wasn’t to be, unfortunately.

Rabbit also wanted us off the barge because there was a gale (from the South) forecast, and he wanted to remove us and the motorsailer, so that nothing was pulling on the barge during the gale. Given that the storm was from the south, and Spartochori bay faces north, we figured this would be an ideal shelter. So did everyone else, it seems!

Anyway, step one was to fire up the engine. The engine purred to life, and I allowed it to warm up, which is always a good idea. Especially yesterday! After a few minutes, the engine shut off and wouldn’t restart. We had checked the exhaust and cooling water was being thrown out, so it wasn’t that. Also, no temperature or oil alarms. I removed the stairs, and discovered the glass for the fuel filter had shattered. There is a drip tray under the engine to prevent oil (and fuel) from entering the bilge. This was full of diesel. I went to the chandlery beside the yard office, but strangely they don’t sell fuel filters. Rabbit suggested an engine parts store at the foot of Vlicho bay. As I had parked the rental car, and it was now boxed in, I decided to walk. This was a mistake! The bottom end of Vlicho bay is quite a distance from the yard (at the top!). Google tells me JFK Marine is a 21 minute walk from the boat yard. It felt longer. Anyway, they didn’t have anything to fit, so I walked back. Rabbit volunteered that there was a place in Nydri and he would drive there. At this point, I gave him the project of fixing the filter. We also noticed that the water pump was leaking.

We went off in search of a late breakfast while Rabbit secured a new fuel filter (and glass separator bulb). Replacing the filter was relatively straightforward for him, but bleeding the engine was quite the challenge. He turned the engine over quite a few times before he got it running. In the meantime, we called Taverna Spilia in Spartochori, and eventually got through, only to be told their quay wall was very full. Our phones lit up with messages telling us to beware of incoming gales and storms from the south. Rabbit offered us a raft-up alongside some of his other boats, but we decided the best thing to do was to head to the bottom of Vlicho bay and anchor off. We motored the short distance (well, it’s short if you’re not walking!) and anchored near the mud at the bottom of the bay. Given a southerly breeze, we would be pushed away from the shallow water and into the deeper bay, so a line ashore wasn’t necessary. Once we had confirmed the anchor was steady, we went to the Vlicho Yacht Club for showers, food and libation.

As the rain started in, we ran back to the dinghy and returned to the boat. I set up an anchor alarm and waited for the storm. My travelling companions went to their cabins to get some sleep. I sat in the companionway with a nylon jacket belonging to Martin, my legs under the coachroof. I watched through the gloom as the bow swung left and right, with each passing squall. Interestingly, the wind blew from the west, not the south. Not ideal conditions if we were to drag anchor. An unoccupied boat to the north of us did exactly that, and fouled itself around the anchor of another neighbour. Vicky from the Vlicho Yacht Club came out in a RIB and helped to untangle the mess. She towed the boat over to a shallower section of the bay, where it could do less damage. Then she came alongside us and gave me her phone number in case we too ran into difficulty, during the night. It is an incredible relief to have that kind of support. Eventually the wind died off, and I took my anchor alarm (phone) below to recharge and to get some sleep. It kicked off again around 3AM, but not as severely. The anchor did not budge, and I got some sleep.

The next day, the clouds parted, the sun shined, and Spilia confirmed they had space on the quay. We hauled up the anchor, cleaned off forty-seven tonnes of Vlicho mud, and motored to Spartochori where beers, food and a swim awaited.

What a difference a day makes!

Nikea Revisited (Finally!)

Sun, 08 Sep 2024 21:34:00 +0100

Thanks to school exams for Ben, and the small matter of a global pandemic, this was our first visit to Nikea since 2018. Well, that’s strictly not true - I did a quick trip with Tim and Asta in 2021, ostensibly to do some repair work. We are not fans of the high summer heat in Greece, and with Ben’s school year, the only available month was June. Even that has been hard to manage, in recent years. Now that he is away in college, we were free to schedule a more convenient time to visit the boat. It’s not just the heat, though. We’re not huge fans of searching for the last available slot on the quay, and would prefer earlier or later in the season. We chose September, which hasn’t worked out as well as we might have hoped.

First off, the Lefkas peninsula is extremely busy and there are still a lot of boats (and particularly flotilla charters) about. Secondly, the weather doesn’t look too promising. Our phones are pinging with weather warnings!

We did our usual Aer Lingus flight to Corfu, and due to the flight change mentioned in a previous post, we arrived too late into Corfu to do anything other than relax at the Hotel Atlanta. As Ben is away in college, we brought Martin, an old friend of mine, who has done a little sailing and eager to do a lot more.

This morning, we did our usual route of taking the ferry after breakfast, and picking up a rental car. Breakfast took ages, because we decided on a restaurant near the hotel, which seemed to struggle with even the simplest of orders. A large backlog of tables awaiting their food allowed us to joke about possible explanations. Eventually we were fed, paid the bill, and caught the ferry. Lately we haven’t bothered with the routine of a pair of one-way car hires to get to Vlicho. Now, we book the car for the two weeks and leave it in the car park for the duration. This made it easy to dump excess suitcases and boat “stuff” in the car which can then be restored, when we return. We also decided to have dinner in Lefkada, which when combined with the shopping trip, it was quite dark when we arrived in Vlicho.

Nikea was tied up alongside the barge as agreed. However, there was a large motorsailer between us and the barge. Add to this the fact that one’s footing is never too secure on the barge, and it made for an interesting commute from the shore to the boat. Given it was quite dark, we decided to launch the dinghy and make a series of trips from the stern of Nikea to the shore, and ferry the bags and food one trip at a time. It took a bit to inflate the dinghy, and of course the outboard was refusing to work “out of hours.” After a couple of short rowing trips back and forth, the engine finally decided to join in and we managed to get everything and everyone on board without too much drama. Next time though, I would hope to avoid arriving in the dark.

Time for bed!

Big news on the engine front

Mon, 21 Jan 2019 11:54:26 +0000

So, I might have teased in my previous posting that I had some news on the engine front. I will keep you in suspense no more…

I’ve sold it!

It’s gone, gone, gone. Freed from a peaceful existence in my garage, soon to be powering someone elses boat.

Right, first some more back-story. As I mentioned, the original owner had sealed up the cockpit well, and cut a large hole in the cockpit sole. He then installed a Yanmar 1GM10 single-cylinder diesel engine in the boat.

An inboard engine is a real luxury. OK, this is a sailboat we’re talking about, and she sails better than she motors. But, it’s hard to sail up to a mooring buoy. I’ve done it, yes. But when you’re threading your boat through a fleet of expensive yachts, an engine makes life just that bit easier. I wouldn’t like to pick up a marina berth under sail, although doing that in a 24 foot boat like the Achilles wouldn’t be as daunting, say, as a forty-something foot Hallberg Rassy.

Becalmed? Fire up the engine, and motor the rest of the way. Navigate into tight harbours, anchorages, and marinas. Know that you always have Plan B if you can’t sail the boat for any reason. But the price is high. I’d say too high, especially in the case of a smaller boat. Engines are trouble. They’re noisy, troublesome, prone to failure, require dangerous chemicals on board, etc.

When I started working on the TODO list for Into The Mystic, I culled the “nice to have” jobs in favour of just the most essential jobs needed to prepare her for the water. Amazingly, most of those jobs seemed to relate to the engine. As the boat has been out of the water for over a decade, I had to lift out the engine and have it serviced/rebuilt. The old engine mounts disappeared in a cloud of rust. The Morse gear was jammed - Henry gave me his spare. The fuel tank leaked - I bought a new one. The alternator didn’t work - I got it rebuilt. The starter was jammed - I got that rewound. The list goes on, unfortunately.

I was diligently working through that list, when I discovered something much more serious. When the original owner cut a hole in the cockpit sole, the fibreglass and wood repairs to create a new “engine hatch” were substandard. Water had gotten into the woodwork and it was rotten. In fact, water ingress into the ply sandwich meant that a lot of the ply inner core was also rotten. I started ripping out rotten wood and fibreglass wherever I found it. Interestingly, the original fibreglass work from when the boat was built, was still immaculate. The stuff I pulled out had been added to host the diesel engine.

Anyway, I found myself frustrated by the engine and it’s neediness. I can’t say I like the smell of diesel, and the two things which assault your nose when you first set foot on a boat, in Ireland at least, are the smell of stale diesel and damp. Not exactly conducive to the dream of wandering down to the seas again. Outboards are no better. Petrol is more flammable than diesel, so keeping it out of the bilge is very important. Engines ara a useful necessity, but that doesn’t mean we have to like the experience.

Anyway, back to Into the Mystic. I was reading up on electric sailboats, and discovered My Electric Boats by Charles Mathys. In addition to that, I found a lot of YouTube videos on the subject. Many people have ditched the “iron donkey” for a quieter, more efficient electric motor. Of course, it’s not entirely trivial and it helps a lot that the Achilles is only 24 feet. Trying to push a bigger boat into a seaway would require too much motive power. The boat had (yes, it’s gone!) a 1GM10 Yanmar engine. This produces a whopping 9HP of output power.

The diagram shows the power output for the engine as a function of RPMs. Given that it takes 746 watts of power to produce one horsepower, it’s reasonable to think that you would need a 6.7kW electric motor to replace the Yanmar. But look a bit closer at that power curve. The full power output isn’t delivered until 3,600 RPMs which is particularly fast for a diesel. Normally we would run the engine between 1,800 and 2,500 RPMs. That gives us a typical power consumption of between 800 and 2,200 watts (2.2kW). Even if we allow for a motor efficiency of 80%, we’re still under 3kW to replace a 9 horsepower engine. However, it’s nice to have that extra “oomph” at times, so choosing a 3.5kW motor which can produce 5kW in a pinch, is not a bad way to go.

Now, looking at that a bit deeper (and I’m happy to go a lot deeper if there’s interest), a 5kW motor would require a staggering 400 amps at 12 volts (really you’re talking 12.5 volts for a battery at full charge). We tend to think of amperage like that as a function of the maximum load of the cable. Looking at the AWG tables, we can see that the fusing current for #8 AWG wire is 472 amps. But this isn’t the real story. Imagine that there is a metre between the battery and the motor. That’s a pretty short battery cable, but however… The current has to go from the battery to the motor and back to the battery, so it’s a two metre cable length. Our chosen wire has a resistance of 2.061mOhms per metre. That gives us a resistance of 0.0041 ohms. That’s pretty small, all-told. But Ohms law tells us that the voltage drop (V) in the cables will be IR (current multiplied by resistance). For our chosen installation, we’re losing 1.64 volts. So our nominal 12.5 volts at the battery, has now dropped to 10.86 volts. Bad and all as that is, look at the power consumed by the cable, for a minute. The I^2R losses in the cable will be a whopping 656 watts! A good rule of thumb is that the voltage drop in the cable should be 3% or less. In this case, that’s a voltage drop of 0.375V. For that current, we’d need a resistance of 0.9375mOhms. Or, 0.46875mOhms/metre (for our idealised installation). The best fit would then be AWG #1 wire with a resistance per metre of 0.4066mOhms. But even at that, our I^2R losses would be 150 watts which is unacceptable. It’s not just the fact that 150 watts of the power we should be using to drive the propeller is not available to the motor. The battery cables are going to radiate 150 watts of heat, and that’s just not good.

Yes, we can get thicker wire, and in practice, no-one would ever go as small as AWG #1, choosing something like AWG 4/0 wire from the battery to the controller and motor. But a simpler alternative is to increase the voltage by a factor of four, and as a result, decrease the current demand by the same factor. One hundred amps (approximately 50 volts driving a 5kW motor) isn’t exactly child’s-play, but the power loss is the current squared so anything we do to reduce the current, will have huge benefits. For the sake of argument, let’s stick with the impractical AWG #8 wire for comparison. Our resistance of 0.0041 Ohms gives us a voltage drop of 0.41 volts. In a 48 volt system, that’s less than 1% so it’s in tolerance. It’s still 41 watts of power (I^2R) consumed by the cable, so AWG #8 still isn’t a good choice, but it’s far, far better than it was. AWG #1 wire with a resistance of 0.8132 Ohms across our two metre cable run, has a voltage drop of 0.081 volts. The cables will consume 8 watts of power, which is far, far better than the alternatives. Again, one would normally use 3/0 or 4/0 wire, but it’s good to compare.

From an electronics perspective, 48 volts is below the “pain threshold” in that it is very unlikely to kill you, and isn’t governed by the kinds of safety concerns as 110V or 220V. At the same time, 100 amps, while a lot of current, is not unmanageable.

So, having decided to go with a 3.5kW (continuous) motor, running at 48 volts, I now need to look at the battery situation. The smart money would go with some form of Lithium Ion cell, but I’m not ready to do that, for cost and safety issues. Charging Lithium Ion batteries is a challenge. Just ask Samsung. Lead acid batteries are heavier, clunkier technology but they are far, far cheaper. They are easier to charge, and more forgiving. Four of them will give me an official voltage of 48 volts. In reality, that voltage can go to 57.6 volts while charging, and as low as 42 volts when fully discharged. The down-side of this is I either have to add yet another battery for the “domestic” systems, or else some DC/DC convertors to bring the 48 volts down to the more practical 12 volts of the various on-board systems. I’m favouring the latter. It also means installing a solar system which can charge a 48 volt battery bank rather than the more common 12 volt system.

Looking at that last paragraph, many old sea salts would roll their eyes and shake their heads at the required complexity involved in all of this. It is a well-known adage that salt water and electronics do not see eye to eye. This has always been my own trepidation with the switch to electric motors. Using a three-phase brushless DC (BLDC) motor means that there are no brushes, no commutator rings, nor any of the normal baggage associated with electric motors. People have run BLDC motors under water, with no short-term effects. Obviously, rust will move in on the motor eventually, but it is nice to know that the motor will keep running, even when submerged. Removing the old DC motor brushes also removes sparks and debris from the engine compartment. In fact, your average BLDC motor is the definition of simplicity. The controller is another story…

But rolling one’s eyes skyward at the thought of bringing a complex system like a three-phase, BLDC controller into a salty environment like a boat, does not take into consideration the reality of the modern-day diesel engine. Once upon a time, the operation of a diesel engine was governed by a complex set of pumps, injectors, governors, and regulators. In the drive for better and better efficiency, all modern diesel engines include an electronic control unit (ECU) sometimes known as an engine management unit (or EMU). While it isn’t switching the types of currents involved in a BLDC motor, it is controlling a lot of the engine operations, and if it fails, the engine will be a large lump of useless iron. If you have an older engine (such as the 1GM10), you are safe, for now. But the trend is to embed more and more complex electronic and computer systems into the average diesel engine, so the argument that a motor controller is needlessly bringing complex electronics into a saltwater environment, doesn’t really hold water (pardon the bad pun). Even the argument that if your diesel engine breaks down in the middle of nowhere, it can be fixed by a local mechanic is becoming less and less reliable. More often than not, only the dealer has access to the complex instrumentation to diagnose and repair an EMU fault code. Given that a lead acid battery is almost prehistoric in terms of its technology, and that a BLDC motor has little to break down, carrying a spare motor controller can mean a much better reliability than a diesel engine. You also avoid worries about contaminated fuel, water in the diesel tank, blocked injectors, air in the fuel line, clogged seawater inlet, damaged impeller, damaged hoses, exhaust issues, oil changes, oil leaks, etc, etc, etc. You have a relatively simple motor, prehistoric batteries, and yes, a complex little box of electronic wonders, which can fail. So bring a spare!

The other argument regarding electric motors on boats has to do with the length of time you can run the motor. This is a much more valid complaint. It is no secret that the energy capacity of a 20 litre tank of diesel is far, far greater than even the most efficient of Lithium Ion cells of a similar size/weight. The Yanmar consumes between 0.5 and 1 litre of diesel per hour. Even at a good clip, you can motor for twenty hours without issue. At full power, the BLDC is consuming 100 amps. Given four batteries with 100Ah capacity, the best you can hope for is an hour of motoring. Even at that, the amp-hour rating for a battery is quoted based on either a 10 hour or 20 hour drain. Effectively, this means that your average 100Ah battery will deliver a solid 10 amps of current for ten hours. But it’s not a linear equation. As you increase the current demand, the battery capacity diminishes. So a 100Ah battery won’t deliver 100 amps for an hour. It might deliver that current for 45 minutes, at best. What’s more, this requires fully discharging the battery which is never a good idea. Lead acid batteries, even absorbed glass matte (AGM) batteries do not like to discharge fully. On the positive side, at the beginning of this post, I mentioned that I tended to motor at an engine speed of 1,800 RPMs, when the engine was delivering less than a kilowatt of power. Discharging the battery bank at a current of 20 amps still won’t deliver the advertised 100Ah, but I should be able to run the engine for four hours, without any issues. I plan on purchasing a 2kW petrol generator as a backup plan, as I anticipate that the only way of recharging the batteries will be by solar panels, and this after all, is Ireland.

Having said all of that, I am quite keen to get the boat back into the water, and the Trello list lends itself to moving TODO items from the Backlog to the Deferred Until Next Year list, so my thoughts right now are that I will mount an outboard bracket onto the stern, and use the four stroke 4HP outboard engine for the time being. That way, I can continue to research the subject and also the electric motor doesn’t just replace the Yanmar on the critical path.

If you have any thoughts about my move to the world of electric motors, leave a comment below. Likewise, if you have any questions, I’ll answer them if I can. Here’s to getting the boat into the water sooner, rather than later!

A bit of back-story, perhaps?

Wed, 16 Jan 2019 13:29:47 +0000

So, it’s been a while since I posted a blog entry. In my defence, there’s not much to report. I didn’t get to do much on the boat in the last few months, but 2019 is here now, and once again, work has re-commenced. I will say, however, I’m no fan of blogging for the sake of it. I’d prefer fewer updates with more data than those blogs that have to post daily even if it’s only to tell you what they had for lunch.

But, I digress. I thought I’d describe how I ended up with an Achilles 24 with inboard diesel engine. Especially as there is a small bit of news on that front, but more on that later. Also, my experiences with the horror of TODO lists.

Into The Mystic was built in April, 1973. As best as I can tell, she rolled off the production line on Thursday the 12th. She is hull #179. I bought her in 1999 from her second owner. I had raced on her once or twice and liked the cut of her jib. Achilles 24s are fast boats, more akin to a dinghy than your average keelboat. They come in two configurations; fin keel or bilge keel. Into The Mystic is a fin keel boat. One thing they don’t usually come with, is an inboard engine. The design has an outboard well in the cockpit. Lift a hatch, and drop a long-leg outboard into the well, and hey presto!

I couldn’t afford a thirty foot boat as I was building a house at the time. I didn’t want a trailer-sailer, and I was wary of outboard engines on sailboats. The reason for that wariness is because of the experience of friends who had boats like that. Galway Bay might sound tranquil, and mostly it is. But it is worth remembering that the Aran Islands shelter the bay from the worst of the Atlantic, but it’s never too far away. Small boats with outboard engines on the stern are subject to having the engine lifted clear out of the water, at the top of a wave. Likewise, the engine can get smothered in the trough. Friends have had difficult passages in big Atlantic rollers, as their outboards have failed to gain any solid purchase, alternating between revving wildly while in mid-air, and running the risk of sucking in sea-water, moments later.

Also, I am quite keen on having a proper twelve volt (12v) power source which doesn’t involve bringing AA batteries on board for the navigation lights, or for the cabin lighting. It is my fervent desire to be able to do real work from the boat, not just sit in the cabin, reading books. So, an inboard diesel engine sounded perfect.

When the previous owner wanted to sell up and move to a bigger boat, I was an enthusiastic purchaser. After a winter of odd jobs and anti-foul, she was splashed in April/May of 2000. She had a season of trips to the Aran Islands and some sporadic racing at Galway Bay Sailing Club or GBSC. Over the years, she over-wintered at the club, and swung from a mooring in Renville Bay. She was launched in 2007 for the last time, and at the end of that summer, I brought her back to the house and placed her alongside the garage.

The justification was that it was cheaper than keeping her on the hard at GBSC, but also because I had plans to do a variety of jobs and having the boat by the side of the house offered a much more attractive proposition for maintenance, over the alternative of loading the tools in the car and driving to the club. So went the theory, at least. The advantage of having your boat at a club is that there are other people around for help and advice. But more importantly, if you do load up the tools in the car and drive to the club, you’re more likely to do work, and that’s the unfortunate truth. Having the boat beside the house means that boat work starts much later than it should on a Saturday morning, and is easily distracted by other, more pressing activities. The convenience makes it seem like it’s OK not to do that particular job today, because there’ll be other opportunities.

I also discovered a couple of interesting bugs in human software. Each year, I would diligently make a list of jobs which needed to be performed on the boat. At Christmas, this list would be both comprehensive and exhaustive. As the start of the sailing season approached, the list would get modified, with various items moved to the newly-formed TO DO AFTER LAUNCH list. As we all know, little or no work gets done on the boat, once she is splashed, unless it is essential. And by essential, I mean; if you don’t do job X the boat will sink. So, the first of these little human bugs… Week after week, I’d notice that the dreaded TODO list wasn’t really getting much shorter. To find out why, I started making a second list. On the other side of the page, I would record the jobs which I had done, that day. My naive intent was to debug why jobs were obviously taking much, much longer than I had anticipated. What surprised me is what was actually happening. On any given Saturday morning, I would climb up onto the boat, mug of coffee in hand. I’d open up the washboards, and go below. I’d size up what needed to be done, and then… work on something else entirely.

I discovered this by looking at the WORK DONE list, and realising there was very little overlap with the TODO list. I was busy rewiring the cabin lights because I’d just noticed that the wiring was frayed. Even though that work wasn’t on the TODO list, and if I’d contemplated adding it, my rational brain would have immediately moved it to the TO DO AFTER LAUNCH list. So, an entire Saturday blown on a project which would not help in the slightest in my task of getting the boat ready for the sea.

The other bug was an inability to rationally decide how long it took to complete a certain task, coupled with a propensity for extending the task ad nauseum. This would manifest itself in unreasonable deadlines. I would often make a list of jobs, add “to be completed by” dates to all of them, and then watch as each deadline went whistling by. “Today, I’m going to start by cleaning and painting the bilge, and then I’m going to yada, yada, yada”. Evening emerges, and the bilge is clean but unpainted. The SMART doctrine for tasks is a good idea, especially around boats. Tasks should be:

Specific
Measurable
Achievable
Realistic
Time-bound

A lot of my tasks seemed to be open-ended. A simple job like “fix the navigation lights” isn’t as helpful as it should be. In reality, what you’re talking about really, is:

Remove old nav-light wiring
Add new tinned wire for the nav lights
Fix nav light mounting fixture
Purchase new Port and Starboard navigation lights
Install nav lights
Connect wire to nav lights
Connect wire to switch panel
Test the new lights

Maybe I don’t need granularity at that level, but it does make life a lot easier in many ways, because now I can add those to an application like Trello and get the immense satisfaction of moving a job to the DONE column. I can find a half-hour after work some evening to do the first step, which is “remove old nav-light wiring”. Hey presto! One task done. While at work, in a quiet moment, I can remember the Trello list and purchase new nav lights from an online chandlery.

I also find it helpful if I’m waiting for a friend or I’m sitting in a coffee shop, I can open the Trello app on my phone and make quick updates. I often add a card which states “Measure X” because so many times I have found that I want to order a particular part for the boat, but I can’t remember what size I need. Not only does “measure companionway opening” give me a quick task I can pull off one evening after work, it also means that I have the answer to that question saved as a note on the card.

Anyway, there it is. I admire people like Mads Dahke who can devote every single weekend to working on his boat, Athena. Not only does he spend pretty much every weekend, without fail, working on the boat, he will also put in a full day’s work. None of those pesky distractions which pull one away from sanding tasks. I enjoy aspects of sailboat repair and maintenance, but there are also times when they feel quite daunting. Both in terms of the complexity, but also the time required.

But, back to my earlier comment about inboard diesel engines. If you recall, I stated that my complaint about outboards is their habit of being lifted out of the water as they are at the extreme end of the boat, namely the transom. But I also started this post by saying that Achilles 24s use a cockpit well. If you put an outboard engine in a cockpit well, the propeller is in front of the rudder, which is important. More importantly, it is in exactly the same place as an inboard. A lot of the problems I have been dealing with on Into The Mystic are related to the diesel engine. At the end of the season, you can remove an outboard from the boat and get it professionally serviced. It can then while away the winter in a cozy garage. Meanwhile, the inboard diesel is outside, and if the boat isn’t completely bone dry, may be sitting in a puddle of water in the bilge. Yes, outboards are pesky beasts in their own right. You need to keep petrol on board, which isn’t the safest of substances, unlike relatively safe diesel. They are prone to cutting out, at the worst possible time. Diesels tend to run forever, if they start at all. Also, the inboard gives you the option of a deep-cycle house battery, and a permanent 12 volt supply. Some outboards do have proper alternators and can provide a charging plug. But nowadays, one or more solar panels can meet most of our onboard power requirements.

For a boat under 25 feet, I now think that an inboard diesel engine is a mistake. I would favour a long-leg outboard mounted in a cockpit well so that the propeller was forward of the rudder. Just the fact that it can be removed from the boat is a huge benefit. However, for bigger boats, the power equations just don’t work out. Most bigger boats (in the 30+ feet range) have diesel engines which put out anywhere from 30-50 horsepower on up. It’s not that it is hard to find an outboard with that output, it’s just that they’re big and bulky and the portability gains fade away. A diesel has its uses. Meanwhile, I’m off to go work on the engine, again. That and paint the bilge. Won’t be long…

Sail the boat you have

Thu, 10 May 2018 10:36:53 +0100

On Sunday, May 6th, 2018, a good friend of mine lost his six year battle with cancer. The following is a copy of an email I sent to club members, about Henry Lupton.

I remember having a conversation with Henry after Wednesday night racing. We were discussing the relative merits of a Hallberg Rassy 42 over a similar sized Najad. The abstract debate covered things like build quality versus brand premium. I neatly segued into a series of complaints about my own boat, an Achilles 24. A boat which is still by the side of the house, unfit for sea, despite Henry’s best efforts. I compared my own humble craft with the salubrious Rassy.

Henry looked at me incredulously. “Sail the boat you have, Dermot. Not the boat you want!”

If it were possible to sum up Henry in such a simple expression, I think that does him justice. That’s not to say Henry argued for mediocrity in any way. Far from it. Nothing in his life was mediocre. While many of us spent a Sunday afternoon staring out into the Irish “Summer”, of rain and whitecaps, a familiar spinnaker would appear, sandwiched between the grey sky and the grey sea. Beoga! Henry and Marina on their way back from a weekend in Aran, screeching along under spinnie.

They once took Starlet south for some regatta or other, without the benefit of a road trailer. So off they all went, only to discover that little Starlet was not at all happy with the Atlantic rollers. They arrived eventually, somewhat the worse for wear, but unperturbed.

They were happy sailing around the cans at every opportunity. At the same time, Henry and Marina took Beoga thousands of miles out of her way, to put blue water under her keel, and Caribbean sun on our faces. I think, if push came to shove, they might have chanced Starlet on that epic voyage, rather than miss out.

Even when Henry was caught by that expletive disease, he still went racing in the 1720. Chemo one minute, a start line the next. Henry and Marina took Beoga to Cork each summer, borrowing a car and dashing back to the schedules of medical professionals and their machinery. Back for a dose of the goop, as Henry would say. As soon as they were done with him, off the two went, back to the boat.

No one would say Henry had the lifetime he wanted or deserved. Or for that matter, what we wished for him. But there’s no question to me, that he sailed the life he had.

Bon voyage, Henry.

Nobody touch anything!

Fri, 04 May 2018 12:21:41 +0100

“Nobody touch anything!” was Niall’s clear instruction to one and all.

It was a strange perspective, sitting on the high side of a Sigma 33, staring down at the sea directly below. As a dinghy sailor, I’m used to capsizing. I’m used to that slow-motion car crash as you traverse through the mental states of “yes, we can hold the spinnie on this reach”, through “I don’t think we’ll make it” and eventually “we’re going in…” Before I sailed and raced dinghies, I had expected a capsize to be a dramatic, instant inversion. One minute, you’re upright, sailing along enjoying the scenery. A brief nanosecond later, and you’re in the water with sail and boat on top of you. As it happens, it’s not like that. The boat heels and heels some more, releasing pressure as she increases the heel angle. But eventually gravity and Newton’s Laws intervene, and over she goes. It might take seconds, but it does indeed feel like minutes. There have been times when the capsize has been quite dramatic, explosive, even. Including that one particular time when Morgan and I decided to run dead downwind under spinnaker, in a Force 6. It was during the Laser II Regionals, and we smiled and laughed at the other boats under white sails, gybing their way downwind. Pride comes before a fall, as they might have said to us.

But this was different. This was a large, heavy keelboat on her ear. The technical definition of a capsize is the masthead is in the water. This wasn’t quite a capsize, then, but the masthead was definitely on the verge of going for a dip. The result of a nasty broach under spinnaker while ten miles offshore. Ten miles through bleak, drizzly Irish summer weather. The Mizzen Lighthouse was to the North of us, indistinct on the horizon. It’s an odd sensation, seeing the starboard lifelines under water, waves lapping over the winch and into the cockpit, even threatening the companionway, noticeably missing its washboards.

Like everyone else, I was on the high side of the boat, staring down at the water. I can’t remember what I was holding on to, but the distinct impression in my head was that letting go meant a cold, sea water swim.

In a situation like this, it’s normal to panic. It’s normal to want to quickly right the situation before it gets worse, which is why Niall’s shout out to not touch anything seemed incongruous. But I was the newbie on this boat and on this delivery. Everyone else had sailed on this boat as a team for years, and had an impressive array of trophies and prizes for their efforts. We were delivering the boat from Galway to Cork (if memory serves), so she could compete in Ford Cork Week as it was known back then. Suffice it to say, this wasn’t their first broach, nor would it be their last. An American colleague of theirs had done the previous delivery, and had been asleep in his bunk when they put the boat on her ear. He’d been unceremoniously dumped out of his berth, and had to extricate himself by walking on the side of the boat interior.

Is it better to sail with people who push the boat too hard and know what to do after the inevitable broach, or sail with people who don’t? Pushing a boat beyond her limits will result in a well-defined outcome. So, the question becomes, is it foolhardy to do this knowing the outcome, or foolhardy to sail a boat and never prepare yourself to deal with the outcome? That is one of those delicious questions which can liven up an otherwise boring afternoon at a sailing club bar.

In this particular case, after what seemed like hours of deliberation, which in fact took a few seconds of quick conversation, the kicker tension was released. The boom relaxed, de-powering the mainsail. The boat popped back up like a cork, and we set about trying to tame the spinnaker, which was now thrashing about on the foredeck.

It certainly was intimidating, seeing such a large boat thrown asunder by the power of nature. There were quite a few moments where I wondered if we had indeed gone too far, and if I’d find myself treading water a scant ten miles offshore, wondering if the cold would render me unconscious before I drowned. But my crew-mates were unperturbed. It was “painting by numbers” for them. There was a collective sense of “oh no, not again” from them as they got about setting the boat to rights. Just another day in the park. I can’t imagine there are many people in Galway Bay as experienced as those guys when it comes to righting a troubled ship. It’s true to say, if you’re going to broach a boat, ten miles offshore, then you’d want those guys on board with you. Some might also say, if they hadn’t been on board, we’d never have broached in the first place, but again you’re disappearing down the ugly vortex of a philosophical thought experiment, and let’s face it, life is too short for that!

An interesting footnote is that my own mother warned me not to sail with those guys, as she’d heard through a mutual acquaintance that Niall (our skipper) had been knocked unconscious by a spinnaker pole, such was their disregard for safety on the water. I had to laugh. I know for a fact he wasn’t knocked unconscious, because unfortunately, I was the one who hit him over the head. But that, as they say, is a story for another day.

Photo credit: Hugo Kerr

Engine hatch cover replacement

Tue, 01 May 2018 12:18:16 +0100

So, yesterday I found a little bit of time to go and figure out what to do with the engine hatch cover. a BIT OF BACKGROUND Might be in order, however…

The Achilles 24 comes as standard with a long-shaft outboard engine and an engine mount in the sole of the cockpit. This presents itself as a hatch towards the stern, which when removed, allows you to mount the engine in the little compartment, and when lowered, the prop is approximately in the same position as an inboard. It’s a big improvement over the typical outboard bracket on the transom, as the prop is less likely to come out of the water in a big sea.

In the case of Into The Mystic however, this engine compartment has been sealed up. The original owner instead, cut a new hole in the cockpit sole, just behind the companionway. In this, he mounted a Yanmar 1GM10 inboard diesel engine. The engine sits above the bilge, as any inboard would. He also added a P-bracket, cutlass bearing, stern gland, and all of the other accoutrements of your typical inboard diesel. Overall, it’s a nice job.

However, I’ve been plagued with a leak for as long as I’ve had the boat. Here’s a little newsflash; all boats leak, to some extent. Particularly older ones, and Into The Mystic, being born in April of 1973, is no exception. It’s not really a problem as long as the leak is above the waterline. In my case, the leak is substantial enough that the bilge will fill with rainwater after only a week or two of a typical Irish summer.

Originally, when the engine sat in the engine bay over a winter, it corroded fairly badly and eventually seized up. I removed the engine, rebuilt it, and now it is in the garage on a pallet, warm and dry. The engine mounts are also corroded, and those little puppies ain’t cheap! I have new engine mounts, and the engine is ready to be re-installed, but I’ve been holding off until I could figure out the location of the leak.

As I’ve been working my way towards the stern, cleaning up the boat, I started to clean the engine bilge. As part of this work, I removed the wooden hatch cover over the engine bay. The cover itself is glass-covered ply and is fairly solid, even after 30 or 40 years. However, how it attaches to the cockpit sole isn’t particularly secure or waterproof. I decided to fabricate a new hatch cover out of glass fibre. So, step one was to make a mould based on the dimensions of the opening in the cockpit sole. I pulled out the old hatch cover, and began measuring. I discovered that the wood surround on the cockpit sole was spongy - not good! Unfortunately, the wood had been sealed in place using fibreglass tape and epoxy. But this had been glued over the gelcoat and hadn’t made a solid bond. Over the years, the water sluicing around the cockpit had crept in under the glass fibre tape, and rotted the wood. I started pulling out screws and ripping out rotten wood. It gets worse though, because the cockpit itself is a GRP/ply sandwich. This is common enough. Instead of laminating up a glass fibre deck/cockpit which was at least 5mm thick and probably needed to be 10mm thick in order to provide structural integrity to the deck, they lay up about 2 or 3mm of glass fibre, cover it with a layer of plywood, and then lay up another 2 or 3mm on top of that. It’s amazingly strong in the same way that an I-beam resists bending. In my case, however, it has turned to brown mush.

The first job will be to scrape out all of the rotten plywood between the layers of fibreglass, and then either re-fill it with ply or (more likely) just fill the whole thing with West epoxy and 406 filler. From there, I need to rebuild the housing around the opening. The idea, basically, is to prevent seawater (and indeed rainwater) from getting in through any gap in the hatch cover, by adding a lip around the opening, about 1cm high. The hatch cover will sit over this lip (and a rubber gasket) and that should prevent any water making its way into the cabin/engine bay. I’ll have to fashion a lip using either plywood or pine strips, seal it with epoxy, and then bed it into place using glass fibre tape or plain old chopped, strand mat. An important piece of this is making sure that the glass is properly bonded to the cockpit sole. I had hoped that all I needed to do was to fabricate a new hatch cover, but now it looks like I need to do a lot of remedial work as well.

The good news is that I’m pretty sure this has been the cause of the most egregious leaks. Also, as you might notice from the picture above, the bilge pump is operating nicely. The float switch kicks in when there is about 75mm or so of water in the bilge. The pump drains this out via the non-return valve. There is a little bit of hysteresis in the switch, so it only switches off the pump when there is around an inch of water left in the bilge. Ideally it would completely drain the bilge, but that’s pretty hard. You need a sump so that the bilge water fills the sump and the pump then can drain the sump almost completely. Overall though, I’m happy that the bilge is now staying dry thanks to the pump and float switch, and that I’ve found the main cause of the leak. Once I replace the hatch seal up the cockpit sole properly, I’ll be ready to install the new engine mounts and ultimately lower in the rebuilt engine.

Mind you, I need to paint the engine first, and probably replace the stern gland. I also need to clean out the engine bilge and paint it. Overall though, I think there’s progress.

Working From Home

Wed, 04 Apr 2018 15:45:52 +0100

A long time ago (no, not in a galaxy far away, I think I was in Boston), I had a conversation over a beer, about working from home. At the time, the Internet had reached a sufficient speed and VPN technology was to a standard that you could work from home and achieve the same productivity as the office. Probably even more productivity than most offices I’ve frequented. I’m sure many people before me had also pondered this question, but it came as a revelation for me. I think it was around the third beer that a cloud lifted. A whole new vista opened up before me. “You don’t actually need to be at home to be Working From Home…” My sage colleague nodded in agreement. As if to say “of course! Everyone knows that.” But to me, life would never be the same, again.

At the time, my scope was limited to perhaps visiting friends in London for an extended stay, or perhaps even working for a day or two while in a foreign clime. I even experimented with the idea. A group of us went to Spain to visit some friends for two weeks, and I brought a laptop. My sister, who travelled with me, was horrified. She took the altogether sensible view that holidays were sacrosanct, and you needed to be able to get away from the office. You needed to be able to extract yourself from meetings, emails, and anything which involved a keyboard, for two weeks of sun and relaxation. I tried to explain that I was experimenting, for the good of Humanity. I wanted to see if it was possible to bring a laptop and perhaps work for the mornings, with a view to only consuming 5 days holidays over the course of two weeks. I don’t think she appreciated my selfless sacrifice.

The experiment was a success. I quickly got into a ritual of having breakfast with the group, and while they went off to catch the morning sunshine, I would boot up my laptop and do some work. Around noon, I would shut down the machine, and join everyone else. In hindsight, I should probably have joined them in the morning and avoided the heat of the afternoon sun, but this wouldn’t have changed the outcome of the experiment.

It was indeed possible.

Since then, I have stretched the definition of “home” quite a bit. But one definition I haven’t successfully tried, is working from the boat. I’ve brought my Macbook to Greece a few times and done some minor work (reviewing papers, mostly) while in the Ionian, but I haven’t actually tried working from the boat. I found it was more convenient to go ashore, power the laptop from a nearby taverna, and use their Wifi while sipping a Greek coffee.

But I am still curious about this concept. I can’t imagine dialling in for a conference call while swinging at anchor in a quiet bay in Meganisi, but I could definitely see myself doing that while on a visitor mooring off the west coast of Ireland.

One of the most important requirements is a good power source. My Mac has a power supply which requires 60 watts at 220 volts (well, at any AC voltage between 90 and 240, if you want to be specific). That can easily be handled by a small 150 watt inverter. It only needs that power level to charge the Macbook battery, which takes an hour or two. Ignoring conversion losses, I could produce 60 watts of power at 12 volts with a mere 5 amp consumption. Assuming the battery charges in only two hours, I can recharge the laptop with 10Ah. That isn’t a significant draw on a lead-acid battery. I used to have a charging cable for my old Compaq Evo, which ran directly off 12 volts, including one of those funky cigarette lighter adaptors. Apple doesn’t have anything like that so you’re stuck using the inverter. I did try charging the Mac just using the battery and solar panel on Nikea in Greece, and found that it was a significant draw. I seem to remember the inverter complaining about low battery voltage. I didn’t have the time/inclination to figure out why. Our solar panels aren’t exactly new, and I’m not even sure what their rated power (as new) should be. I must look a bit closer into the current consumption on the boat. At the time, I remember thinking that if I left the laptop on charge, it would run the battery down in no time, so I generally only charged the laptop when the engine was running. To be fair though, if I really wanted to consider working from the boat as a viable proposition, I’d look at doubling the capacity of the “house” batteries, and even beefing up the solar panels. As it is, we get just enough power during the day to run the fridge and to bring the batteries up to full charge (assuming we turn off the fridge by around 4PM). Yet another use for an Arduino - monitor the onboard battery voltages and produce charging data for an average day in Greece.

Another requirement is a good Internet connection. However, for a lot of the work I do, this isn’t essential. I can work offline for long periods, and then connect to the Internet (and the corporate VPN) for short periods to sync up. There are three key choices for Internet connectivity. The first (and cheapest) is to use the Internet connection in the nearby marina, assuming you’re tied up to a pontoon, or at a minimum, within WiFi distance of the marina office. This tends to be problematic for two or three reasons. Firstly, most marinas make use of a standard home DSL line so the broadband capacity is on a par with that of your average house. In other words, three or four devices online at any given time, and intermittent bursts of high volume traffic. By contrast, a marina full of boats will tax that system out of existence in short order. It’s not just the laptops on each boat, it’s the mobile phones, iPads, and everything else. Secondly, most of the marinas I’ve seen, which offer “free” broadband, do not have a proper antenna setup. They just use the little low-gain antennae which are mounted on the router box. I have seen marinas which install proper hotspots on numerous pontoons, but they’re in the minority, and rarely free. Add to this some of the weird complexities of how WiFi systems limit transmit power, and you’ll find that you can possibly access the Internet, provided you stand in the cockpit with your laptop held high above your head. The third aspect is that the DHCP pool is too small. So your device might be able to see the hotspot, but the device has long-since run out of IP addresses. Usually this presents itself as a “flaky connection.” The marina staff will tell you that they need to reboot the device about once a day, for some reason. Now you know why - they’re out of IP addresses. As the device reboots, as long as your laptop is in range, it’ll get one of the precious IP addresses, and it’ll be yours for the duration of the lease (or until the next reboot).

Some manufacturers now make WiFi boosters which can be configured to connect to a nearby hotspot, and which provide a WiFi network just for the boat. This is the ideal scenario as means you can place the booster up high, with clear line-of-sight to the marina office and their little router device, and you can work down below with a strong signal which is unique to your boat. It doesn’t fix the fact that the marina WiFi is woefully inadequate both in bandwidth terms and in IP pool terms, but it will help with signal strength.

Another option is to buy your own 3G (4G? 5G?) dongle and local SIM card. This immediately resolves the issues of IP addresses and bandwidth, unless of course, you share your hotspot password with some of your marina friends. It also means that you’re not tied to a marina, and can use the Internet while swinging at anchor in a secluded bay. But you may need to investigate external antennae for it, or at least some mechanism for boosting the predictably weak mobile signal. Ideally, you would use the WiFi booster previously mentioned, with a 3G dongle as an add-on for those cases where there is no WiFi signal, or the signal is unusable. That way, the 3G antenna is mounted up high, with reasonable line of sight to the cell mast while you’re again down below with a personal WiFi signal. A disadvantage of this approach is the fact that you will need to pay for the broadband, and this may involve having to buy a data sim in each country or territory. But while the marina WiFi may be free, it’s probably unusable, and you’re still paying for it by way of the marina fees. If you’re Stern-to in Sivota (or wherever), you may be able to tap into the WiFi signal of the nearest taverna, but it too will suffer from all the same problems. If Internet access is essential, there is little or no alternative to buying a data sim.

Unless of course, you bought shares in Apple shortly before Steve Jobs took over for the second time. In that case, you can install a satellite link on the transom of the boat, and have all the bandwidth your heart desires. Mind you, there are latency issues with satellite broadband, which can’t be cured no matter how wealthy you are. The pesky speed of light is not going to go any quicker just because you’re a dotcom millionaire. While I might present a picture of satellite Internet as cumbersome and expensive, it can actually be useful. Inmarsat makes a handheld satphone which looks a bit like an old Nokia from the days when mobile phones had keypads. We used one to pull down GRIB data while crossing the Atlantic. They are handy for uploading and downloading short emails, and even data downloads, but don’t go streaming Netflix.

In summary, then, the technology is definitely available to work from the boat. So what is the impediment? Is it that it seems wrong to be sitting in an azure pool of water, with sunlight glistening off the wave tops, while your colleagues are all huddled around their screens, and drinking coffee from a machine? Is it that no-one would believe you were working, under such conditions?

I actually think it is a deeper issue than that. I think I would need around three or four weeks of living on the boat, before my brain finally decided that this was now the new normal. The most time I’ve spent on Nikea in Greece is around 18 days, and I never completely switched into that mode of operation. Every day seemed to offer a range of distractions. Doing computer work seemed like one too many. I’m curious if permanent liveaboards experience that. Did they find that it took their bodies a month or more to fully adapt to their new life, or were they operating in “I live on a boat” mode from the off?

In Greece, I was still able to take the laptop ashore and sit at a taverna, while coding or reviewing papers. But I didn’t manage to reach that nirvana state on board.

This can only mean one thing; more testing required!

Photo credit: Igor Ovsyannykov

Sailing and Arriving

Thu, 15 Mar 2018 10:52:38 +0000

There are two types of sailors. Those who can extrapolate from incomplete data.

Sorry, old joke.

There are actually hundreds of different types of sailors. Even within the racing fraternity, you have your speed demon athletes, like the Volvo Ocean Race nutters or the America’s Cup sailors. Then there’s the club maniacs, the guys who’ll drive their J-109 to within a hairs breadth of the committee boat in order to win (for a year) a 30 year old tin pot and a club tie. Not to mention the ones who politely sit back on the start line, courteously allowing everyone to go on ahead, while they wait for the wine to chill and the wind to ease.

But I’m talking about cruising sailors. Those ladies and gentlemen who like to put miles under their keels. Those people who throw the hook out in secluded anchorages, admiring the sunset from the cockpit with a chilled gin and tonic.

So, yes, I sailed across an ocean. I think I might have mentioned it before… And yes, it was a life-changing experience. All in all, we spent about sixteen days at sea. For most of that, we were out of sight of land. Nothing in comparison to the 226 days that Francis Chichester spent at sea, or indeed any of the many others who ply the oceans. Well, anyway, sixteen days seemed like a lot to me at least.

On our transatlantic journey, Henry once asked us, when the miles to Saint Lucia were a lot less than the miles from Las Palmas, whether we’d do it all again. Some said yes, emphatically. Me, I wasn’t sure. Yes, it was great to do it, and it certainly messed with your head in a good way.

But would I do it again?

I still don’t know what the answer to that question might be. We were fortunate, in many ways. We all got along; incidents of the dreaded “stir crazy” were few and far between. The boat was roomy, fast, and yet not overly demanding. The route we chose (well, the route Marina chose, as she got lumbered with routing us across the puddle) was free from storms and equally free from doldrums. We had consistent, but fairly strong winds, all the way. We settled in to an easy routine, quite quickly. If every crossing was that easy, why the hesitancy?

I think it’s because I’m one of those cruising sailors who likes to ‘arrive’. To me, there is an excitement about ending a day’s sailing (or even sixteen days sailing), by turning in to some unknown harbour or cove, furling sails, dropping anchor, and discovering something of this new and unknown part of the world. New to me, at least. There is a certain nervousness about approaching land, again. Sometimes all you can see is a cacaphony of lights. Some are traffic lights on land, and some are navigation marks, and often it’s hard to tell which is which.

So much so, that when we arrived in Saint Lucia nursing a broken boom, I found myself relaying messages between Marina who was at the chart table and Henry & the rest of the crew, in the cockpit. She told us that the race instructions (for the 2009 ARC) stated that there would be a committee boat at the finish line, and a bright light at the pin end. We could see the bright light, but not the committee boat. Instructions from Marina were explicit and unwavering: “Turn hard to port now!” To which the incredulous response from the crew in the cockpit was that the finish line was dead ahead, about three or four nautical miles, and to the left (port) was land! I was the messenger. I am reminded of that joke about an aircraft carrier and a lighthouse. I won’t repeat it here. Marina’s instructions couldn’t be clearer. “TURN LEFT NOW!”

The crew dutifully and sheepishly followed her instructions, all assured that we’d end up on the rocks. We turned to port, straight into a strong headwind, something we hadn’t experienced since Biscay, months earlier. We had almost forgotten how to sail upwind. As we beat upwind towards land, we discovered three things. Firstly, we had entered a sort of cove or natural harbour. Secondly, in front of us was a tiny little floating lamp at the pin end of the finish line, with a committee boat not too distant. Thirdly, the bright light we had been sailing towards was the main airport in Rodney Bay!

We crossed the finish line, received our finish gun, dropped sail for the first time in over two weeks, and motored in to the marina where we were met with a hamper of local fruits, and some very nice beers. After we’d tied up, and sorted out a few bits and pieces, we waddled along the marina to the pub. I say “waddled” because we all felt the effects of trying to walk on a very solid platform. One which didn’t heave and sway with the waves. One which didn’t try to eject you from its fibreglass decking into the nearby ocean. Simply put, we were land-sick. We found a table, and to the accompaniment of a steel band, we chased those initial beers with one or two more, while resisting the notion that the table and indeed the land was gently moving, back and forth.

The watch system which had served us well across the Atlantic, was no more. We all climbed into our berths and slept soundly. Over the course of the next few days, we explored the island of Saint Lucia, and bathed in its unique climate and culture. From there, we sailed on to Martinique, Guadeloupe, Antigua and the British Virgin Islands. Each time, we came across a new anchorage or marina, new sights, sounds and stories.

On the whole, I think I prefer that aspect of sailing. I could handle two hundred and twenty six days at sea, but preferably interspersed with that, would be perhaps eighty new ports. Eighty nights at anchor, perhaps, swinging gently with the tide. Having said all of that, there is still something magical about being on watch at 4AM (local) as the boat weaves her way through waves you can scarcely see. Sitting in the cockpit, dodging the Kamikaze Flying Fish, alone with your thoughts. There is also something liberating about being free from land, free from schedules, and free from the incessant news cycle.

Photo credit: Markus Voetter

Tackling the Bilge Pump

Tue, 13 Mar 2018 11:28:46 +0000

Boats leak. Above the waterline, and sometimes below. An above-the-waterline leak isn’t a bad thing when the boat’s in the water, in that it won’t sink. But it does mean that stuff gets damp.

I’ve read countless online articles about how to keep a boat dry, and it’s not a trivial exercise. For the most part, with the boat on the hard, I’ve stored everything I possibly could in the warm and dry attic. But the bilge does fill with water, and it’s annoying. We have no shortage of rainwater in the west of Ireland, and it’s collecting in the boat, which makes painting the bilge and re-installing the engine that bit harder.

So, the first task was to install a bilge pump and an automatic switch. Drilling holes into the hull of a boat is a bad idea for a variety of reasons. Even if you don’t go through the hull, you can expose the wooden core to water and it will rot. Even allowing water to seep into the glass fibre underneath the gelcoat is bad. I’d looked at a number of possibilities from alu plates to stainless steel plates, but eventually 3D-printed a base which I then epoxied to the floor of the bilge. On this, I mounted both the pump and the switch. From the pump, the hose goes through a “non-return valve” which prevents the water from coming back into the bilge, either from a wave hitting the stern and flooding down the skin fitting, or just because the hose from the pump to the skin fitting is quite long. I’ve seen this issue on Nikea (which doesn’t yet have a non-return valve) where you turn on the pump and it completely drains the bilge. But when you turn off the pump, all the water that was still in the length of hose drain back into the bilge again.

The wires for both the pump and the switch will be wired to a junction block above the bilge in the engine compartment, but for now, they’re loosely tied together.

I have a 220 volt “shore power” cable from the house to the boat, which I use for light and heat. So, for the time being, I moved the starter battery (a bog-standard lead acid) from the garage where it has been on float-charge, to the boat. I also brought the float charger. I jury-rigged the bilge wiring directly to the battery, and tested that water in the bilge does indeed operate the switch and the pump. For now, the boat should be draining of rainwater. It’s been too cold to do any work on the boat for the last couple of weekends, so I haven’t actually checked my handiwork. It’s possible the bilge is a foot deep in rain water!

The next tasks are to paint the rest of the bilge under the engine mounts now that it’s no longer flooded in rainwater, and to try and identify some of the rainwater leaks. I need to find the remnants of that tin of bilge paint I put in the garage, so I can order some more, too.

A side project (and one which has little or nothing to do with getting the boat back into the water) involves adding an Arduino board in an IP65 case, to monitor boat humidity, temperature, and to log every time the bilge pump switches on. I’d like to use this data to track how much water is getting in there, and what the temperature/humidity looks like, over time. I should also probably add a note to the stern of the boat to warn people that the pump operates automatically, and it’s possible they could be sprayed by cold and wet bilge water!

Departure Day

Wed, 07 Mar 2018 16:18:35 +0000

On Thursday, November 19th 2009, I flew from Dublin to Las Palmas, to join the Beneteau 40.7 sailing vessel “Beoga” on her voyage across the Atlantic.

Not really a sailing log, but almost a decate later, I can still remember the feeling of “departure day.” I had taken a job in Dublin with the IEDR, starting in late October (the 19th or 20th, if memory serves). I was initially staying in a little B&B around the corner from the old IEDR offices in Sandycove and normally I would drive up on a Sunday evening, park the car out front and walk to the office each day. On Friday evenings I’d return out West when work finished. The week before the 2009 ARC though, was different. I needed my car somewhere convenient for the month or so I’d be away. So, on Sunday, I drove to my sisters house in Ennis, where the rest of my family staged an impromptu “I can’t believe my brother is dumb enough to sail across the Atlantic” party. I left the car at her place, and they dropped me at Ennis train station, waving goodbye. Commuter train to Limerick City, another commuter train to “Limerick Junction”, and finally the Cork to Dublin express train. From Heuston, I made my way to the Dart and arrived at the B&B quite late. The landlady wasn’t at all happy being woken up (at what was probably no later than 10PM).

Anyway, Departure Day!

The Thursday morning, I went to the office for a half-day. Don’t ask me why, but I guess I felt a certain obligation to put in an appearance as I’d only been there for 4 or 5 weeks and was now about to disappear for longer than I’d worked there.

As I would be catching a flight to the Canaries later, and the boat was already provisioned with my clothing and sailing gear, I left a suitcase at the office and was wearing casual clothing, including my brand, new sailing jacket (a birthday present from my Mother).

It was a weird contrast, being in the office, in a sailing jacket. It’s that old dream of departing from the humdrum and finding adventure offshore. I’m sure we all share that dream in one form or another, and it’s not just me. I think it’s that which is what sticks with me. Those humdrum office days which seem to drag on, meeting after meeting, until you can escape, unhinged, for the evening. Only to repeat it the next day and the next week, until the saviour of a summer holiday, or of retirement in the grey distance. I think we all secretly daydream of walking out of the office door, waving goodbye to on and all, and taking up our new career as an organic farmer, professional sailor, work-from-home novelist, or whatever happens to tickle your fancy in between interminable meetings. Anyway, at the anointed hour, I waved my bemused co-workers goodbye, and caught the Patton Flyer to the airport.

Arriving in Las Palmas, I was met by Henry & company. They were all looking very tanned and relaxed. He drove us back to the boat, I stowed my sailing jacket, and we all went out for pizza and beer. In less than three days, we were going to sail a forty foot sailboat across an Ocean. The adventure begins!

Incidentally, I had helped deliver the boat from Galway to La Coruna wearing my old, battered sailing jacket. Hand-steering in the North Atlantic at night, through Biscay. Here I was, in warm Las Palmas, and it turned out, my sailing jacket wasn’t needed. Stowed below, such was the balmy weather in those latitudes. In fact, it stayed stowed on board until Beoga was delivered back to Galway, many months later. I still have it. It still looks like new!

Photo credit: Aaron Burden

Scratching Beneath The Surface

Wed, 25 Oct 2017 17:18:35 +0100

(Originally published in Medium)

Many years ago, before I actually found the time to learn how to sail, I had a large, framed picture in my office similar to the one above. It was a twenty-four foot sailboat, at anchor in a deserted cove with a morning mist adding a sense of serenity and peacefulness to the scene. I hung it in my office at work (back in the days when we had offices, and we weren’t piled up on top of each other in an open-plan dystopia). On those days when my work life seemed to be up to 11 on a scale of one to ten, I’d stop for a moment and stare at the picture. I’d sigh, and continue my endeavours.

I imagined that the occupants of the boat were just stirring, after a peaceful night under the stars. They’d have turned on the little gas stove and were patiently waiting for the kettle to boil, and the first brew of the day (always the nicest). After this imaginary breakfast, they might choose to sit in the cockpit and read, disturbed only by the sounds of birds going about their daily routine, or the sound of wavelets finding the nearby shore. Perhaps they’d planned to make sail, to haul up the anchor and head off into the mist, in search of yet another idyllic anchorage. I’d usually berate myself for working too hard, and once again promise myself that I’d learn to sail and some day, I too would own a boat like that, would sleep at anchor, and would sip coffee and read, without a care in the world.

Some years later, I learnt to sail in a 420 dinghy, imaginatively named for its length in centimetres. I graduated to bigger boats with keels, and have sailed into numerous coves and havens, both in fog and in sunshine. While the experience of sailing has lived up to all of my lofty expectations, and I have spent many a pleasant day and night at anchor and at sea, a strange thing happened when I once again looked at the picture of the sailboat. I started to notice some flaws. Firstly, I noticed that the boom was bare, like the boat in the above picture. When you drop the main sail, you flake it around the boom and cover it with a canvas sail cover which protects it from UV damage. Likewise, if you have a furling headsail, it is wrapped around the forestay (at the front of the boat) and has a protective strip stitched into the edge, or the leech. If you know you won’t be sailing for a while, you might decide to remove all of the sails and stow them down below. The particular boat in my picture had neither a main sail on the boom nor a furled head sail. With a sense of shock, my newly-trained eye realised that the boat was in fact unoccupied and swinging on a mooring buoy, not lying to anchor. There were other little telltale hints, telling me that the boat was deserted. Gone were the occupants awaiting their morning coffee. Gone was the thought of a morning spent reading or exploring, or afternoons of pleasant sail, punctuated by lazy anchorages.

The Royal Yachting Association once estimated that sailboats in the UK see about seven days of sailing a year. US statistics from 2013 show an average of ten boating days per year. The unfortunate truth is that most boats spend the vast bulk of their days in a marina or swinging around a mooring buoy, impatiently waiting for their owners to set them free, and into the wind. It’s a shame, and an unfortunate reality due to the length of the sailing season and the work week. But the biggest casualty from this re-evaluation, was the picture itself. Instead of evoking images of pleasant days at sail, it now reminded me of the number of boats which wait to be set free. Now I see a boat which possibly has her sails stuffed into a bag in one of the berths, mildew forming on the cold and damp surfaces down below, and a general sense of neglect. Of course, I’m sure this imagined doom is no more or less accurate than my initial one, but it is true to say, the picture no longer motivates me in any way.

The picture has given way to a picture of my own boat, sitting bows-to on a quay wall in Greece, fenders out, sail attached to the boom, towels drying on various surfaces, and the typical signs of life found on board an occupied boat. There’s no misty morning sunrise, but it does indeed bring back a flood of happy memories, and remind me that I need to get out of the office and back on board. The original picture is in the attic, somewhere. Sometimes, a little knowledge can indeed be a dangerous thing.

Photo credit: Yannick Pulver

Greece Summer 2017

Tue, 04 Jul 2017 14:19:42 +0100

This year, we flew to Greece on Saturday, June 17th. Due to Aer Lingus schedule changes, the flight to Corfu now arrives at 23:20 (Local). In other words, too late to make it to Igoumenitsa. We spent Saturday night in the Hotel Atlantis, and Sunday morning, took a ferry to “Iggy”. Picked up our Avis rent-a-car which we had for the duration of the two weeks, and drove to Vlicho to board Nikea.

When we passed through Lefkas, the usual supermarket was closed, so we decided to stay Sunday night in Vlicho. I’ll insert a strong recommendation here for “The Office” restaurant in Vlicho for both the cheapest food in Greece, but also some of the nicest. We generally try to get to visit at least once. The boat had been left on the launching dock for the yard, which was nice. Saved us having to search for the dinghy and row out to her. That is, apart from being woken at around 8:30 on Monday morning to tell us we had to get off there by 9AM. Our local guy said we should stern-to on his pontoon. As we’re backing up to the dock, Ruth took the lazy line and pulled on the end tied to the quay. I said “no, the other end….” To which she replied, “you mean this end?” as she lifted the working-end of the lazy line and the “weight” up off the bottom. The lazy line was attached to a 10kg paint can - not exactly going to keep the bow out to sea. We used the anchor instead!

After provisioning, we headed for Spartachori and a couple of relaxing days there. It is definitely our favourite spot. From there, we went to Kastos, but by the time we arrived, there was a strong cross wind and even the anchorage at the N end of the village was full. We tried to anchor with a line ashore, but it was just too densely-packed. We went outside the harbour to the little beach on the N, anchored in about 5m of water and then took the kedge anchor ashore. Even that anchorage was busy, and most didn’t bother with a second anchor so they swung around in the breeze. We, on the other hand, were snugly off the beach, alongside a trimaran in a similar configuration. We decided to try our luck with Fiscardo after that. We had to motor as the route from the bottom-end of Kastos to Cephalonia had the wind on the nose and I was concerned about spending a lot of time beating and arriving late. Fiscardo has a reputation (deserved) as a busy spot, so arriving late is not an option. The last time I was there (with Tim), we managed to find a stern-to berth, but no such luck this time. We anchored off the NE side of the harbour, along with a lot of other boats, and took lines ashore. There are rings fitted to the shore, but it’s rocky so we stood off quite a bit. I used the dinghy to re-lay the anchor twice, as I wasn’t happy with the amount of chain we had out as it’s quite deep and shoals quickly. That’s hard work, but there are worse ways of spending your time. We ended up putting out all the chain and rope, dropping that, and then pulling in the slack until there was chain on the gypsy again. We stayed an extra day, but Fiscardo while very quaint, is particularly expensive. We decided to get some washing done, and the woman told us she thought it might be two loads rather than one. It seemed like one to me, but what do I know? Indeed it was two loads, at a cost of 25 Euro each. Showers were very nice, but 5 euro each. It’s a nice place to visit, but it’s twice the price of the less-popular places.

Before we arrived on the boat, I had been warned that the heads were quite stiff. The “heads” being the primitive toilet facilities on a boat. So much so that the pump plunger unscrewed itself from the shaft. I had the unenviable job of disassembling the unit in Fiscardo (where the local chandler actually stocks a lot of Jabsco spares). No replacement parts were needed. The plunger is attached to the shaft with a Nyloc nut which had somehow managed to unscrew itself. My approach to heads maintenance was to leave Ruth and Ben on the shore, reading books and sheltering from the sun. I stocked up on supplies, including cleaning products and rubber gloves, and headed back to the boat. Not a particularly pleasant experience! Luckily, I had used the heads last, so if there was any “human detritus” still in the plumbing, it was my own. Scant consolation, I know. As with most of these kinds of jobs, preparation is key. I removed as much from the heads compartment as I could, which made access easier. After that, there was nothing to do but get stuck in. On completion, I bagged up the used paper towels and other by-products of the Jabsco maintenance, and put them in the dinghy. Then, it was time for yet another swim! I changed, returned to shore, dumped the rubbish and returned to the other two, who scarcely looked up from their books. My coffee was well-deserved, I thought. Hopefully that won’t be a regular maintenance task.

From Fiscardo we had a lovely sail up and around to Kioni, which was also busy. There is a new stern-to quay opposite the main quay, but there is a lot of ballasting. We dropped anchor and again took lines ashore. As we were tying up, boats slid in either side of us. One of which decided to drop their anchor close to ours, and made our fenders (and theirs) work particularly hard. In fact, as the breeze came up, they were quite tight in beside us, and putting extra strain on our anchor. I did think about asking them to tighten their windward stern line, but decided against it, as there were large rocks near their rudder. Anyway, they left early the next day. Again we decided to stay for a second day. That evening, we watched the pandemonium of large numbers of boats arriving in the late afternoon and trying to squeeze into tiny slots on the main quay. One large charter boat tried to tie up alongside the end of the quay (where the water hose is). In the process, they rammed into a local sailboat to that soul-crushing sound of crunching fibreglass. After being told they couldn’t stay there, they went for a small slot in much shallower water on the other end of the quay. They managed to pull up the anchor of one of the boats, before abandoning. At this point, I was zealously guarding the empty slot beside us. On cue, they came over and I (accurately) pointed out the large amount of ballast beside us, which would have made a mess of their rudder. Thankfully, they went further out the bay and anchored on top of a French boat, pulling out that anchor in the process, and dropping down on top of them. However, we weren’t to be spared. A large motorboat crewed by two gentlemen who may have been at their drinks locker a little early, decided they could fit in beside us. Despite our protestations, they anchored over us, and parked in on top of us, once again straining our anchor. They wandered ashore almost immediately, to continue their refreshments. This time, enough was enough and I went snorkelling to see what the anchor situation looked like. A mess, as you can imagine. They were on our port side, but their anchor was a good 20 metres over on our s’board side, and running on top of ours. On our way to dinner, we searched for them in the little village. We found them, told them they were too close to us, their anchor was over ours, and they would have to move it. We volunteered to help, but they insisted they didn’t need it. We went to dinner, at a restaurant conveniently chosen to see the boat. It took a bit before our intrepid sailors appeared back - presumably after they had finished their beers. As expected, rather than drop their lines, and use their twin engines and bow thruster to reposition themselves, they loosened their lines and reeled in their anchor, pulling themselves forward and lifted our anchor out of the bay while they were at it. From our vantage point, we could see their anchor coming up with ours in tow. We sprinted back to the boat, fired up the engine, and re-laid the anchor while they motored around the harbour to shouts of “not here!” from the other spectators, as they attempted to drop their anchor again, but this time over other boats in the bay. When they did drop, they were well clear of us, and we could return to our (cold) meal. They left early the next morning. We left a bit later on, deciding it was just a bit too crowded. Everyone screws up when anchoring stern-to, and I’m certainly no expert. But a little humility on their part would have gone a long way. Rather than blast into a crowded anchorage and cause mayhem while asserting their authority, they could have accepted our offer to help. I would have been happy to throw their anchor in the dinghy and re-set it for them, but no.

Our next destination was Port Atheni as we had booked a scuba dive and we needed to work our way back to Vlicho and the rental car. I particularly like Port Atheni, even though the amenities are pretty slim. We generally anchor on the NW side of the bay, tucked in W of the shallow part, with a couple of lines ashore. Like in other places, someone has been improving the shore facilities, and we found a few rocks with rope tied around them, making the stern line job a bit easier. Unfortunately at this point, I developed an infection so Ruth had to take a lift in an “air conditioned taxi” (which turned out to be the back of a moped) into the village, for antibiotics dispensed by the pharmacist. According to the locals, the island doctor is a bit “strange” so the pharmacist handles the workload. She said he was quite odd, so she was glad not to have met the doctor! We took a relaxing day of swimming and snorkelling in the clear and warm waters of Port Atheni, before moving on. The only down-side to Port Atheni is the large numbers of wasps which inhabit the island. Ruth showed us that she too has engineering skills, and fashioned a very effective wasp trap from an old water bottle. After Port Atheni, we returned to a very warm Vlicho. We stayed a couple of nights in a nice hotel on the E side of the bay while I recovered in the air-conditioned room. The other two went diving without me, while I caught up on my reading in the cool air. Friday morning, we cleaned up the boat, brought the laundry ashore, and headed for Corfu.

I re-affirmed my desire to spend far more time on the hook and less time wedged in like sardines. It’s not that I don’t love the charm of those harbours, but they generally fill up at around 3PM or in some cases, even earlier. My problem is that I’m not fond of schedules when I’m sailing, so there is a simple rule on the boat - we don’t leave until everyone is ready. I can’t imagine it’s much fun on those boats where they’re slipping their lines before 8AM and heading off to the next location. I prefer a leisurely breakfast in the cockpit, and maybe I’ll have that second cup of coffee! Usually someone will decide we can’t leave until they’ve had a morning swim. Also, I use that time to nip in to the nearest taverna for a Greek coffee and a chance to download the weather. The down side of all of that is it makes for a late departure. Which in turn makes for a late arrival at our next port of call. If that turns out to be busy, we have less sailing time, particularly if the wind is on the nose. Anchorages suit this perfectly, because you can arrive at a quiet anchorage at 4 or 5 in the afternoon or evening, and have a refreshing swim as soon as the boat is settled. Another advantage of an anchorage is the ability to go for an early morning swim straight off the back of the boat. One minute you’re snug in your berth, and seconds later, you’re in mid-air, about to splash into the not-yet-warm water!

Strangely, we didn’t use the gangplank once over the whole two weeks and we flew back to Dublin on July 1st. Until next year!

Bilge Pumps

Thu, 02 Mar 2017 16:55:53 +0000

Excuse the slightly blurred picture of a damp bilge, but I have been trying to figure out the best way of installing an automatic bilge pump into the Achilles. I want to put a small pump and an automatic float switch as far down into the bilge as possible. Ideally, I’d screw it into the fibreglass, but that’s not a good idea for a number of reasons. Using epoxy to mount the housing means that I’m stuck using the same type of pump and float forever, or else I have to try and unglue the pump mount to replace it. One possibility is to mount an L-shaped aluminium plate on the mini bulkhead (which is plywood) and then attach the pump and float to the aluminium plate.

As it stands, I’m favouring the Occam’s Razor approach which just involves gluing the pump mounts to the cabin sole. Eventually, I’d like to install an Arduino to sense when the pump operates (that’s why I’m using a separate pump and float rather than a combined unit). I might even have it send me a text message when the pump operates.

Cape Clear in the Mist

Thu, 11 Aug 2016 16:04:57 +0100

It is early August in Ireland, and the sea area forecast says this: “Fair in the south and east. Patchy rain, drizzle and fog elsewhere. More organised rain developing in the northwest tomorrow morning.” In other words, a typical Irish summer day.

I can remember the first time I sailed into the North Harbour of Cape Clear Island, in West Cork. I was on board Finesse, and we were delivering her to Ford Cork Week. Niall Quinn, owner and skipper, pointed out that you could easily miss the harbour when you approach from the West. It looks pretty obvious in the picture, but the harbour can’t be seen from the sea, and it’s only when you’re due North of the entrance that it reveals itself.

On that particular day, the sky was grey and cloudy, with light drizzle and I suppose fog and rain, somewhere. The typical Irish summer day. The cloud layer was so low, that as we slowly motored in to the quay wall, the top of the hill on the East side of the island (the photographers vantage point above) was obscured. The sea gave way to rock, which quickly gave way to heather, and it in turn was over-ruled by the mist. Beyond that, nothing.

It was the perfect kind of weather for tying up alongside, and either heading for the noise and warmth of a local pub and a creamy pint of Guinness, or stay below with a mug of tea and a good book. We chose the former.

I often think about that trip along the South coast and the sharp right turn in to the harbour. In contrast to island-hopping in the Ionian, the Irish coastline strikes a stronger sense of melancholy (although that’s not the right word for it). The islands in the Ionian Sea seem to leap up out of the azure water, stretching for that inky blue sky. On an overcast day off the West coast of Ireland, the islands seem to form a hesitant peace offering from the grey sea to the equally-grey sky. You feel like they might disappear if you look away. Or a new island might just spring up out of nowhere. Is it any wonder there are legends like Hybrasil.

Some islands, like The Stags near Baltimore, threaten all who pass by, while islands like Cape Clear hide their virtues. Others, like the Blaskets and the Skelligs, seem to beckon you closer. “Stay a while,” they say. “Bring your book.”

And on to Corfu...

Wed, 29 Jun 2016 17:29:40 +0100

We spent a few relaxing days enjoying the pool and the air conditioning in Nydri, before it came time to pick up the one-way rental car from Green Motion. The people in the Green Motion office in Nydri are always lovely, in contrast to the officious woman in the office in Igoumenitsa, who always seems to be trying to sell me additional insurance, or up-sell something or other. We pick up a car in Nydri or Igoumenitsa, and drive it, one-way to the other location. We have the car for an average of three hours, and they charge us €70 for the privilege. It’s a great service, but I’m really starting to wonder if Avis might not be a better option, to avoid the hidden costs.

We loaded up the car and went to examine Nikea. We were delighted to find that Rabbit’s fibreglass guy had indeed finished the hull, and what’s more, had done a fantastic job. I had wanted him to just repair the damage I had done, with a view to repairing all of the crazed gelcoat some day in the future. Obviously that message was lost in translation, and he repaired the entire transom. That made the quote of €500 more palatable. The transom looked like new. He had also painted it (probably because he couldn’t match the gelcoat colours, which is a tricky job). Overall, it looked like new, which is great. While I parted with a lot of cash (for the fibreglass, laundry, diesel and new dinghy), Ruth took to cleaning the deck and Ben went in search of his beloved kittens who live in the boat park. By the time she was done, the boat looked fantastic, ready for Mike.

By around 1PM, we were packed up and on the road to Igoumenitsa and the car ferry. We checked into our usual haunt in Corfu, which is the Hotel Atlantis, and went wandering through the old town. It is a labyrinth of narrow streets featuring interesting shops and tempting tavernas. We arrived back at the hotel fairly late, and watched Iceland beat England in Euro 2016. Not a good week for them, in fairness. The next morning, we flew out of Corfu airport and back to Dublin.

We’re now back at home, in the rain, and it almost seems like a vague dream. I will pick up the blog from the perspective of the Achilles, now that our annual trip to Nikea has concluded.

Stern-to in Sivota

Sat, 25 Jun 2016 16:42:55 +0100

We arrived in Sivota on Thursday, only to find that Stavros’s pontoon was full. Well, technically it wasn’t full at all, but it was booked out. I didn’t realise you could book a slot on the pontoon. We anchored in the middle of the bay for a bit, but the water was about 12 or 14 metres deep, which meant we dumped out a lot of the anchor chain (Tim says there’s 70 metres), which then meant we had a wide swing radius, and I wasn’t happy about it, as it’s a busy harbour. Apparently someone on the shore was shouting at us as we dropped the anchor, but I’m a man so I don’t do multitasking. I suspect they were either pointing out to us that they had an anchor down about 50 metres from where we were, or around 80 metres from where our anchor was. Either that, or they were politely letting us know we could have fit alongside them.

As it happened, after we had dropped the hook, an opening appeared on the South end of the quay wall, so we raised the anchor and backed into that. Literally. Ruth laid out chain while I backed up. A friendly sailor on the shore waited to take our stern line. We fit into the slot perfectly, and yer man brought our line through the ring. All good, so far. Unfortunately, due to the strong cross wind, I’d come in faster than the anchor could pay out (I generally use the anchor windless to pay out the chain rather than loosening the gypsy, as it gives me more control). The guy on shore was having a hard time holding us close to the very solid-looking quay wall. I asked Ruth to pay out a bit more anchor, and I reversed back a bit more. Astute readers will comment that if you have a line ashore and an anchor, you have no reason to use the engine, but the guy was struggling. Between the sudden relaxation of the anchor chain, him pulling on our stern line, and me reversing back, we pranged the quay wall. Unfortunately, as the person driving and the official skipper of the boat, it’s my fault. Much as I’d like to blame anyone or anything, from the guy on the shore, to “Brexit.” We tied up, tightened the anchor, and examined the damage. Nikea has a bathing platform at the stern, which is mounted to the transom by way of five solid posts. One of these had pushed through the gel coat and even the fibreglass. Another call to Rabbit, and the apprehension of a big bill.

With Mike coming out next week, we had to get it fixed up in time for his arrival. Rabbit called back and said his fibreglass guy would work on it Saturday or Sunday, and it would be repaired in time for Mike. Naturally, this meant returning to Vlicho yet again, so he could work on the transom.

We decided to head back to Vlicho as late as possible on Friday evening, and anchor off rather than tying up to the interminable barge, which seems to radiate heat.

In the meantime, it was off for a beer and a whine about boats and stern-to moorings. We went to Stavros’s place for dinner, because it really is a lovely place to eat. By then, the pontoon was full of boats. It’s part of a trend in the Ionian. Entrepreneurial taverna owners develop the foreshore for visiting yachts, in exchange for their custom. The Stavros pontoon has electricity and water. It’s very nice, and is maintained in excellent condition. However, once again, I noticed that one or two of the boats which were tied up on the pontoon, decided to either eat on board, or eat elsewhere. I saw one family walk right past Stavros’s taverna, completely ignoring the waiter who was on the street encouraging passers by to stop in. They didn’t even make eye contact with him. That was particularly annoying, seeing as we were actually eating in Stavros’s at the time, and had been refused a space on the pontoon in favour of these people who didn’t see the need to return the favour to Stavros. There is also a trend to install a pontoon and charge money for an overnight berth. If people continue to accept the hospitality of a pontoon berth without giving their custom to the people who paid for it, it won’t be long until free pontoons like Stavros’s, become a thing of the past.

The next day, we awoke to the sound of someone playing “Rule Britannia” very loudly. We found the mood in the area was quite subdued amongst the ex-pat British, notwithstanding the music-playing Brexiteer who hadn’t really considered how it might affect their residency. Later on, we went snorkelling along the South end of the village, and saw some interesting fish and underwater plants. At one point, Ruth started chatting to a British woman who said she’d voted “leave” by proxy. As Ruth explained that Dublin and Frankfurt would now fight over who got the prize of the international banks in London, the woman was shocked. It really seems like a lot of the “leave” voters didn’t really think through the consequences of all of this. All too soon, it was time to head back to Vlicho.

We arrived late in the evening, although it was still quite bright. We anchored on the East side of Vlicho bay, where the water is clear and the swimming is nice. The wind picked up during the night, and a lot of boats arrived under cover of darkness. Presumably because they found their previous “digs” were susceptible to the strong gusts. I awoke several times to the sound of strong squalls, sprinted up on deck to check the anchor, only to find it was well dug-in and we didn’t move so much as an inch.

This morning (Saturday), we tied up alongside the barge and went looking for Rabbit. We also decided that we couldn’t face another two nights of oven-like temperatures beside Takkis’s barge, so we booked a cheapie apartment in Nydri, and jumped ship. This suited Rabbit and his fibreglass guy, because they were able to work on the boat unhindered. The estimated repair was €450 to €500, which is a lot. The damage didn’t seem to warrant the expense, but the transom has taken a lot of prangs over the years, judging by the crazing on the gelcoat. As we are heading to Corfu on Monday afternoon, we packed up our things and spent a few hours cleaning the boat down below. We took a taxi to the apartment (with both a swimming pool for Ben, and air conditioning for Ruth and I), checked in, and relaxed.

Vlicho Reprise

Thu, 23 Jun 2016 08:07:02 +0100

Rabbit sent me a text on Tuesday morning. The dinghy guy wanted to talk turkey. So, we lifted anchor at Port Atheni and headed back to the boat harbour in Vlicho. We were somewhat sad to leave Atheni because we could jump off the boat and swim when it got too hot, and it’s certainly been hot. Vlicho offers no such remedies as the harbour is a working port and the water is murky. But we were looking forward to resolving the dinghy situation.

We had worked out a system for getting to the restaurant. We put towels, phones, money and a change of clothes into a gear bag. Then, Ruth and I would tow Ben on his large tyre, carrying the bag over his head. On the far shore, we would change out of our swimming gear into evening clothes, and walk the mile or so to the taverna. After dinner, we walked back amongst the cicadas, back to the boat. We repeated the procedure and climbed back on board.

In Vlicho, we tied up beside Takkis’s barge and were informed that the dinghy is beyond repair, it seems. It’s actually not that old. It came from Lidl or Aldi I seem to recall. It’s a B-Spliced model, which is new to me. I don’t doubt that it is beyond repair. When I had a go at fixing it, one of the other pads lifted away like a post-it note, from the sponson. The PVC glue was gone, probably everywhere. The dinghy guy sold us a 2.7m RIB for 300 euro plus our original dinghy. I have no doubt he’ll probably redo all of the glue on the old one and sell it to someone else. He’s welcome to it. I don’t doubt the work involved. The bad news is that the RIB won’t be ready until Saturday or Sunday. We are back to Corfu on Monday, so we won’t get much benefit from it. No matter. It’ll be ready when Mike gets here on Tuesday.

I managed to persuade Rabbit to part with a small, rigid hull dinghy which someone returned to him, while we were tied alongside. So, we have something. We spent yesterday unclogging the bilge and shower pumps, and cleaning the boat. Not nice work, even in cold weather. Tim had bought a spiffy, new water inlet deck fitting but didn’t have time to install it. I bought some sikaflex and new hose clamps, and went at it. The first job is to remove the old sikaflex, which is this rubbery compound used to create a watertight and flexible seal. That took about half an hour of prodding with a putty knife before the old deck fitting came away. I then spent some time cleaning the old sikaflex off the deck. Finally, after a quick wipe with some acetone, the deck was ready for the new fitting. Lo and behold, it’s smaller than the old one. I should have checked. I noted that both had three screws so I didn’t need to drill the fibreglass, but I never compared the circumferences. D’Oh!!!

The old deck fitting is actually for pumping out the waste water from the holding tank, but had been repurposed as a water inlet. Not the most assuring, to be sticking a fresh water hose down a deck fitting labelled “Waste.” Also, the screw on lid has never been secure. That means that some salt water may leak in to the fresh water tanks and also it’s a nuisance to remove.

So, choices available in the noon-day sun; re-install the old fitting, or install the new one and back-fill the larger hole. After much deliberation, I chose the latter. Rabbit appeared and made up some two part paste to fill the screw hole for the old fitting. However, it needed to dry before installing the new fitting. We decided to go ashore for some food and maybe a beer, given the unseasonable heat. We took the dinghy down to the village in Vlicho, and in the process of pouring petrol into the outboard, the filler cap fell off into the water. I had to hold my hand over the fuel tank as we motored across the bay. On return, it was either go looking for a filler cap for an old-ish Suzuki two-stroke, or get out the snorkel and mask. I went diving in the murky harbour water and found the cap! I dried it out, washed it in petrol, and put it back on.

We couldn’t wait to get away from the heat of the barge, so we dropped our lines and motored to the opposite side of the bay, where we spent the night on the hook. We treated ourselves to a nice meal in the exquisite “Seaside Restaurant” and took the dinghy back to the anchorage. The bulb for the mooring light is gone. It’s at the top of the mast, so someone is going to need to go climbing. Finding the boat in the dark was a little challenging, but fun all the same. Ben drove us back to the boat. He’s very natural in the dinghy. Some people hold on to whatever grabrail they can, with white knuckles. He sits on the sponson, relaxed and chilled out.

Today, I want to mount that deck fitting, haul the anchor and finally head for Sivota. Hopefully we won’t be back here until Sunday or Monday and we need to start cleaning the boat before driving back to Corfu.

Port Atheni at last.

Sun, 19 Jun 2016 13:13:17 +0100

The overall consensus on Kalamos wasn’t great. While it’s a favourite of mine, and Ruth was an instant fan of George’s Cafe, Ben didn’t like the heat or the lack of a beach. The nearest place to take a swim in Kalamos is the beach at the southern end of the village. It’s probably a 20 minute walk and the heat was intense. So, we decided to leave Kalamos this morning and head for the anchorage in Port Atheni. Actually as we left Kalamos, it was overcast and nowhere near as hot as yesterday, so we should have tried the beach. The wind picked up as we headed down between Kalamos and Kastos so we unfurled the headsail and tried our luck at sailing. The wind was very squirrelly and hard to predict. Big gusts and squalls blew right past, changing the wind direction sometimes by as much as 180 degrees. Eventually it switched off and we had to motor.

As we had decided to circumnavigate Kalamos, and approach the island of Meganisi from the South, we pulled in to Port Leone, but didn’t go ashore or even anchor off. Port Leone is an abandoned village. An earthquake in 1953 destroyed the towns only fresh water supply so the inhabitants decided to emigrate rather than rebuild. Villagers from Kalamos visit on Sundays to clean the church, which is in immaculate condition from the outside. The first time I came here, the anchor slowly dragged for about 100 yards while we were all swimming. I could see the long trail made by the tip of the anchor as it failed to make any purchase. It was a very calm day, and the light breeze was gently blowing the boat away from the shore. Since then, I’ve avoided it as an anchorage, but often motor in and take a look around. Rebecca and Hannah travelled with me last year, and they went ashore. There isn’t much to see, by all accounts.

We found lots of fluky wind down at the southern tip of Kalamos. We did some more sailing, but it was on the nose and we were too lazy to hoist the main, not to mention the squalls were pretty strong. We were getting about 50 or 60 degrees to the wind, and beat around the lower part of the island until the lumpy seas and ever lightening airs persuaded us start to the engine again, after perhaps an hour of between 1.8 knots and 0.3 knots.

Under anchor in Port Atheni, looking North

We arrived in Port Atheni at around 14:30, to find it quite busy. I thought about anchoring near the taverna but the inner bay was full. Anyway, the outer bay is nicer. There was some excitement getting the anchor down, seeing as there were boats all over the place, with anchors thither and yon. We found a spot, and reversed back toward the shore. The trick with taking a line ashore is that you often end up anchoring upwind, which is fun, to say the least. We reversed back into the wind, toward the shore. The prop walk decided to lead us close to another boat at anchor, so we had to drive forward and try again. Eventually we got the stern pretty close to the shore, and the choice was for Ruth to steer the boat slowly back on the anchor while I swam ashore with the long line, or vice versa. We decided on the latter, so off she went. We tied up around some sort of thorny olive tree, and hauled in some of the anchor chain. We are now snugly trapped between the forward anchor in about 10 metres of water, and a long line ashore to the tree.

Without the dinghy, we either have to eat on board or swim ashore and walk to the taverna. As we have scoffed most of the food already, and the bread is getting a little hard, I think we’ll be swimming to dinner. We have been discussing mechanisms for getting the technology to shore, and I’m not sure we have a waterproof bag on board, strangely enough. Ben has a rubber ring so we were thinking of floating him and a bag of stuff from the boat to the shore (and back). There’s also the bucket. I think the iPad will be staying on the boat. But my miserable Galaxy S5 is apparently waterproof. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if that thing sank to the bottom. For reasons I’ve never understood, the phone works OK in speaker-phone mode but not when held to your ear. Everyone complains that it sounds like I’m talking through a bucket of water. Oddly, it’s the same microphone, whether you’re on speaker-phone or talking normally. So, it’s a software bug in their noise cancelling algorithm. I’ve had the problem since I first got it, but thought it was bad coverage for the first few months, until I discovered the speaker-phone hack. Then I knew it was software, and it was too late to bring it back. This is my second Samsung and both were hugely disappointing in terms of quality.

Right now, we’re being serenaded by a large collection of cicadas. They are a strange species. Apparently they hatch either every 7 or 11 years. Both are prime numbers. Their mathematical disposition is to avoid being a food source for any other species. If they only appear every 7 or 11 years, no other species will evolve to eat them. Every so often, both the 7 year and 11 year variants hatch at the Same time. Apparently this year is one such year. They’re quite loud. But in a soothing, I feel like a nap kind of way. I have yet to see one, and must rely on Ruth’s description of what they look like.

Other boats at anchor in Port Atheni

We may head to Vlicho tomorrow or wait until Tuesday. It all depends on when the dinghy is ready. We can tie alongside Rabbit’s barge, but that isn’t much fun. Plus, the only nice place to swim in Vlicho bay is on the eastern side of the bay, and you need a dinghy to get there. We could also take a trip to Sivota, which is a stern-to mooring with a lazy line. These are nice kinds of decisions. Spending thirty minutes considering the merits and demerits of one place over the other, is a lovely way to pass the time.

Hot in Kalamos

Sat, 18 Jun 2016 12:51:03 +0100

We took Tim’s advice. We decided to go to Kalamos. The advantage of Port Atheni is you can swim off the boat. The disadvantage is that without a dinghy, you’re a bit isolated. Kalamos is stern-to. Today is the hottest day so far. It’s approximately 38 degrees with no wind. I was up early for a provisioning run, which involved the steep climb to the village of Spartochori, which boasts beautiful views and a hard climb. Not the best thing to do in the midday sun, so I was up early. We developed a slight issue with the holding tank, and created a toxic aroma in the vicinity. Holding tanks are de rigeur in Greece and a good idea, besides. The heads (toilets for you land lubbers) pumps into the holding tank, and when you’re suitably offshore, you can pump out the tank. It’s all a bit icky, but a necessary evil if you want a toilet on the boat. We haven’t really been using the heads as all the tavernas have showers and toilet facilities so there’s no need. However, as Morgan once explained to me, sometimes sea creatures like algae or plankton will get trapped in the inlet pipe, and die. In the heat, it will go off pretty quickly and when you do use the heads, you’re pumping in methane-rich sea water. That’s probably what happened, and it helped us to get out of Spartochori pretty quickly, both to open all the hatches, and also to avoid an embarrassing scene. While I was scaling Mount Spartochori, the other two ran for cover. They closed all the hatches and had breakfast at the Taverna. When I returned, we fired up the engine and made our hasty exit. Once offshore, we opened all the hatches, pumped out the holding tank and pumped in some treatment goo. The smell didn’t last very long, and it was nice to get away before 10AM.

We hugged the shore of Meganisi as we left, and a large, ugly motor cruiser came blazing past. There is no love lost between motor boaters and sailors. These people did nothing to help their cause. As we were close to the shore, we couldn’t keep far enough away from them. For their part, they were honking along at about 15 knots or higher, ploughing a dirty great big hole in the azure water. In the US, people like this are called “chequebook captains” although they spell it slightly differently. People who can afford the obnoxious boat and the huge fuel bills, but are too cheap to take any lessons or learn how to share the seas. They blitzed us with a one metre high bow wave, which I had to turn in to quite sharpish. The boat slammed over the unnecessary bow wave, and pushed a wall of water back along the hull. The hatches were all open, for the aforementioned reason, so we took about a bucketful of water down through the forward hatch. The idiot in the power boat was unaware or uninterested in the havoc he was creating, behind his stern. It is often amazing how little attention motorboat drivers pay to the huge bow waves they send through pristine harbours or quiet waterways. They are too busy showing off, it seems. Having said all that, there are some very experienced motor boat drivers and some idiot sailors too, but there are fewer barriers to owning a motorboat, so they go from land lubber to power boat owner without so much as an instruction manual. Oh well. No damage done. We introduced Ben to a few new swear words, and set about cleaning up.

The slight breeze on the water was on the stern, which meant there wasn’t enough to fill the sails and not enough to cool us off. The good news was that Kalamos was pretty empty (and very hot). My novice crew managed their first stern-to without any hassle at all. No raised voices, no hissy fits, all very calm and relaxed. I think the other two were calm and relaxed as well! George was as welcoming as ever. We tied off, put out the gangplank (it has a proper French title which I can never remember) to allow us to stroll ashore, and we put up the big tent-like thing over the boom. I’ve carried this on board every time I’ve been here, and it has annoyed me more than once as it clutters up the coachroof. We were glad of it today, though. The heat is quite oppressive and its only just after 2PM. We had three showers and are now relaxing in the shade with bottled water and Greek coffee.

The view from George's in Kalamos

Later on, we will wander in to the village, maybe go for a swim, and have dinner at George’s Cafe. We will see if we stay here tomorrow or continue on to Kastos or even Port Atheni. There are a few minor maintenance jobs to do, so a day here would suit, provided it’s not too hot.

Plan "B"

Fri, 17 Jun 2016 14:31:40 +0100

We arrived in Vlicho safe and sound on Tuesday. We provisioned the boat, returned the rental car and went for dinner in Nydri. The next morning, we had to collect the laundry for the boat (which was supposed to have been delivered before we arrived, but no matter, we managed). We filled the water tanks and prepared to get under way when I noticed that the wooden transom on the inflatable dinghy had separated from the sponson (the inflatable tube). I checked with the local chandlery but they didn’t have the right adhesive. I knew Nydri Marine would stock it, but I’d need the dinghy to get there. Catch 22!

I set about glueing it myself using the tiny tube of adhesive they give you in the repair kit, but to no avail. I had no confidence that it would hold, particularly as it supports the engine and transmits the engine thrust into the hull. “Rabbit,” our boat minder in Vlicho, told me his dinghy guy would be arriving that day and he was an expert in all things PVC. I decided to leave the borked dinghy with him and to head off. I was sick of Vlicho and being tied up beside Rabbits barge, which is a sunken tanker of some sort. Getting from the boat to the shore is a bit like walking through a rusty mine field. We high-tailed it to Spartochori, which is a favourite gunkhole of mine. Hardly a hardship, to be honest.

Spartochori has a quay wall at the South end of the cove, beside the Taverna Spilia. It’s a bows-to quay with a lazy line. In other words, no dinghy required. We tied up, went for a swim, and I had a refreshing Mythos or two. As Rabbit had informed us that the PVC expert wouldn’t get to see the boat until Thursday, and he’d text us when the boat was ready, we hung around the next day. Around noon, we decided that even if the dinghy was ready, we weren’t that interested in a late departure, and anyway, Spartochori is lovely. Decision made. We’d head back to Vlicho to collect the dinghy on Friday morning (today). Another day of lazing around, swimming, eating and of course a Mythos or two.

This morning, having still not heard from Rabbit, or found out about the dinghy, I sent him another text. Only to discover that “the work is a bit more involved than they thought” and the dinghy won’t be ready until Monday.

We’ve already been here quite a while, but another three days would be too much. While we could nip across to Nydri and stern-to on that quay, it’s not that nice an area. It’s a bit too touristy for my taste. I don’t want to go too far, because we have to come back to Vlicho. My original (vague) plan was to go to Port Atheni around the corner, and stay on the hook for a day or two. But without a dinghy, that’s a bit of a hardship. I think we’ll stay today anyway, as Ben met some kids from a neighbouring Irish boat and has spent the morning in a prolonged water battle, to the mild annoyance of the Norwegian boat beside us.

So, another day in Spartochori. Tonight we will re-provision the boat and fill the water tanks. Tomorrow morning we will head to Port Atheni anyway, and if we want to go ashore, we will have to swim. ‘Tis far from inflatable dinghies with outboard engines we were raised! Mind you, if it seems like hard work to swim ashore for dinner, we will eat on board.

We will review the situation on Sunday. If it turns out to be too challenging to stay at anchor in Port Atheni, we might nip in to Nydri for Sunday night, if we can find space on the quay. Then again we could tie up beside Rabbit’s barge again or see if we can borrow a dinghy and anchor in Vlicho bay. Given the choice, I’d prefer to stay on the hook in Atheni as Vlicho bay always seems a bit too murky for me, and I love being able to swim off the boat in the morning, while lying at anchor. Decisions, decisions.

Travel Day

Tue, 14 Jun 2016 17:06:08 +0100

I’m cheating. I admit it. Today (which is actually tomorrow), we’re travelling to Corfu and on to Nikea, who is in Vlicho. As we’ll be travelling for most of the day, I’m cheating by writing this blog post the day before. Yes, it’s true, it’s actually still Monday evening as I write this.

We have a flight at 06:15 out of Dublin. Yes, that’s AM. From there we’re off to Corfu. It’ll be late before we get to Nydri and the boat, as I mentioned in an earlier post.

If there’s one thing to put the fear of some sort of deity or another into you, it’s the thought of stern-to mooring, with a cross-wind, in a busy harbour. There are countless Youtube videos which cover the ins and outs of it, and here are a couple of my favourites:

My worst experiences have been in Kalamos. There are two reasons for this. Firstly, by the time I usually arrive, the quay wall is pretty busy. Secondly, the wind seems to swing around from the North or thereabouts, to form a nice, strong cross-wind. This usually happens just when I’m driving into the harbour. Of course, there’s usually a large audience as well, to make matters worse.

George, the unofficial harbour-master, likes to pack in the boats, and sometimes when you pop out like a cork the next morning, you leave behind a space which wouldn’t fit a dinghy. You’ll generally find you’ve either fouled someone else’s anchor, or they’ve fouled yours. Either way, there is plenty to do in Kalamos.

On one trip, there was quite a lot of room (which is unusual), and a strong cross-wind. I reversed back at a good clip, so as to stay upwind of the neighbouring boat (where George had decided I should moor alongside). The prop-walk on Nikea is quite severe, and she will crab significantly to starboard. On this particular day, I had the tiller all the way over to starboard, to bring the boat down alongside my neighbour (on the port side) but she still managed to work her way upwind. I could have eased off and allowed the wind to drop us down, but I was paranoid about dropping down too much and not being able to work back upwind. We ended up about three “slots” higher than where we were supposed to go, and George had to warp us back.

On another occasion, we were coming back fairly fast, again due to the cross-wind, when I instructed the person on the anchor to stop laying out chain. We stopped abruptly and yawed through about 50 or 60 degrees, managing to come over the anchor chain of our nearest neighbour. They were pretty nice about it though. Turns out they’d arrived earlier than anyone, and their anchor line wasn’t quite perpendicular to the quay wall, which meant the rest of us managed to lay our anchors over their chain. It wasn’t quite obvious as I was coming in, but when we were against the quay wall, it was pretty obvious that the line of our anchor chains was not parallel. We waited as long as we could, the next day, until most other boats had left and had sorted out their own anchor tribulations, before we left. Amazingly, we had an easy exit.

Ultimately the problem with stern-to mooring, is that most of us do it a handful of times, once a year. It’s like climbing into the cab of an articulated truck, and trying to double-park. If you do it four times a day, every day, you probably get pretty good at it. If you do it a few times a year, well, it’ll be a challenge.

Some places are pretty easy to moor. One of these is Spartochori. It’s too shallow to bring the stern that close to the shore without damaging the rudder, so we moor bows-to. They also have a lazy line system, so there’s no need to drop the anchor. In fact, I’ve moored here single-handed. I came in, found a spot, drifted around while I dropped the fenders out and arranged the lines, and then drove Nikea into the chosen slot. Thankfully there are always people around, particularly the staff at the local taverna, who will take your lines, feed them through metal hoops on the quay wall, and hand them back. This makes life much easier.

Also, there’s always the beauty of an anchorage. You can find a space to yourself, drop a lot of chain out and for extra protection, take a line ashore. This helps to keep the boat pointing in the same direction, so there’s no risk of the anchor being pulled out if the boat swings through 180 degrees and pulls the anchor from the opposite direction. The other nice thing about anchorages is that you can swim off the boat. Once I’m happy that the anchor is set, my next step is to dive off the boat and cool off, as soon as I can. The down side is you need to take the dinghy ashore, usually. Although, there was one time in Marina Cay in the British Virgin Islands, when we all swam ashore, but that’s a story for another day.

Homelessness versus Poverty

Mon, 13 Jun 2016 13:55:21 +0100

Here’s something I wrote last year, after arriving in Greece from Vancouver.

So… Here I am in Greece, again. The poorest country in Europe, apparently. I don’t know. All I know is the people are incredibly friendly, and I had dinner and wine last night for €8. Last week I was in the Down Town East Side of Vancouver and €8 might get you a hint of wine. Besides all the beautiful people taking selfies, the buzz of urban life, and the lovely aromas of food, the homeless situation in Vancouver is at breaking point.

One evening, I skipped the conference madness and free bars, and sat on the street. I was struck by the number of well-dressed people, coming and going, to and from the night life that is down town Vancouver. I saw more wealthy abandon (recorded live for others) than I could shake a Selfie Stick at.

It was in the midst of this, that I saw probably the most desperate thing I have ever had to witness. A woman passed me by, rifling through the bins, looking for plastic bottles (a form of currency, apparently). She found a couple of bottles, admonished herself for some unseen behaviour, and walked past me. What struck me the most, what rocked me to the bone, was that she was emaciated. I’ve seen beggars in London, Paris, Dublin, San Francisco and Galway. I recently saw someone take a break from begging in Galway, to take out her Smartphone and call a friend. I don’t want to judge, but hunger takes precedence over call credit.

I’ve never seen anyone that thin.

This woman in Vancouver (and I’m ashamed to say I don’t know her name) was skeletal. She spoke mostly to herself, which is just as well, because all the beautiful people ignored her. Along with the guy whose sign said “HIV+ and Hungry.” They were ghosts in our midst.

This woman wasn’t begging for money, she was crying. Crying for food. That’s all she wanted. I gave her the change in my pocket, which was probably a few Canadian dollars. I could have given her more, and I still regret that I didn’t. A few Canadian dollars won’t buy you a tea. I could afford it, and I wish I could roll back the clock and give her enough for a proper meal. It would have made no difference to me.

I couldn’t think straight. I went back to the hotel with the other lovelies, and I looked up homeless in Vancouver over a glass of Pinot Grigot. I discovered that they had decided to close the local mental institution, with an occupancy in the region of 6,700. The plan was to sell off the land, and use the money for mental health programmes. Today, the population has been reduced to 600 people. So, 6,100 people have been given a “clean bill of health” in order to free up space. Is it just me, or is this the most absurd thing you have ever heard of? These people now occupy the streets of the Down Town East Side. Homeless, hungry, and mentally ill.

I don’t want to point a finger at Vancouver. I know they do their best. The same is true in Dublin, London, and everywhere else. But here I am, in Vlicho. In Greece. With debts to the EU which are beyond comprehension. I see a proud people, pushed to the brink by institutionalised investors. What I don’t see are ghosts in my midst. What I don’t see are mentally ill people begging for food.

I am amongst the richest people on earth.

Scheduling Hell

Fri, 10 Jun 2016 16:25:55 +0100

Having been involved in sailing for around a quarter-century at this point (and still learning), I have discovered some interesting facets about the activity which aren’t necessarily documented in the numerous books on sailing.

The first and most important quirk about sailing, is that it hates a schedule. If you’re like me, your life is divided up into little chunks of time. Each one calling on us to perform a specific function at a specific date and time. I know I’ve written about the free feeling you get when released from schedules, but it actually goes further than that.

Living in Ireland, means that we can have all four seasons in one day. People are often amazed by this, and assume it’s some sort of Irish hyperbole, but it’s true. What this means is its very hard to plan things too far into the future. I have often decided to spend a weekend pottering around Galway Bay, perhaps visiting Ballyvaghan or Barna, and possibly spending the night on the hook. Then, reality sets in as wake up on Saturday morning and check the sea area forecast, only to find that a multitude of storms, gales, and other malcontents, are imminent. So, my mind turns to other pursuits, which aren’t dependent on the weather.

Conversely, I can find I have plans to visit friends, or drive somewhere on a particular weekend, only to find that the weather conditions are perfect for an afternoon of sailing, and I’m constrained by other plans. Or, more often, it’s because I’m at work, looking out over a pristine Galway Bay, blue skies and fair winds.

While that’s annoying, I’ve found that the other schedule interference, is much worse. That’s the type which gets in the way while you’re actually sailing. Most often, it manifests itself as a desire to get from A to B, because the boat has to be in “B” by some looming date. So, you throw caution to the wind and depart when your more-reserved self might wait a day or two, for a better weather window. This often happens when chartering for a week, I find. You’re five days in and the boat needs to be back at base by the following evening, and there’s a lot of uphill (or upwind) sailing to do, to get there.

Sometimes it happens because you have crew on board and they need to depart from a specific location. Or else, you need to be somewhere to pick them up. Either way, it’s one of my least-favourite things.

When I’m sailing in Greece (next week!), I have two important rules on board. The first is, that we don’t leave until everyone is ready. That seems obvious, but I’m shocked by the number of times I’ve been on board someone else’s boat, and they’re rousting everyone up at 06:00 for some ungodly reason. Sure, maybe you need to catch the tide, but usually it’s for some vague reason about wanting to be somewhere in time for something or other, which never strikes me as that important. The second is that we don’t decide on where we’re going next, until we’ve had breakfast on the day. It is one of the great freedoms when sailing, to be able to say; “it’s nice here, let’s stay another day…”

You can’t do that if you have booked into a hotel, or you’re following some sort of schedule. Likewise, if the great anchorage you’d planned to spend a few days in, turns out to be overcrowded, hot, or just plain uninteresting, you can decide to sling your hook early, and go somewhere else.

It’s funny though, that first rule is often misinterpreted. A few of us chartered a boat in Kinsale some years back. We spent the night on a visitors mooring in delightful Glandore. Morgan and I were up early, sitting in the cockpit and drinking coffee. We decided to head out, not for any schedule reason, but because it was a lovely morning and we felt like it. We fired up the engine to get us out of the bay, and dropped the mooring. Within minutes, a few tired-looking, half-dressed crew appeared in the companionway, ready to pitch in. Had we needed them, we’d have waited for them to get up and have a leisurely breakfast (as per Rule #1). But Morgan and I could handle the boat on our own, and it’s actually fun to lie in your berth, snug and warm, as the boat starts to head out. Instead, everyone down below assumed they were needed and rushed to help out. Too late! Their beauty sleep was disturbed, and our tranquil two-handed cruise out of the estuary, was gone.

The Ionian Mission

Tue, 07 Jun 2016 14:31:44 +0100

In less than a week, we fly (once again) to Corfu. As Tim documented on his own blog, the usual route from Ireland to Nydri (where Nikea lives) is via Corfu. Aer Lingus fly around once or twice a week from Dublin to Corfu. From there, a quick taxi ride from the airport brings you to the sea port in Kerkira (or Corfu town), where ferries leave for Igoumenitsa on the Greek mainland about every thirty minutes. From there, it’s either a taxi or a one-way car rental to Nydri and on to Vlicho. All in all, it’s something of a long day, with an early flight out of Dublin (and a two hour time difference). The flight departs at around 6AM Irish (Summer) time, and we’ll arrive at the boat, around 5PM (Greek time).

Of course, who notices all that travelling when your destination is a sailboat in the Ionian Sea?

We usually stop for provisions in Lefkada, which is the main town on the Lefkas peninsula. Generally, we don’t tend to eat dinner on board, so it’s breakfast and lunch supplies, along with a lot of frozen water, wine and beer. I know, I know, most people refer to “frozen water” as ice, but it’s not ice in the chunked or cubed sense. They take two litre bottles of water and freeze them. I think that’s pretty amazing, seeing as I (and others who will remain nameless!) have a habit of forgetting that I stuck a bottle of white wine into the freezer, and remembering two days later when there’s a cork firmly embedded in something and the freezer is covered in frozen wine. The water bottles seem to be designed to be able to take the expansion. For the physics-challenged, ice has a lower density to water, which is why icebergs float. It also means that the same mass of water will occupy more volume, thus forcing the cork out of the wine bottle, or bursting the plastic water bottle. The great thing about frozen bottles of water is they bring down the temperature of the fridge, fairly quickly. They also help it to stay cold.

We’ll spend the first night on board, and probably visit The Office, which is a lovely and unassuming restaurant close to where the boat is berthed. Wednesday, we’ll make the short trip to Spartochori. From there, who knows? I’m already looking forward to a swim in the bay of Spartochori, which is on the Northern end of Meganisi. Not to mention the nice village at the top of the hill, the restaurant right on the water, or the cocktail bar right next door.

Unleash the Power of Trello

Mon, 30 May 2016 12:31:15 +0100

In this part of the world, unless your boat is kept in a marina, your insurance becomes invalid from the 1st of November until the 31st of March unless the boat is lifted out of the water and stored on dry land. Seeing as we don’t actually have the kind of climate which makes sailing an appealing pastime during that five month window, it’s a reasonable compromise. It means that you work on the boat during the cold and dark winter months, while dreaming of the promise of a warm summer, playful breezes, and seven months of almost-constant sailing. That the reality is far-removed from this idyll is a topic for another day.

At the start of each sailing year, I would write down all of the jobs I wanted to get done prior to launch. Invariably, as the weeks and months roll on and the magical launch date of April 1st (no doubt that date was chosen by the insurance companies with no amount of mirth) draws ever closer, the list gets altered. You see, it’s not a simple TODO list. There is a list entitled “Jobs To Be Done In Order To Launch” and a list euphemistically entitled “Jobs To Be Done After Launch.” This is boat-speak for “Jobs Which Won’t Get Done At All, Ever!”

Some years back, I was struggling as usual with the winter TODO list for launching the Achilles (“Into the Mystic”). Every Saturday, I’d load up the car with tools (usually forgetting the important gizmo needed to do a particular job), drive to the sailing club, unload the car and begin working. Battered and bruised by the time the evening drew in, I’d load up the car boot, and make my way home, like some demented Hunchback of Notre Dame, bent-over in agony, flecked with paint and the dreaded Sikaflex.

However, when I’d look at the TODO list, I’d realise I was no closer to launching. The list looked interminable. Season after season, the boat would get launched later than hoped. The last few weekends would be a blur of activity, and yet the number of tasks which went from the BEFORE LAUNCH list to the AFTER LAUNCH list grew and grew.

To some extent, this was because I needed to add new jobs as I worked on the list. You work on the task of reconnecting the house battery cables, and discover that the connectors are corroded. New item: Replace battery connectors on house batteries. That kind of thing.

But it was more than that.

Eventually, I started documenting my day on board the boat. I made a new list; this one listed each of the jobs I’d done that day. Surprise, surprise, the correlation between the work I’d done and the actual work which I needed to do, was quite small. Yes, installing new speakers for the CD player is a vaguely important task, but it’s not standing in the way of launching the boat, so any time spent performing that task is time taken away from “real work.”

It was the discipline of avoiding new (and largely irrelevant) tasks, and focusing on those key tasks on the TODO list. Enter Trello. This website/app is free, and it allows you to manage tasks and boards, and stay on top of the TODO list. The single-greatest advantage is how easy it is to use. That, and the fact it is supported on a wide variety of platforms.

From the above, you can see a snapshot of what’s ahead of me. As you can also see, I’ve divided up the TODO list into those jobs which can be done in an hour or so when I come home from work, and those which will require a much bigger time commitment. I also have a backlog, which is where those tasks live, which aren’t interesting right now. I have a shopping list, a done list, a post-launch list, and an “interesting, but not this year…” list. As Trello is also available as an app for Android and iOS, I often find I can manage the list when I’m waiting for someone, or I have a spare few minutes. I can rearrange items (or “cards” in Trello parlance), add notes to the cards, add new cards, and so on. Then, when I’m actually working on the boat, I can focus just on the highest priority tasks (those at the top of the board).

From the above example, I can see that I could measure the area for the Atmel board (more on that, anon). That won’t take very long, and I can immediately move it to the “done” list, and enjoy that self-satisfied feeling that I just moved one more step towards launching the boat. In actual fact, I won’t be doing that this evening, as I’ve already moved that particular task to the “do later” list, because it’s not important for launching the boat. I did that re-assessment while waiting for the kettle to boil.

Now, if only Trello would actually do the work…

Sea Fever

Fri, 27 May 2016 20:00:44 +0100

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

By JOHN MASEFIELD

Say Hello to Nikea

Thu, 26 May 2016 19:35:18 +0100

Now would be a good time to introduce “Nikea,” a Beneteau First 345. While Irish-registered, she has spent her life in the sheltered Ionian Sea, “gunk-holing” from island to island. I co-own the boat with a small consortium of friends. We take it in turns to spend time with her, going from island to island, port to port and anchorage to anchorage.

One of my favourite places is the island of Meganisi. I like the anchorage at the North-East corner, in a place called Port Atheni. I am also very drawn to the village of Spartochori and the delightful quayside “bows-to” berths on the southern-end of the bay.

Stern-to mooring is an acquired skill, and it’s hard to acquire the skill if you’re only doing it a handful of times a year. Of course, a secret ambition might be to live on a similar boat and spend my days practising bows-to and stern-to mooring.

Nikea is of 1980’s vintage, and in relatively good shape. There is a lot to be said for co-ownership, especially when the boat is in foreign waters, away from regular use. All costs are evenly distributed between the consortium members, which makes for a smaller maintenance bill each year, but also allows us to have certain freedoms which aren’t generally available when you have to pay all of the upkeep costs yourself. In particular, the gruesome task of antifouling is usually performed by the yard who manage and babysit the boat when we’re not there. Arriving down to a pontoon to jump on board a boat with fresh laundry, newly antifouled and launched, cannot be over-stated. It’s the closest thing to actually chartering a boat, without the horrendous expense of a charter.

I joined the consortium in 2014, and managed to spend almost four weeks on board, that summer. Last year, I managed around 18 days of pleasant sailing and beautiful anchorages. This year, I may only spend two weeks on board, but more about that, later.

Corrupting the Mind

Wed, 25 May 2016 18:36:43 +0100

In late September of 2009, a small group of us departed the Port of Galway at around 9PM on a Friday evening on board Beoga, a Beneteau 40.7. We were on our way to La Coruna on the North-Western tip of Spain. Our ultimate destination was Gran Canaria in the Canary Islands. Well, our ultimate-ultimate destination was the Caribbean via the ARC or Atlantic Rally for Cruisers.

Much has been written about the ARC, and it is definitely the easiest way to get from Europe to the Americas, although I think the “cruise in company” bit is a bit over-stated, seeing as we saw scant other craft once we were a few days out. People will tell you that the sunsets and sunrises on board are unbelievably fantastic, and they’d be right. Others will tell you about the magnificent night sky, with absolutely no light pollution.

However, living in the West of Ireland gives us some fantastic sunsets, and the occasional sunrise of note. Also, as I live a long way from the city centre, light pollution is less of an issue for me, and I’m often blown away by the sheer intensity of the Milky Way. So I don’t need to sail thousands of miles in a relatively small boat, across a vast expansion of ocean, in order to see sights like that.

What nobody told me though, was the exhilaration of being free from schedules. I don’t mean schedules like “at 15:00 hours, you’ll take the helm.” Those are hard to avoid, and not all that taxing, anyway. I’m talking about the schedules where your Google calendar is burdened with large blotches of colour. Where your waking minutes are evenly divided between meetings, conference calls, appointments, and all manner of diversions.

When you need to cover 2,500 miles and you’re averaging around 5 or 6 knots, you don’t seem to move very far on the Admiralty Chart every hour. So the trick is to stop looking at the thing. Also, weather forecasts are pretty good for three days, maybe even five days. But seeing as you’re going to be sailing for between two and four weeks, it’s impossible to have any prediction about the weather you can expect. So you can’t predict how long it’ll take. It’s impossible to say to someone “we’ll be there on the 28th.” In our case, it took us sixteen and a half days. But that’s mostly a function of wind patterns.

What I found was that we settled in to a daily routine. Breakfast in the cockpit, some time between 8 and 9 or even 10AM. Then a couple of hours to repair whatever had broken in the previous 24 hours. After that, lunch and some reading perhaps, or a conversation with some of the others on board. Maybe a nap? As sunset in that part of the world is pretty early, relative to those of us who live at high latitudes, the sea would get dark at around 19:00 or 20:00 (7 or 8PM). For the first few days, everyone stayed up on deck until well into the evening. Probably as late as 9PM. However, once we’d become used to the boat and the early sunsets, most people would disappear below to catch some shut-eye at 19:00 or 20:00. Especially those who has a two hour watch some time during the night.

We are so accustomed to our modern conveniences. When it gets dark, we turn on a light. While we had the same facilities on the boat, we tended to avoid turning on the lights down below because people were probably sleeping and anyway, it wastes power and serves no useful purpose. You could read until the light faded out, and then you would naturally close the book, to be resumed the next day. Your body found a rhythm which matched the boat and the environment. We got up with the sun, and we went to bed when it set on the horizon.

But the schedule freedom was a surprise. It is safe to say, it was the first time in working memory that I’d lived “in the moment.” I wasn’t skipping through the here and now to get to my next appointment. I wasn’t focusing my thoughts on tomorrow or what I had to do next week. Yesterday was a distant memory, and tomorrow was a whole new day.

I’ll write about the Caribbean again later on, but it’s safe to say I found the whole experience of sailing across the Atlantic Ocean to be life-changing.

The Sad Saga of the Yanmar

Tue, 24 May 2016 16:59:09 +0100

Galway, Ireland. “Into the Mystic” has a very solid, very reliable but very noisy engine. She boasts an inboard diesel engine, manufactured by Yanmar. It’s a 1GM10 for those familiar with the breed. In all its years of service, it never gave so much as a hint of trouble, and started almost immediately, except for those days when the battery was flat. At that, the engine would usually start after about 30 or 45 seconds of breathless hand-cranking.

In 2010 I was disgusted to find that the engine had seized up. Even though I had winterised the engine in late 2007, the exhaust muffler was filled with salt water, and the moist air made its way back into the cylinder via the exhaust valve.

I arranged a makeshift crane assembly and attached it to the side of the house. Amusingly, during the scant few hours that the jury-rigged crane was attached, Google Streetview wandered by. For those who know where I live, the the streetview of my house includes the strange crane attachment. I hope they come back soon, and take another image!

I managed to rebuild the engine by honing the cylinder wall, and replacing the piston rings. I also replaced the valves and had the valve seats ground down by a specialist engine facility in Dublin. However, even with all of that, I couldn’t get any kind of compression in the engine, and I was forced to give up.

The engine sat balefully in my garage, for a few years and in March of 2014, I brought the engine to the local Engine Guy (Fergus at Marine World) who managed to discover a few additional issues, including two bent valves (new!). It was great to hear the thing fire into life again, even if it sounds suspiciously like a cement mixer.

As the engine mounts have also corroded in the intervening years, I now need to install four new engine mounts and the re-assemble the jury-rigged crane so I can lift the engine back into the boat. I’m in no rush to do this, as it is warm and dry in my garage, so the installation will have to wait for a few other tasks before I’m ready to drop it back in.

Magic, by any other name

Tue, 24 May 2016 16:24:44 +0100

As you can see from the above image, the hull had developed a lot of dirt and mould while exposed to the elements outside the house. The first priority was to hire a couple of contractors to power-hose the deck, sand back the antifoul and generally restore some sort of life to the paint job.

They told me the name of the weird concoction they used - I should have written it down. I think it’s called Roklore but Google thinks otherwise. Apparently painters use it to clean pebble-dash from the outside of houses, prior to painting. If you know, leave a comment… Please!

Whatever it is, it’s effective. I don’t have a recent photograph of the deck, but I will add one so you can see the transformation. It’s quite awe-inspiring. The deck and hull look like new.

Happier Times

Mon, 23 May 2016 18:03:46 +0100

My old man once said (and he wasn’t the first, by any means) that the two happiest times in your life are the day you buy the boat, and the day you sell it. The dream of a life afloat is replaced by the scourge of boat ownership, and that dreaded sense of indebtedness which accompanies it.

Like most kids, I obviously didn’t listen to my father and I now own (or co-own) three boats (for simplicity sake, I’m ruling out anything with a waterline length less than 3 metres).

I bought the Achilles 24 in 1999, and sailed her for the first few years out of Galway Bay Sailing Club. After that, life got in the way and the last time she saw sea water under her keel was in 2007. That same year, after spending a winter doing the usual sanding, varnishing, anti-fouling and generally looking after the boat, she sat on her mooring for most of the summer while I faffed about in OPB (“Other People’s Boats”), including a charter of a 47 foot Jeanneau in Croatia.

When I recovered the boat and returned her to the side of the house, I started thinking in earnest about the second happy day which I felt was finally due. However, buying a boat is a lot easier than selling one, as we all know. Half-hearted attempts to sell, were equally met with half-hearted attempts by others, to buy the boat.

After sitting idle for far too long, I decided in late 2014 that she needed to see the sea once again, and as a good friend said to me;

Sail the boat you have, not the boat you want

I took to Trello and began the arduous task of making lists of things which needed to be fixed. I started the process in earnest last year (2015), but for one reason or another, she didn’t make it into the water. I am continuing to breathe life into this beautiful little boat and I will document the various steps involved in bringing her back to the water, as well as some of my other exploits on board sailboats. My own, and others.