Zen and the Art of Boat Maintenance

After graduating college, I set off on a cross-country road trip with my girlfriend at the time. It was my second trip across the United States by car and came at a time when life was presenting a lot of big questions.

...

One point which stands out is the book I was reading throughout, Robert M. Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. A book focused deeply on the philosophical meaning of "Quality," with a backstory featuring the narrator taking a motorcycle trip from Montana to the Pacific Ocean with a good friend. The title is drawn from a comparison he makes between the decisions he and his riding partner take when it comes to maintaining their respective vehicles. The latter rides a BMW, the soul of which is strict uniformity and kind of engineering not intended for alteration. He sticks to inspections by professionals and does none of the work himself. The author rides a Harley Davidson, which embodies the ideals of the constant tinkerer. He talks about the great pleasure in keeping on top of every detail of his bike personally, and how the very act of maintaining the vehicle is reflected by a sense of empowerment and reciprocal impulse to keep the rest of his life in order.

The moral of the story arrives when his friend has a minor breakdown and has neither the spare parts nor necessary experience to do anything about it. The author is able to help them reach a nearby town with the handful of tools he brought with him, and after a couple days' delay they are eventually able to continue on their way.

Speaking for myself, I've always been the friend in this story. I never known the first thing about engines or servicing them. I've never had any interest in learning and relied almost entirely on the advice of my father. I at least made sure to get the oil changed regularly but never did it myself. In my own defense, I could appreciate the author's ideals in regards to maintaining the machine, but got my sense of accomplishment from working intimately with computers and technology instead of motors. I always felt I spent too much time fixing problems and making custom modifications in my own field to get anything much out of waisting the off hours bent under a hood.

This has all changed. I still take a degree of pleasure and pride from tinkering around with technology, but long for a sense of physical, tangible achievement. A friend of mine who spends his days writing programming code secretly dreams of retiring to become a lumberjack. I can see a certain appeal to that - the idea of working all day in the outdoors, using your hands and working your body while the mind drifts freely. Coming home at the end of a long day and collapsing in complete exhaustion. Sleeping a whole, deep sleep. And of course that sense of frustration - feeling like you're toiling endlessly without making progress - would never be a problem. Just turn around and see the path you've carved behind you.

...

This past weekend I spent back in Gisborne, concentrating on all of the work necessary to get the ship back in shape for the next passage. There were a number of small, odd jobs to attend, and one or two big ones also requiring attention. The first was to replace the broken steering cable. The spare tiller would be sufficient if necessary (and would even work with the auto pilot) but the wheel is considerably more convenient. Having brought the chain driven by the sprocket inside the wheel's casing and the entire length of the original cable, I swung by a chandler in Auckland and had an identical amount cut to size (plus one meter slack). I then had a duplicate length made, so I could fix the problem again should it ever recur.

Back aboard, I set to work but it was quickly obvious I'd need to pick up at least one tool I didn't have on hand. A quick visit to the local hardware store and I got down to it.

In the end it wasn't very hard at all. If I had to do it again the whole thing wouldn't take more than half an hour. Everything is now tensioned just right, and in some ways even an improvement over the previous setup. I can even see a couple ways to make it better next time around. Pirsig was right. Its a good feeling.


...

Lately the experience seems to carry over into other areas. Returning to New Zealand from a visit home back in August, I set off with my car loaded with suitcases on a mad dash to Wellington, only to have the belt which drives the alternator and water pump suddenly snap and cause repeated overheating before I could work out what was going on.

In the spirit of do-it-yourself I bought a replacement and the necessary tools from a local retailer. I didn't know what I was doing but trying like hell to work it out. I had no way of knowing their parts database was simply wrong and there was zero chance of fixing the problem with the materials at hand. In the end I acquiesced and was force to employ a mechanic, while dumping myself on the hospitality of friends for the night.

Four o'clock in the morning this past Saturday, 40km outside of Gisborne, I suddenly had the same problem - I lost the same belt. This time I recognized it right away. I knew the battery wouldn't stay charged and the engine would soon overheat. I drove as far as I dared and then pulled over until daylight. I wanted enough juice to be able to restart the car a couple times and it would be best to wait until I didn't need headlights. Twenty minutes further and it wouldn't have mattered (I could have attended to everything after a good night's rest) but cursing my luck with engines at this point would do no good.

Snoozing until dawn I managed to make it to the next small town in a series of controlled hops, taking time to cool down in between. Finding the only service station likely to open that morning I camped outside until the owners appeared at seven. I used a piece of the leftover steering cable from the boat to measure the size belt I needed. If they happened to sell them all I needed was to get something around that water pump to keep the motor running cool - I could get the proper part to keep the alternator charged later.

I was in luck, but just barely. The station didn't sell belts these days, but in a dusty old garage across from the shop there were some belts that looked destined for farming equipment hanging around helter-skelter. Dusting off the cobwebs (literally) I worked my way through what was available until the very last - which was just tight enough to do the job but not so tight I couldn't get it around the spinning wheels by hand. A couple bucks and I was on my way.

The correct belt was ordered first thing when the local dealership opened and it arrived by overnight courier the next morning. Fitting it was no problem and I was soon on my way. I guess I'm learning.

...

Incidentally, Robert M. Pirsig wrote another book, a sequel to Zen and the Art. It was called Lila, and while not quite as enjoyable as the first (in my opinion), it did feature one interesting circumstance. The author was no longer riding a motorcycle cross-country, but making his way from the Great Lakes through canals and rivers past New York City on his way to the ocean. He was living on a boat.

The Cowardly Lion Bows Out

This past [northern] summer for the first time in years I made it back to First Friday, a monthly event in Philadelphia's Olde City where the art galleries stay open long past normal closing time, inviting the after-work crowd to view the latest exhibitions well into the night.

My favourite to visit - as much for content as the circumstance under which I was introduced - is the Clay Studio. Besides the sheer pleasure of walking through the decoratively tiled hallway, they frequently host works from numerous "small time" artists getting their first start. The freshness shows and it feels good to help support burgeoning talent.

I would have loved to have taken a photo of a set of small statues which particularly made me smile, but refrained out of respect to the person trying to make a living from their work. The statues were of the classic characters from the Wizard of Oz, with the faces of current politicians. Dick Cheney was the Tin Man, Donald Rumsfeld was the Cowardly Lion, and of course good old "Dubya" the Scarecrow.

The memory of those little statues flashed back when I read the good news this evening. Finally some change in the air. Lets hope for the better.

(more photos here)

Trick or Treat

For Halloween this year I tried being a Captain, something like my sister's beloved Pirate of the Caribbean, Jack Sparrow. I turned out more like the Skipper - the tubby "three-hour-tour" guy with the affinity for Blue Shirts from Gilligan's Island.

...

Chris had flown out from Australia to visit some friends in Tauranga and the timing worked well for him to crew the passage. We had come across one another through an online website suited to the purpose. I had a ship that needed to be moved, he had the experience and the will to help. I was actually quite lucky to have him along, and we both knew it.

My first night passage begin just shy of two o'clock in the morning. At a reasonable clip this would put us within site of Portland Island by sunrise, the first significant course change. The goal was to motor-sail from Napier, past Gisborne, up around East Cape, then back to Tauranga where I'd drop him off back with his friends.

The actual trip had begun two days earlier, making a mad dash up to the city to drop off hardware and gear for a new client. There would be an installation later that week (while I was under way) and everything needed to go perfectly. I got out of Auckland later than I had hoped and hit rush hour as I reached Tauranga.

I met Chris in person for the first time at the Bridge Marina, where if all had gone according to plan we'd be pulling in three to four days later. It was a four hour drive to the ship in Napier and I still needed to pick up fresh provisions. Giving him the rundown I ran out to finish my errands while he settled himself in and prepared to cast off.

It started out well enough. Well, it started out a little rough actually. With negligable sleep over the two days previous and more than 12 hours on the road in the same stretch of time I was already shagged as we departed. Rolling waves and a faulty autopilot meant we'd need to keep close watch on the compass to maintain course. This required looking down and as a mild nausea set in from the motion, that was the worst thing to have to do. There's no significant keel on the trimaran, so it tends to slide down the side of waves. This helps reduce the risk of a capsize when there's too much sail up in a strong wind, but makes steering a greater challenge.

It took some time to get everything adjusted just right. We had submerged rocks to clear before cutting East and it made sense for both of us to be on deck and alert. This is trickier than it sounds. Imagine driving a car around the field of a massive stadium in complete darkness without headlights. Your only point of reference is a flashlight behind you and another somewhere mid-field, indicating the team's players laying in a line on the ground. Try not to run them over.

After the first hour, the shifts began. It was agreed that we'd alternate every two hours at night, three by day. Chris retired below. I was on first watch. Exhausted from the day and fighting the onset of seasickness by willpower alone, it was going to be a long night.

...

Waking up from a much needed nap it was time to take my second shift. Growing accustomed to the constant motion and with a quick meal lining the stomach I was feeling much better the following morning.

Chris however wasn't looking very happy and it would be hard to blame him. Without the autopilot, each shift would be a chore as we constantly struggled to keep on course, fighting wind and sea. We ran through a second complete autohelm calibration but were still making 50 degree sweeps - constantly turning too far left, then too far right. Chris mentioned that another setup he had come across had a "fine tuning" mode that was necessary to fix just this sort of problem. Something clicked and I remembered reading details in the manual along those lines. Ducking below I pulled out the booklet and poured over its pages.

An hour of trial and error later and we were sorted. The boat was making a perfect line, following the course we needed. It was hands-off the rest of the day and the daunting prospect of steering by hand evaporated.

...

It was a perfect day, we had picked the ideal weather. By the end of the second shift I had seen my first pod of dolphins splashing in the boat's wake but they were gone before I could produce the camera. Chris reported seeing a pod of no less than twenty on one of his watches, the most he'd ever seen. We started making good time and by nightfall were in good spirits, already passing the lights of Gisborne to the west.

That's when luck started to change. As the sky grew dark it became apparent that the oil pressure light was starting to flash yellow with enough regularity for concern. It had flashed a handful of times the night before, but only ever briefly and easily attributed to the rolling and pitching of the waves. No doubt the frequency had been increasing all day but was difficult to distinguish in the light.

I made the decision to top off the oil, knowing it would be a bit hairy with the motor running. Fortunately the engine had excellent access from the cockpit, with plenty of clearance for what I needed to do. My inexperience got the best of me though, and the only oil we had on board (half a litre) wasn't applied as effectively as it could have (generously speaking).

Climbing out to check the gauges we were no better off. Worse, within half an hour the yellow indicator had stopped flashing and only the red warning light was visible. What I didn't know at the time was the engine switch had been flipped off (whether by accident or some sort of kill-switch tripped by the engine). Oil pressure was reading zero and the RPMs likewise. There was no change to the sound of the engine however, it had been firing along perfectly the entire trip. Believing the guages themselves to be faulty (off course they read wrong, they were off!) I made the decision I would later regret. We would proceed.

In retrospect this was the wrong move. I got greedy. The forecast for the coming days was the best it had been in two months. I had the ideal crewmate to help with rounding East Cape; known to be a difficult crossing in bad weather. My job only promised to become more hectic in the coming weeks, and I felt this was my only chance to get the boat where I wanted it before my folks arrived for a visit at the end of November.

I decided that if we did have a problem with the engine we would at least have the right conditions to sail back to Gisborne, or at least to Tolaga Bay for temporary shelter. As it was motoring under darkness into a port neither of us were familiar with lacked appeal. The oil level had already been topped up and with no audible or visible problems with the engine (such as smoke) we would round the Cape the next day and be safely in Tauranga shortly after.

...

"Fiascoes and moments of greatness share a single source – knowingly overextending one's reach. Which I'm in the middle of is yet to be determined, but I'm definitely pushing my luck."

Or so I wrote in a journal entry I was writing the exact moment the familiar hum of the motor beneath my feet suddenly changed. Suddenly a loud and violent knocking sound began. I sprang to my feet, first easing back the throttle and then calling for Chris, resting below deck in the cabin. He was already awake, the change in noise had snapped him out of sleep.

Within a half a minute the engine was eased back to the point where it cut off. This was not good. The red warning light whose glow basked the cockpit was staring at me like an angry bloodshot eye, chiding my hubris. "That's what you get Steve, nice job."

I went to switch off the engine, and the gauges sprang to life, the yellow light returning. That's when I realized what had happened. The red light was on because the engine switch was turned off. The guages were working perfectly. I knew the engine wouldn't shut off until the RPMs were brought down to a certain level and had actually considered flicking the switch off and back on again to try to "reset" everything but was afraid to try it while under way.

Now I didn't know what to think. Believing the engine had burned off too much oil and tried to turn itself I was afraid we had been running it dry. The knocking indicated something serious. At least we had stopped the motor before it seized. In a way the whole scene was appropriate, the date was October 31st. And what would Halloween be without a good scary story?

It was past 2 AM at this point, the trip had only been going for twenty four hours. We had a brief discussion over our options. The mainsail was already half raised, that would give us a bit of stability through the night. We'd bump up our log, recording position once an hour instead of only at shift changes. At first light we'd unfurl the headsail and make for Tolaga Bay.

...

The next morning we set about our work. The furling mechanism was a bit odd and required some deciphering. When we finally had it set Chris was dissapointed to see how poorly we pointed to windward - typical curse of a multihull.

Then catastrophy.

As we attempted to tack, the genoa was showing signs of fraying edges, then sudden shred at midsection. At the same instant the strain on the rudder cause the steering cabled to snap and we lost control.

"That tears it," he exclaimed through a stream of explicatives. He wanted to call the coastguard and having already made one bad decision this trip I didn't want to argue.

I fetched a wrench and began swapping for the hand tiller. At least we'd regain steering. There was a spare (smaller) headsail stored in the port ama (float) but too much had already gone wrong. If I had known then what the financial result of requesting a tow would entail I may have insisted we at least give it a go with the spares, but hindsight has little practical value.

...

Two hours later Southern Goose had arrived to help tow us to Tolaga Bay. It was an hour further up the coast but the closest safe holding where we could lay anchor. There was a small town and at least we could get more oil, possibly a diesel mechanic to take a look and better diagnose the problem. We could top her back up again, this time safely and in broad daylight. If the knocking sound vanished maybe we'd get lucky and be able to cruise on - back to Gisborne if not continue the journey. Wise enough to not admit it to Chris I still hadn't entirely given up hope.

If the only problem was burning too much oil, then surely we could pick up enough to at least round the Cape. There wasn't much by way of public marina facilities in Gisborne and Tauranga was a world closer to Auckland. Judging by how long it had taken the yellow light to finally indicate steadily, plus how long we ran under the red light it made some small degree of sense - in my head at least.

Southern Goose dropped us off and were quickly back on their way. They were only a passing ship, answering our distress call. I have no idea how much money the detour would have cost them in fuel alone but they had at least sacrificed their morning. Despite this they turned down any offer of compensation. "It may be us out there next time." Its good to know some people are still willing to lend a hand without taking advantage. If I ever run into them again they've got a few rounds coming their way.

In the mean time we were now at anchor in Tolaga Bay and the weather was still spectacular. Arrangements were being made for a mechanic to come out around noon, and there was little else to do but relax and catch up on rest.

...

My ringing mobile soon put and end to that. The Coastguard was on the line, suggesting that Tolaga Bay wasn't the best place for us to be after all. The wind was due to change that afternoon and we'd be exposed - a problem if the anchors began to drag. They were now recommending that we arrange a tow back to Gisborne if we couldn't return under our own power.

They had a boat on a truckbed with a crew ready to go, it would be a short drive and while on the pricey side the overall cost wouldn't be a complete killer. Tossing aside dreams and vision of the Cape I agreed.

Half an hour later I got more bad news. The Coastguard didn't believe their tow boat had enough power to bring my ship back safely. This was a small surprise; they're the Coast Guard after all. Yet it was a hard point to argue - they should know. There was only one commercial tug service in Gisborne. They could send someone out but I'd have to make up my mind immediately. They would have to motor to us, and charged by the hour starting that moment.

And they wanted twice as much as the Coast Guard.

Cash only, thank you.

Hell, they needed confirmation of agreement in writing via email. Lucky I had the equipment on board.

I gave the go-ahead. Its not like I had much choice.

...

We reached the Marina just after 8 PM, and were tied alongside one of their larger ships, thus ending my first major passage.

Getting an early start the next morning, a berth in the marina was organized and a mechanic from a reputable outfit was dispatched. At least one problem was quickly identified. The banging had come from a snapped pushrod. It turns out some water had seeped through the crankcase and caused the rod to stick. The pressure built up and it snapped, falling into the oil pan. The voilent popping noise was the explosion escaping the chamber and pressing back against the air intake. The combusted gas and this pressure combined to handicap the performance of the other pushrods. If we hadn't acted sooner the damange would have gotten worse very fast.

The engine was only half a litre low on oil (we weren't burning it off or running it dry after all). There was some small compensation in knowing the true problem wasn't due soley to my own actions. The right decision would have been to play it safe and head to Gisborne at the first sign of engine trouble and I'll know better than to push my luck next time. I may not have been able to prevent the damage that occured but at least would have saved the expense of the tow.

We spent the next two days on the ship, and Chris ran down with me all of the problems that stood out and made many valuable recommendations on improvements. For the second time on the trip I really had to appreciate his help and being there. I don't know how I would have handled the sitation without him.

The upside is I receive a real education. Between the tow and the engine repairs it will end up an expensive education, but worthwhile none the less. I have a great deal more confidence about the ship and my ability to handle it. There's a reason the first serious trip is called a "shakedown cruise." On my shakedown cruise we ran into just about every problem possible - simultaneously - from the engine, sails, and steering to the handle falling off the tea kettle.

At least we made out better than the S.S. Minnow.