Late one afternoon in Ventura, Bryce called to me, upset. I was below deck. He was on the dock. He had dropped Trent’s Penny Board, an old-school skateboard into the water adjacent to our neighbor’s boat. Trent recently bought it from a friend and really liked it. Bryce knew the cost to replace the board would be about $100, money he didn’t want to spend. Head in hands, fighting back tears, Bryce was lamenting his circumstance. I suggested he dive for it. I made up a weighted line to sound the depth; fifteen feet we determined and Bryce rushed to get his wetsuit. Together we deployed Kandu’s stern anchor and chain over the spot he remembered splashing the board. The sun was low on the horizon. It was warm above surface and below wasn’t terribly cold. We knew he wouldn’t see much and would have to rely on touch. Passer-bys encouraged Bryce to give it try, warning how difficult the task would be. It took a couple of dives before Bryce got his rhythm and technique down. Soon after, Bryce pulled up his brother’s skateboard. Many of the other live-aboards were amazed at Bryce’s success. He was very pleased with himself. I told him to wash the board off in fresh water and spray it with WD-40, which did immediately. The board survived with little damage until a couple of weeks when one of the wheel’s bearings froze. Trent’s Uncle Nick bought and replaced all of Trent’s bearings. Trent was satisfied with the repair.
A week after the salvaged skateboard episode, Uncle Nick bought for Bryce’s birthday a new Penny Board with a stars and stipes motif, just as Bryce had dreamed.
As mentioned in Part 1, initial efforts to retrieve the prescription sunglass my father-in-law, Ron, dropped from his shirt pocket and into the drink over our neighboring mooring slip failed. The mishap provided an excellent opportunity to try out some cool gear; 1) our Spare Air (mini-SCUBA tank) device, and 2) Jim’s, a neighbor’s, pony tank (small SCUBA tank). I learned about how long each allowed me to stay underwater at around 15′ below the surface and to not panic as I cautiously ascended without air in my lungs, to meet head-first the barnacled underside of the floating dock. I experienced what it is to dive in near zero visibility as my movements stirred the silty marina bottom, clouding my view like thick smoke from a slow motion house fire. And I received instruction from Jim on how to proceed in the manner taught to search and rescue divers.
Ron’s glasses fell in the water on a Saturday afternoon. Later that day, Bryce and I made our first attempts to retrieve them, as described Part 1. It wouldn’t be until Tuesday afternoon before I would be able to make another attempt, this time with our tethered compressed-air solution. Some call it SNUBA, a cross between snorkeling and SCUBA diving. Others call it a hookah system (if you try looking it up on the Internet, be sure to include “diving” in the search perimeters to avoid getting pages of links to marijuana devices) because of how it provides compressed air via a long hose tethered to your waist. It took days before I dove again because I wanted to find time to read the instructions and make sure I properly commissioned the unit into service. It’s an expensive piece of machinery that if improperly used, could kill a diver–no exaggeration.
SCUBA 101 (skip the next two paragraphs if you’re not interested in learning how compressed air can kill or maim one of us): Breathing compressed air is serious business. As a diver descends, the combined weight of of the air and the water above put into play physical forces that require serious consideration and respect. Ignorance is no shield against improper practice. Having had SCUBA instruction, I knew some basic practices: 1) at fifteen feet of depth, I could safely stay underwater for a long time, more than an hour, 2) to always be in a state of breathing, either exhaling or inhaling, slowly and deliberately–never hold your breath, especially ascending, 3) if you lose your regulator (the mouth piece from which your air is drawn), blow small bubbles, 4) do not ascend faster than your bubbles; 5) make a safety stop 10 feet below the surface for a few minutes before finishing the ascent (unless you’re out of air, then ascend blowing bubbles), allowing your body to release excess air stored in the recesses of your body and giving your ears an opportunity to acclimate to the lower pressure (I get dizzy the last 8 ft.). If a diver fails to adhere to safe practices, the physical laws of gas and fluids can work against the diver, releasing gases stored within their body tissues and blood stream (Henry’s law), creating painful air pockets between their lungs and chest, or sending air bubbles to the brain, like bubbles released from a freshly opened soft drink (Boyle’s law), killing or paralyzing them. Why does this happen? At depth, a diver needs higher air pressure to counter act the increased atmospheric pressures of the water surrounding the diver. At 33 feet below the water’s surface, the atmospheric pressure is double that of the surface which is about 15 pounds per square inch (psi), so 30 psi at 33 feet. At that depth, an air-filled basketball would be half its size. If you wanted the basketball expanded to full size at that depth, you’d need to fill it with twice as much air as with what it was filled at surface, which is the same thing as filling it with air that was compressed to twice its surface pressure. That’s why you can’t just take a long piece of hose and breath from it from the surface like a long snorkel. The air at surface is not pressurized (heavy) enough to expand a diver’s lungs at depth. With a long snorkel, you might be able to dive 2 feet underwater, but not much more. At the same time, if you don’t release the air from the basketball that’s now filled with twice the air at 33 feet, as it approaches the surface, the heavier air inside will expand to match the lower air pressure of the approaching surface, causing the ball to ascend faster and eventually explode. Okay for a basketball, not okay for lungs. By the way, without a lot of weight strapped to his or her body, it would be nearly impossible for a diver to swim a basketball down a few feet. A dolphin might be able to (basketballs underwater), but not many humans. Although, the deeper you get the ball, the smaller it gets, the easier it will be to push it down.
Another key factor surrounding diving with compressed air is the quality of the air compressed. When compressing air, the air compressor siphons air from around its intake, the very air we breath at the surface, and squeezes it into higher pressures. If the air it captures is polluted, the diver will breath concentrated pollution. This can easily happen if the compressor breathes the exhaust of a gasoline or diesel engine, which puts out carbon monoxide, a toxic gas. In our case, our compressor works off AC electricity. To create AC electricity, the kind of electricity that comes from the outlet of your walls, we use a gas-powered generator. If the generator’s exhaust is sucked into the air-compressor, the diver could be poisoned. When we want to dive at a location other than directly under Kandu, we may take our dinghy out to a better diving location. The interior space of the dinghy is small, so the generator and the compressor will be near each other. We will need to be extra cautious, separating the two as much as possible and making sure the compressor only breathes fresh air. We must place it up wind from the generator with its own snorkel and carbon air filter. So avoiding engine exhaust and other pollutants is crucial. And there’s one more thing that breathing in will kill you: oil, any oil, even food grade oil. In the harsh marine environment, metals rust. To help prevent rusting, we coat our metals with a light oil spray (CorrosionX or Boeshields T9) to minimize contact from the oxygen and salts that cause corrosion. The air compressor is no exception, so we must be extra careful to spray only its metal parts and not the air filter. We must spray the compressor after each use, allowing time for the solvents in the oil to evaporate and for the oil to “dry” on the metal surfaces. In this way, we insure the diver doesn’t breath compressed oil. If a diver breaths compressed oil, his or her lung walls will be coated with the oil, preventing the lungs from absorbing air, causing the diver’s lungs to fill with fluid. Even surfacing won’t save the diver. So you can see how important it was for me to read the instructions describing the proper use of our new air compressor, and why it took awhile before I was able to dive for Ron’s expensive sunglasses.
End of lesson. Back to the story.
With the knowledge of the air compressor’s proper use firmly saturating my brain, I gather up a few more items previously not incorporated in my earlier recovery attempts: a multi-colored spring wetsuit (short sleeves and legs) à la early nineties to keep me a little warmer in the cooler water for an extended period, a weight belt to make it easier for me to remain at depth underwater, a large underwater light lent by Jim, and an 8-foot tether tied to the top of the anchor shank that will help me create my search-zone. We deploy the aluminum anchor just as we had the previous attempt, directly over the recalled drop zone. Once suited up, I start the compressor. The manual clearly states that to prevent deadly electrical shock, a wet diver should not turn on or off the compressor. Someone who is dry, wearing rubber soled shoes, and not standing in water should. I am dry for the start, but Ron, in his smart and dry street clothes, will turn it off and on from this point forward.
The new weight belt provided with the air compressor system has six little pockets within which to place weights of various size. The pocket technology allows the diver to easily adjust weights, readily adding or removing as necessary. It also allows a diver in trouble and needing to surface quickly the ability to loose a portion of the weights, making for a more controlled emergency ascent than were they to release the entire weight belt, which is the standard protocol. So, with marker anchor deployed, marking the focal point of my intended search area, I slip into the water; face mask covering my eyes and nose, regulator in mouth, fins on feet, anchor chain in hand.
First order of business, determine the proper amount of weights needed to attain neutral buoyancy (Archimedes’ principle): having the top of my head float at surface, breaking the surface as I inhale, and sinking as I exhale. Wet suits float, so I find I need 12 lbs of lead weights (2 x 5-pounder and 1 x 2-pounder) placed evenly around my weight belt to properly float (and sink) me.
Adjusting Weight BeltFinding Neutral Buoyancy
Jim’s large light strapped to my right wrist, I slowly begin my descent in to darkness. The regulator underwater amplifies each tin-can sound inhale, like that of Darth Vader’s. Each time the compressor’s ridged yellow hose touches my mask, I hear the rapid-fire thump of the compressor’s motor in my head, as if the compressor were on my shoulder. I push it away as I can. Although it is a sunny Tuesday afternoon, I can’t see much past arms lengths–just a dim light from the large lamp. I can see the anchor chain, but little more. The murky dark cotton-textured bottom behaves like the top of a cloud, the closer I get to it, the more it envelops me. Jim’s idea of using the light to visually inspect the bottom before resorting to touch is proving fruitless. At bottom, I can’t see the light beam through the water, let alone anything resembling the sea floor. If I’m unable to use it, then I don’t want to lug it around, stirring up the silty bottom. I consider ascending so that I may remove the cumbersome light from my wrist and leave it on the small concrete dock that separates Kandu from the neighboring boat. Just before I direct myself up, I feel an inanimate flat object under my righthand. It’s the 18″x30″ outdoor carpet mat that Trent had dropped many months ago, that I discovered during my previous attempt to find the glasses. I decide to take it with me. As I ascend, the light fades up and I can see what’s in my hand. Black silt streams off the small carpet like coal exhaust from the stack of an old fashioned steam-powered locomotive.
Ron, hoping I had been lucky, is disappointed I hadn’t found the glasses so quickly. To better feel the bottom and better plant myself in one spot, I remove my flippers and leave them on the dock too. Now I will be able to feel the bottom with both hands and feet. I dive again, my left hand sliding down the anchor chain, guiding me to my starting point. No longer encumbered by the spotlight, I am ready to feel my way over the silky bottom, determined not to quit until I recover the lost sunglasses.
Arriving at the upright anchor, its squarish crown sides are planted straight down in the silt, its erect shank pointing skyward. I untwist from the top of the shank the small white nylon lanyard that I tied earlier that day. I can barely make it out, but somehow I’m able to see it. It takes me awhile to get oriented. I’m a little lost at first, but calm down and begin implementing the plan: while holding the end of the lanyard in my left hand as far from the anchor as possible, I extend the reach of my right hand and both feet. In a leg-spread push-up position, I first move my right leg as far to the right as possible and gently poke my toes into the silt, moving my leg up and down, side to side. The bottom is soft. My toes easily sink into the fine, saturated silt. I cannot see but the dark grey-brown cloud that encircles my head. Were there somewhere else near me, I could not know. Just as in life, I know the immediate circumstance that surrounds my senses. The focus of my task is here, not elsewhere. If conditions are better someplace else, I don’t know, and don’t care to know. Once the right leg is done, I stretch the left leg as far left and away from the anchor as I can and begin carefully examining the bottom, first moving my foot up a couple inches at a time until my knee is to my chest, then a little to the right and back down again, a couple inches at a time, hoping to feel something rigid, not super soft mud. The water temperature is cool, probably in the upper 60’s. With my wetsuit, I know I can stay for about an hour before I begin to get hypothermic (cold enough where I’d have to consider surfacing), and that with the compressor supplying me with air, I can easily stay an hour or much more if needed. At a depth of fifteen feet, one hour of compressed air will not cause any physiological problems. So long as I ascend slowly and take a minute break at 10 feet, I’ll be fine. At the same time that my feet are working, my hands are performing a similar, but opposite pattern. It’s a bit like rubbing your head and patting your tummy. With an eight foot lanyard wrapped around my left hand and my body outstretched, I figure my toes are about fourteen feet from the anchor, creating a search diameter of about 32-ft., plenty large enough to capture my prize. Once one piece of the pie has been carefully felt up and down, maintaining my push-up position, I crab walk to the right a couple steps, past the area I think I’ve examined, and start exploring another piece of the dark black-brown cotton-ball pie, looking for the cherry pit in the pie. In New Orleans, they bake a pie with a little baby Jesus figurine mixed inside the almond paste filling. No one knows which slice will contain the prize, so you very carefully bite into your slice until you or someone else discovers it. Well, that’s a bit like what I’m doing. I’m carefully feeling my way through each piece of pie, first from the outer edge, then I’ll move closer to center and feel my way around the inner circle, looking for my prize.
I find and collect objects as I sift through the muck, clothes pins and a roll of tape. Each time, a little disappointed it isn’t the “little baby Jesus.” So I continue my pattern, hopeful that this systematic slice-of-the-pie approach will bear the intended fruit. I am determined to find it. Before descending, the dockside pundits, other live-aboard sailors, mocked my determination, sighting how they were not able to find objects ten times larger than the one I was seeking, figuring that the current had taken it far away. It’s taken me about 30 minutes, as best I can sense time, to complete the outer circle. Knowing my air hose and lanyard are now wrapped around counter-clockwise around the anchor chain, after moving up close to the anchor, I begin my search routine again but this time I move left, clockwise around the anchor, to slowly unwind my tethers. Fifteen minutes later, about halfway around the anchor, I am a little discouraged. I’m starting to get cold. Being careful not to stir up the bottom, I’m not moving around enough to elevate my body heat. I don’t want to start doing underwater burpee exercises for fear it will stir up the contents of the sea floor, possibly dislodging the sunglasses to drift away in the mild current. I tell myself I’ll stay down as long as it takes. Police search and rescue divers don’t give up, and neither will I. Maybe the anchor set on top of the glasses. I check, but they are not there. I continue with my search pattern.
At first I hesitate to believe it. The object that brushes against the outside of my right hand doesn’t feel like a clothespin and it doesn’t swim away. My numb hand feels something a little larger. I carefully examined what I’ve touched. They are the glasses, my “little baby Jesus.” I found them! Yippie for me. Kenny from New Jersey isn’t going to believe it! With the anchor chain in my left hand, and the sunglasses in my right, I carefully stand up from the bottom, gently moving the glasses through the water to wash away the silt. Standing there, I exhaust some of the compressed air from my body, not really a necessary step for the shallow depth I’ve been working, but it’s my practice. Still unable to see, I take time to swish the glasses underwater before placing them on my head, above my black mask. As I slowly ascend so as not to disturb the glasses from my head (I really don’t want to loose them now!), I begin to see what’s around me and I can see the air hose above me. I move around the anchor chain to complete my circle and unwind the hose from around the chain. The whole time I was down there, about 50 minutes, Ron had been monitoring the compressor and the air hose, taking up the slack and letting it out as I needed. As I break the surface and remove the regulator from my mouth, I declare that looking any further for the glasses is fruitless. Not seeing the dark glasses above my dark mask, Ron agrees and thanks me for the effort. He said he’d just have to drive to Mexico and get another pair. Unable to hold back any longer, I lift the glasses from my head and ask, “Like these?” He bursts out with a laugh of disbelief, and says, “If nothing else, you’re one persistent guy.”
While I rush up to take a hot shower, Ron works to rinse off the equipment with fresh water from the dock hose. Although some may say sunglasses didn’t warrant such an effort, I am pleased that I got the opportunity to try out our Spare Air and our hookah diving systems. I appreciated the education Jim gave me regarding search techniques. The overall experience was valuable and will help me in the future. And, the glasses provided me the excuse I needed to take a break from working on the boat, time away that was greatly appreciated. Plus I saved my father-in-law a drive to Mexico and back, and he got to experience first hand just how stubborn I can be when I’m determined to achieve an outcome. Although there was no guarantee of success, the value of persistance paid off . . . this time.
Another underwater salvaging event just occurred. Look forward to “A Tale of Two Skateboards.”
Anchor Used to Locate “Baby Jesus”Ron at Home with Sunglasses
These past 18 months, I’ve learned how difficult it is for me to learn a lesson of humility–Life decides what circumstances happen and when; not me. I get to react: make choices/decisions, pick my attitude. I don’t get to create my climate. The water that travels under Kandu and the winds that blow above her are not of my making. Although I may try to navigate toward favorable possibilities, in the end, nothing is certain. What was a circumstance a hundred times before, may no longer be when we arrive, for better or worse. The friendly gendarme that typically may have extended visas before, may require boats to leave the country in 72 hours. The bay noted for theft may hold the friendliest family, with whom we remain lifelong friends. Obvious, right? So why do I find myself still behaving as if I make my own circumstance? How many times will I pick a departure date, assuming that everything that needs to be done, will be done by that date, that no other events will arise, by our own choice or by chance, to interfere with that date? We signed up to depart with a 125 other boats, figuring this would force our hand to have to leave. We spent money, in other words, bet that we would leave on that date. Well, we lost that bet. When we realized we couldn’t make that date, what did we do? We set another date. And what happened with that date? We realized we couldn’t realistically achieve that one either. Are you starting to see a pattern here? What’s the saying, “If you want to make God laugh, make plans,” or “The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.”? If this were an experiment, we’d question the premise.
What perspective would align us more with reality? We have experience preparing a boat for long distance cruising. Why has it been so difficult to set a date certain with this trip? What’s different?
1) The Boat: On the other three long-distance trips that I experienced, we left on my uncle’s boat, the boat that he built and maintained regularly. He knew what needed to be done to prepare Getel, his 32-foot ferro-cement cutter; the list was short and the surprises were few. For this upcoming trip, we purchased a 25 year-old boat that was built in a boatyard in Taiwan and had been owned by two unrelated parties. Having no history with Kandu, we had to make the discoveries, seeking professional advice as needed. One discovery would lead to another and often many others. The process was constant, and often discouraging, but the end result left us with greater knowledge and needed experience. Had we purchased a newer boat, we would not have had as much work. We would have been ready sooner and had spent much less in preparation. We would have had to spend nearly triple the amount of the initial purchase, but after the cost of all the improvements to the older boat, we would have been close to the price of the newer boat. The biggest differences are: a) putting all the money upfront versus a three-year “payment” plan, b) having a newer boat that would likely fetch a better resale value, and c) having the education of knowing every inch of your older vessel and how it was put together. Both options have their merit. Out of habit, I picked restoring an older boat, knowing I had the benefit of my uncle’s expertise, his time, his network of experts, and his desire to work on a boat. I now know Kandu nearly as well as if I’d built her. I know her plumbing and her electrical. I know a lot about her rigging, and picked every piece of equipment installed in her. I have an intimate relationship with her that I need in order to feel comfortable navigating her. I can feel her, if that makes sense. But this feeling comes at a cost, financial and in delay and frustration.
2) The Voyage: the other three cruising trips I experienced were relatively shorter in distance and duration than what we’re planning now. Instead of sailing to French Polynesia, Hawaii, and back over 10-20 months; we’re planning a five-year circumnavigation. We’re going to be out longer, away from the conveniences of home. We’re going to be subject to a greater variety of conditions: geologic, meteorologic, and cultural; not just the volcanic, coral-ladened islands of greater Franco-American Polynesia. Consequently, I want to be prepared for these broader variables. This has required greater research and additional equipment.
3) The Crew: On the first two previous trips, I was crew, my uncle was captain. The first trip was to Hawaii and back when I was 14 years-old, a 4-month, relatively brief and austere trip, as cruising goes. The second trip was with his family, wife and two young daughters. I was 16-17 years old and we were away for 20 months, again with few luxuries (the one head (toilet) barely worked). On the third of my cruising voyages, I was captain and my youngest brother, Nick, was my first mate, and the head worked. There was no refrigeration. We were joined at various stages of our 10 month voyage by his workmate friend, another brother (Curtis), Leslie, and my uncle. For this upcoming trip, the crew is my family; Leslie, Bryce (13), and Trent (11). Employing what I’ve learned from my past experiences and what drives my family, in order for this longer voyage to work, I’ll need to make the boat comfortable (well ventilated, fresh smelling, and accommodating (refrigeration, electronic communication, water-making, microwave, etc.) and fun (fewer boat projects and more options for adventure). We’ve installed 10 solar powered fan vents and purchased three shade canopies. I’ve spent much effort in odor abatement, addressing the foul smells that typically emanate from the bilge, engine room, and heads. And we have added many daily comfort features both big and small. I am an admitted safety freak, and have installed many safety features including an AED that my brother, Nick, purchased for us. Working to get the boat as ready as we have will hopefully provide fewer requirements of time away from other, more fun adventures with the family. Were the family’s initial cruising experience to be that of waiting for me to frequently install or repair something, tearing up the boat and strewing tools about the cabin sole, they would feel that the promised transition from preparation to adventure were false; that working on the boat at the level we’ve been over the past year were not just a period of preparation, but a normal part of everyday living, then they would quit/mutiny. It’s important that I leave with a smile on my face. For fun, Leslie and I got the boys involved in surfing and they love it. They each have two boards, plus a large soft-top and Boogie boards. We purchased a tethered underwater diving apparatus that allows us two to explore the nooks and crannies of the surrounding seabeds. We have two folding bicycles and an electric scooter for land-bound exploration beyond public and pedestrian transportation. We have a tandem kayak and an inflatable stand-up paddle board for water-bound exploration beyond our boat and dinghy. For entertainment beyond our library of books, we have a multi-system television capable of receiving local broadcast from any country we visit and a region-free blu-ray and DVD player capable of playing discs from almost any country, along with the 300+ movies we’re bringing. And the boys have their Xbox and iPads with their games aboard. We also have a keyboard. It’s vitally important to the success of this venture that the family enjoy the first year. If not, I risk a premature return to California.
Based on the experience of the last year and half, it seems arrogant to believe I can set a date for such a complex event as that which we are about to embark. Why have I have had such difficulty putting this principle into effect? Every time I think I’ve learned the lesson, that I don’t get to decide when and what life events will occur, I find myself frustrated that events aren’t going as I have planned them. In practice, I only own the rudder to my life (and barely); the water that flows around it belongs to God. A paradigm shift is occurring. No longer bound by the constraints of the Baja Ha-ha’s schedule, recognizing that the pressures of schedule are self-inflicted and that going with the flow makes for a more harmonious process–when asked about our departure date, we reply, “We’ll know when we’re going to leave a week before we leave–no sooner.” I hope I can learn and live this lesson, the humility of circumstance.
Surfers in Ventura, and probably elsewhere, use the word ‘quiver’ to denote the group of surfboards that a surfer owns. It’s not unusual for avid surfers to stock a dozen or more boards in their quiver. Some have 50 or more and drive large cargo vans. Waves at each location differ from waves at other locations, at any given time, the particular waves at a given location differ depending on weather and sea conditions. This phenomenon of uniqueness, of only-here-only-now, is what makes surfing so compelling to many surfers: every location is unique and no wave is the same as another. This characteristic is something Robert Weiner, the acclaimed surfboard maker, expressed to us when we purchased two more of his world-renowned surfboards. Bryce and Trent’s surfing abilities have improved over the fall, causing them to want smaller, 5’6″-7″ boards. Smaller boards are more maneuverable than larger, but also less stable. They are easier to duck dive under waves, but not as fast to paddle. Robert warned the boys to not be discouraged by the difficulty they would experience as they learn to control these shorter boards. He said, if they give up, they miss the opportunity to enjoy surfing even more than they already do.
Robert advised Bryce and Trent on their choice of some great used five-finned boards (with five fin boxes at the tail end of the board, surfers have many fin configuration options to choose from, depending on the type of surfing they want to do). Trent picked out the Get-Up G board recently surfed by professional 16-year-old surfer, Nolan Rapoza. Bryce picked out a similar shaped board, a Black Punt, one inch shorter and tad thicker than Trent’s, but no art work. Robert taught Trent how to peel off the stickers Trent wanted removed and how to clean up the left over adhesive with Goof Off. He then instructed Bryce how to prepare and paint his board, if that’s what he wanted. He even offered to paint it for him if he wanted. It’s apparent that Robert wants children and their parents to be excited and comfortable with surfing. He wants surfing to be a positive experience in a teenager’s development. With all of Robert’s hands-on help, Bryce asked if it might be fair to state that Robert was sponsoring him. In response, Robert said that ‘because they only surf Roberts boards, and that he helped them with their boards, they now represent his shop, and as such are responsible for making his brand look good by treating other surfers with courtesy and kindness.’ The boys nodded approvingly. He told them that their upcoming sailing adventure would bring them great wisdom and awareness of the world and other people. He wants from the boys a full report of the best surf spots when they return. I asked if he’d mark up a map for us, letting us know some of the great surf spots that he knew of around the world. He graciously agreed and we returned home to show mom the new boards we just bought.
Although we don’t have a lot of space on the boat, Leslie and I feel the boys’ passion for surfing warrants the effort to find a way to transport the boards. Besides being physically demanding, surfing might inspire the boys to seek out remote beaches around the world, an adventure for the whole family, and provide them instant entree into surfing communities that exist locally, all around the world.
The next day, Bryce drew a design on paper for his board. I read an article on the Internet and went off to buy the supplies. We found them all at Michael’s craft store and headed back to the boat to prep and paint his board. It took nearly all day, but the board turned out great. We just need to add three layers of clear coat to finish the job and we plan to do that today. Working with Bryce to make his vision of what he wanted his board to be allowed me to take time away from working on Kandu. Painting the surfboard provided a great excuse to work with my son and show him how to paint something, a skill he will soon need for Kandu. Painting a surfboard is something I would have never imagined doing, and wouldn’t have done had it not been for the excitement and desire Bryce so earnestly expressed. His eye for color and design impresses me.
While I taped up Bryce’s design on his board, Trent practiced duck diving his new board in the marina in front of Kandu. He loved how much easier it was than with his first board. The last few weeks of surfing brought large waves. Not able to duck dive his large board because it’s too buoyant for his weight, the surf beat Trent up, concerning him that he may drown. He wanted a smaller board that he could duck dive under the waves. It was Trent who first wanted to add a smaller board to his quiver (well, one board may not qualify as a quiver, but anyway . . . ). So after an hour of practice, Trent was ready to try his skill. We reminded him of Robert’s warning, to not be discouraged if surfing the new board wasn’t fun at first, and off he went to Mondo’s Beach, the Waikiki of Ventura. The waves were not large, but Trent’s desire to master his board was. On his first wave, he popped up and away he went, turning and maneuvering like he’d had it for months. Trent’s athletic abilities impress me. His ability to put into effect the training he receives is remarkable.
The boys want Leslie and I to surf too, so I guess we’ll find some room to bring our long soft-top beginner board too as the Kandu family prepares to stock a quiver of memories.
Bryce’s Design Represents His Country and His Board MakerTrent on Rapoza FireMade for Nolan Rapoza by Robert WeinerRobert Weiner on his board before selling it to Bryce, Bryce’s first board.
A study showed that in food tastings, such as chocolate, when the host announces that the next morsel will be the last of the tasting, the taster’s senses heighten, the level of appreciation swells, and thus the last candidate chocolate scores higher than were it elsewhere placed in the line up. In short, knowing something is the last, the experience becomes magnified, more memorable and savored.
When sailing through the Hawaiian Islands in 1990 with Leslie, we tended to see proportionally more of a given location when we had only 7 to 10 days to spend than when we had six weeks. The more time we had, the less we saw.
I suppose with shorter time windows, we are more deliberate and comprehensive with our efforts to encapsulate the experience of a given place. These concentrated experiences are more intense and memorable than when we are time complacent.
This past weekend, we held an “Open Boat,” a chance for friends and family to see us and Kandu before we head out in a few weeks. They came from as far as San Diego and Yucaipa: friends from our former workplaces and friends whose lives intertwined with our children’s, friends from lives before kids, friends of our parents, friends recently made in Ventura, and yachtee friends living aboard neighboring boats, and more. It was terrific seeing so many supportive faces and getting a chance to share our plans. It was a bit like a wedding, not able to spend as much time with everyone as we would have wished, especially considering the distances they traveled to see us and the months since we last met. It was intense.
The experience set off a bout of deep sadness for Leslie. The intensity of what was in large part a farewell celebration brought forth an acute awareness of just how much love there is between our friends and us, and that we will not likely be seeing most of them over the next several years. In cases where older friends or family members are of deteriorating health, we were cognizant that these days could quite possibly be our last together, bidding adieu was especially heart-aching.
Among those included within this list would be my father. Last winter, my father barely survived a bout with the flu. Although he didn’t attend the Open Boat, we visited him six weeks ago at his place to celebrate his 80th birthday. He lives alone in a small studio apartment in Tehachapi, near my brother Tom and his family. Driving from Ventura to Tehachapi , understanding the visit may be our last with him, I had intended to share with my father my thoughts of growing up and of my life’s course. I suggested to Bryce and Trent that they ask questions of their grandfather. On seeing him, having such dialog or asking such questions seemed contrived and melodramatic. “Let’s just be,” I told myself, “The past is what it is. Our relationship is what it has been, and one weekend isn’t going to change the past or make for a better future.” So I just enjoyed my father’s company as we celebrated his landmark birthday together with my sons, with my brother Tom and his family, and with my brother Nick. I went for a glider ride over the mountains of Tehachapi, something I’ve wanted to do since I was 6 and saw it on the Disney Sunday television show. We witnessed Tehachapi’s world renowned train loop in full action. We lunched on ostrich burgers. And we spent quality time playing with my brother’s children for the first time in 6 years, horseback riding, archery, tractor driving, and more. In short, with little time available and sensing we may not have time together for a long time to come, if ever; we lived with intention and thus baked many wonderful memories of family and of Tehachapi.
This is what the cruising circumstance does. It offers an opportunity to live with greater intention. We, the people we meet, and those who visit us from afar are keenly aware of the limited time we have together. A little voice reminds us that our time together may be the ‘last time.’ Under such circumstance, we all naturally focus on creating wonderful experiences by which to fondly remember. As a result, we often get to experience the best of people. Of course when we leave, we are all very sad, but it is this fore-looming sadness that spurs us to magnify the living while we are together. Living land-life, I tend to be more complacent because I have time to meet up again later. I squeeze loved ones into a busy schedule to catch up, spending spurts of time here and there. But when I see a friend for what may be the last time, for many years to come, it stirs a feeling of intense appreciation, of greater awareness of the present . . . life is magnified.
The cruising life comes with many rewards and many prices. This past weekend in saying farewell, Leslie and I felt deeply the toll cruising places on friendships. In saying farewell, we experienced the heightened sensation that comes with tasting ‘the last chocolate,’ . . . for now.
While putting away the plastic folding chairs borrowed for yesterday’s Open Boat (see “Excited? Not Yet” post), one of the chairs fell into the water. My father-in-law, Ron, retrieving it, dropped his expensive pair of newly purchased prescription sunglasses over the dockside, adjacent to Kandu. Bryce assured his grandfather that he would immediately retrieve them and donned his wetsuit. After all, it was only a month ago that he performed the very same exercise to retrieve Trent’s skateboard that Bryce had dropped in the drink. It was low tide, about 15 feet deep where we stood. After half a dozen free dives, following the anchor and chain we had deployed to orient his decent, Bryce was successful and the board salvaged. A couple of new bearings, and it’s as good as new. Papa was really upset about losing his glasses, so before plunging into what Bryce sensed to be certain success, Bryce thought he might extract a little extra incentive from Papa, “Whatcha ya gonna give me if I get them?”
“He’s your grandfather. He doesn’t owe you a thing. Just do it for him,” I barked. And down he went, several times, without success. If you’ve never free dived to 15 feet (not deep by free-dive standards, but significant for newbies) in a wetsuit (which floats you) without weights or fins, in murky water with a sun low to the horizon without a flashlight, with a silty bottom, then you may not be able to appreciate the difficulty of the task Bryce was trying to achieve. To get him down, we’d pull the anchor up, Bryce would hold it, take a deep breath, and then we’d drop the anchor with him holding it to the bottom. So I offered to drive to our storage unit to get weights and an underwater flashlight. I went there and picked up my own snorkeling gear while I was at it. After several more unsuccessful attempts, Bryce gave up, washed off, and went to play Kendama with his marina friends.
I wanted to see what Bryce was up against, so I donned my gear and took the plunge (after several dockside burpee’s to warm my body temperature). My novice ears hurt around 12 feet and I couldn’t see a thing, nada, and I couldn’t hold my breath long enough to do a thing. Bryce’s feat impressed me all the more (I need to tell him that). If I was going to find Papa’s sunglasses, I would need compressed air. He own options: 1) a Spare Air device, a mini-SCUBA tank with a regulator built-in the stem. It holds about 4-5 minutes of air. We have it Velcro’d under our top companion way (the opening from our cabin to our cockpit, our ‘front door’ if you will) ladder step, ready to be deployed, except we haven’t had time to fill it with compressed air. 2) a hookah system, an electric (AC) air compressor that sends air down a hose to a regulator from which you can breath up to 60′ deep. We purchased the two-diver set up, but it’s still in the box, unopened.
I thought about which live-aboard (a person who lives on the boat full-time) on our dock is a dive enthusiast. There’s often one close by. I recalled that Jim, a retired police officer, an experienced cruiser of many years, and a very helpful guy; was a diver and walked over to his boat with my Spare Air. With the sun setting, he immediately offered to fill my little tank, and without either of us having read the instructions (not the best practice), after some trial and error, filled the yellow cylinder successfully. Off I skipped to the scene of the crime. Papa said to forget it. It was getting dark, I was diving without a wetsuit, and dinner was being prepared, but I was attracted to the challenge. I wanted to see if what the Spare Air could do, how it worked, and how I’d work with it. I wanted to see what the bottom was like, the bottom that other boat owners warned me of. So down I went, pulling the anchor chain (I need to buy a weight belt!) with my right hand, the same hand that held my light, while I held my Spare Air unit in my mouth, it being neutrally buoyant.
After about 9 feet into the decent, it was dark. I could barely see a thing. The flashlight’s beam would come and go, in and out of visibility. It took longer to clear my ears (equalize pressure by gently blowing while squeezing my nose shut) than when I use to dive, probably due to a combination of cold, nervousness, and a lack of practice. The silt was silky soft. Holding the aluminum anchor’s shank, I gently touched the bottom, trying to feel around for anything as I dangled upside down like a party balloon. If I let go the anchor, disoriented as I soon became, I could very easily rise too quickly to the surface and risk developing an air embolism in a lung, or worse, my brain (stuff you learn in SCUBA class). I thought to myself, if were I to lose control, I would exhale most all the air from my lungs to prevent an embolism, as well as lessen the rate of my ascent. So close to the surface, I wasn’t worried about reaching the surface with no air in my lungs. As I felt around never letting loose my grip from the anchor, I recovered the hair cutting scissors I’d dropped months ago giving Trent a haircut. I found the piece of grounding wire I’d dropped the day before, and I found the rug mat Trent dropped. I collected the scissors and wire, but left the rug as I did not want to disturb the silt any more than necessary. When my Spare Air ran out, I calmly rose to the surface blowing bubbles (just as I was taught in class). Lacking experience, I didn’t count on the dock that was now over my head, preventing me from the much desired surface. Not panicking, knowing the dock was only 5 feet wide and that I could hold my breath for another 30 seconds, I traced with my hands the barnacled edge of the dock, and rose to the top, only to hit my head against Kandu’s hull before surfacing. Ouch, but I was on the surface now, able to easily breath again, with all my equipment and goodies in tack. From the bottom, although I had entered the water from our neighbor’s slip, where the anchor chain hung off our dock, I had no idea that I was actually working directly under the dock that separates Kandu from our neighbor’s powerboat. The anchor, when we dropped it, must have glided under the slip between our two boats. Next time, I’ll slowly lower the anchor instead of dropping it.
As I pulled myself onto the dock, Jim walked up with his ‘pony’ tank, a small tank of air with its own regulator and hose designed to help a SCUBA diver surface safely in the event his primary system fails. It was five times bigger than my Spare Air. As night fell, I descended once again, this time with Jim’s pony tank wrapped over my right shoulder like a purse, not the normal practice. As I slowly descended, attempting to not disturb the bottom, giving me time to clear my ears, my light caught the bottom; a mini moonscape. I tried to methodically and gently press down the fingers of my left hand, like a piano player lightly touching five keys. Suddenly, from the sea floor a form quickly approaches my face. Knowing that panic kills, I suppress my flight instinct and hold my position. “There’s a perfectly reasonable and benign event occurring,” I reason to myself. “It’s probably the silt percolating up from something disturbed by my right side,” I surmise, and continue my search until again my air runs out and I’m forced to surface. Again I’m under the dock, and again I rise under Kandu, but this time, I’m not surprised.
After a hot shower and I rinse all the gear off with fresh water, Jim tells me of his underwater, search and rescue exercises, learned as part of his certification. Tie a lanyard (small rope) to the anchor and gently swim around the perimeter that the lanyard allows as you circle the anchor (approximately 8′ radius), looking only (he lent me his big underwater spotlight), no touching. If I’m not successful just looking, then I gently touch the surface, again using the lanyard as search perimeter tool. So today I pulled our hookah system and Honda generator out of storage, and plan to put them into service for the first time, checking them out, and finding those glasses. The adventure continues . . . .
Before School, Trent Demonstrates Spare Air Placement
The weather in Ventura Marina these past months has been spectacular, warm days and cool evenings, mostly clear skies with a touch of breeze that awakens from the east before shifting westerly.
Our expeditionary effort to prepare our vessel is progressing with little interference. We hope to depart southward around November 4 (no promises!), pulling into the Southern California marinas that inhabit the coastline between Ventura and the Mexican boarder.
Today and tomorrow, we make open our boat to family, friends, and neighbors; many who have not yet seen Kandu. Leslie sent out the “Open Boat” invitation last week and many responded affirmatively. So with extra special attention, we’re swabbing Kandu’s hull and decks.
Last night the Baja Ha-ha committee emailed information about the paperwork needed to properly enter Mexico. Before arriving, we’ll need Mexican liability insurance and at least one fishing license ($42/yr). Upon arrival in a port of entry (which will likely be Ensenada now that we’re no longer in the race to get down to Cabo), from the military bank, Banjercito, we will have to purchase a $50 Temporary Import Permit for the boat, listing our more expensive contents (make, model, serial number), good for 10 years (if you don’t replace anything). Each crewmember will need a $20 tourist visa (FMM Visitor Card) and the boat owner must provide several copies of a crew list in Spanish with passport numbers, etc., for approval. We must also be prepared to show the original copy of the boat’s U.S. documentation (proof of ownership and registry).
“Are you excited?” a question I often get asked and will likely be asked today as we talk about our plans. Being less than a month away from departure, it’s reasonable to assume that I would be. But I am not. I am so focused on getting the requisite tasks completed that I do not afford myself the pleasure of anticipated joy, fearing that daydreaming may in some way interfere/distract me from the pressing goal at hand. I’m eating my vegetables while blocking thoughts of dessert, knowing that at the other side of the table a menu of great desserts awaits. Although Kandu is not yet fully loaded with all her purchased bells and whistles (working on it!), this morning, as another beautiful sunrise melts the evening sky, I look forward to introducing our friends to the self-contained fiberglass vessel that will be our floating spaceship-home for the next five years (mas o menos), . . . I am excited about that.
“The captain is sorry to announce that our flight has been delayed.” But not for long!!!
We have to remember that we’re leaving for a 5+-year circumnavigation, not just a single-season cruise to Mexico or even to French Polynesia and back (something I’ve done twice!).
Too long, but not too late
Cost-Benefit Analysis: Starting with the cost; 1) important equipment has yet to be finalized and commissioned: the self-steering wind vane, anchors (new chain and rode), the desalinator, the HAM radio weather fax, the HAM radio email, the satellite texting device, the outboard motors, the generator, the air compressor, the gennaker sail (having to have a sailmaker remake it after hoisting it for the first time this weekend and finding it too long), the medical training (IV administration and suturing) and provisions are not complete, and we have not loaded the boat with all its currently land-stored equipment, finding a smart place to stow the items; 2) important services are not established: boat insurance (awaiting survey report) and mail forwarding; 3) land separation is not complete; consolidation of storage into one location and buttoning up that storage against possible water and earthquake damage, valuable items not yet sold (cars, drone, refrigerant, etc.), and business banking circumstance not yet established. 4) media capture (video production and post) and communication component (school dialog, website administration, blog, Facebook/Twitter/Instagram) of trip not yet firmed up; and 5) I do not want to leave port having to complete the above tasks under significantly more complicated circumstances of added time (shipping), costs (cost more to ship parts, plus import fees, and less room for error), and access to assistance and expertise, all of which would add stress to an already stressful situation.
The most important reason for me personally, is that for years, and especially this last year, particularly the past 6 months, I have been working non-stop to prepare the multiple aspects surrounding our family expedition, with little to no attention paid to family–especially Bryce and Trent. The number one reason of the trip is to bring us closer together as a family. Ironically, preparing for this trip has made me less accessible than had we stayed on land and I continued to work in my previous career. There is an expectation that once we leave the dock and the trip begins that Bryce and Trent will have their father back and Leslie while have her husband. I do not want to leave the dock with nothing but my rear-end and elbows visible to my family while I finish up the above tasks. I do not want to remain working on the boat in foreign ports while the family goes off to visit the host country without me. I do not wish to miss the opportunity to document our experiences. I feel such would be to break my promise to my family and to myself. For this and the other above reasons, we have decided to forgo joining the Baja Ha-ha in ten days.
Although we will miss the high energy camaraderie and potential relationships that may have otherwise been forged, as well as an earlier start date; we will instead be able to meander down the coast of Southern California coastline at our own pace, stay at reciprocal yacht clubs, and finish up last minute (but important) details and purchases along the way. The boys will be able to celebrate Halloween with the middle school friends and we’ll all be able to attend the wedding of a close family member, visiting with family and friends from afar who will come to attend it, especially my brother, Curtis, who is flying out from his home in Sydney, Australia.
Adding two weeks to our departure from Ventura and two or more weeks more before we leave the country to foreign ports in exchange for a more pleasant, safe, and familial beginning to a multi-year adventure seems an obvious course of action. I am satisfied with our decision and sleep well. Although smaller things will be left to complete after our departure, I now smile as I go about the business of finishing the major items on my list, no longer constrained by the artificial deadline I imposed on myself.
Two weeks before our intended departure date, and I can’t sleep. After all the years of preparation, I’m anxious that I won’t have time or the space to stuff our boat with all the things I think we may need, or really want to have on board.
Intellectually I appreciate that no one leaves with everything good to go, satisfied that everything is ready. That’s why we signed up with the Baja Ha-ha; to have a hard date for departing. At the same time, the most dangerous thing for a ocean-going cruiser is a schedule. Weather should be the primary factor in deciding when to go, not a group who decided this departure date a year ago. Hurricane Odile recently hit Cabo very hard. The marina may not be ready for 125 boats. Then again, maybe this is the excuse I need to take a couple more weeks to get things settled up for the longer journey, the five year plan. Maybe we’ll leave Ventura as stated, but stay in San Diego for a bit longer, skip the Ha-ha. But maybe, if I continue to work 12 hour days, with Leslie’s and my uncle’s help, I can get the boat ready enough to leave with the Ha-ha group.
Yesterday was the first time in six months that I cut my hair. I didn’t have the desire to take time away from working on the boat, but my cousin offered to cut it for me Sunday evening, so I took her up on the offer. Here we made all this sacrifice to be with the kids, and I have had less free time with the boys than when I was working my career. It’s crazy. I’ve postponed so much of my life over the past decade, and now, I feel as if I’m postponing life more than ever, that I’m missing important moments with Bryce and Trent. Crazy, isn’t it? I should be excited to be leaving in two weeks, but instead I find that my focus is even more intense. I got to get this boat ready and our land life boxed up.
The Ha-ha is also to be on opportunity for us to meet other kid boats. So far, although we’ve elected to share our contact info with other kid boats, no one has reached out. Last year, we saw maybe one or two other kid boats at the send off party. Maybe there aren’t so many to make much of a difference.
I know the sailing and the traveling and the adventure will be great for the family and for me in the end. I have to know it. We’ve put so much of our family’s resources of time and money into this venture, I have to believe it. Boy, am I anxious. I keep reaching out to have faith that this will be as great as I’ve envisioned. I have not experienced full relief, or the feeling of satisfaction derived from a sense of completion for so long. I hope I feel it within a couple months. I can’t remember when I have felt it. This is not fun.
Now I have to try and sleep so can be effective today. I have a lot to do, as usual.
Preparing Kandu over the past several years, vendors and boat owners have shared many negative (or “realistic,” if you’re a pessimist) expressions. Most common: “The best two days of boat ownership are the day you buy it and the day you sell it.” Second most common: “A boat is a hole in the water in which you throw money.” Third most common: “The definition of cruising—instead of everyday working on your boat in your home port, you work on it everyday in exotic ports.” Common: “Cruising is 99% boredom, 1% shear terror” and “No matter the perceived difficulty of a given task prior to its commencement, it will always turn out to be much more difficult in the end.” Not so common: “The skills required to maintain a boat are simple. The challenge is having to know all 10,000 of them.” Most painful: “BOAT is an acronym for ‘Break Out Another Thousand [$].’”
Truth lies in all these expressions. Worst is when they hit together like a shower of daggers attempting to assassinate your attitude, to weaken your will to press on with your goal to sail to foreign ports and adventures beyond. When preparing an older boat for long distance, long-term cruising, many disappointments strike each day, anything from “they don’t make these anymore,” to “you have to replace the whole thing/all of them”, to “but a professional installed it just last month,” and “how does hoisting my brand new $5000 sails break my professionally rebuilt $3000 furling systems and damage my sails?” (That was a bad day.)
In the morning, when a marine surveyor (a professional you pay to tell you what’s wrong with your boat) inspecting your boat tells you that you need to replace your manual bilge exhaust hose and your boat’s steering cable, he says it in a way that sounds like a boat owner can be done with it by day’s end. So when he leaves, you’re smiling and thanking him for finding the problems. After lunch, you call to order the parts. But it’s not easy. It winds up taking two days to research what is needed, another day to find and order the parts, two days to remove the dying unit, a half day to install what turns out to be the wrong part, a half day to order the right part, two days to receive it (that is if you paid the extra money to expedite shipping), and a day to install (note: it’s markedly faster the second time) and test/adjust/calibrate it. Don’t forget about the two new tools bought to do the job. And also don’t forget that the timeframe-equation is twice multiplied: firstly for the bilge hose and secondly for the steering cable. So two weeks and three thousand dollars later, you call the surveyor to tell him the things are done.
Were I to end the account here, the bleak comments about boat ownership hold true. Why then would anyone own a cruising boat? Well, hoses are important. Should one fail, your boat could sink. I knew this before I owned a boat, but after replacing them, I now have confidence in my bilge pump hose, and the other three hoses I replaced that the surveyor didn’t flag. I replaced the other hoses when, in removing the bilge hose, I saw that they were of similar type and poor condition. All the below-the-waterline hoses have now been replaced and tested with superior hose, new fittings, and the best hose clamps. Additionally, while fussing around to find the lay of the hoses’, I had the pleasure of peering into corners and recesses of my boat that I might never have otherwise (I ain’t scared).
Steering is also important (no, duh . . .). After removing the old and installing the new, I now know how my steering system works, every nook and cranny of it. I know how to find the part numbers and where to get parts (Edson). I installed and (4 times) adjusted the assembly myself. I improved the system by adding in-line grease points to the cable conduit to help better maintain the cable within, a feature absent from its previous installation. I learned, after some debate, which grease to use, for not only the steering cable, but for most of the boat’s moving mechanical parts (SuperLube Synthetic Grease). With all that I learned, I elected to create emergency spares. For bilge pump, I re-plumbed and re-wired a portable bilge pump (the fifth bilge pump on our boat). For the steering assembly, I put together a comprehensive kit. In the event that any of the steering components should fail, between the parts I set aside and the newly acquired knowledge on how to replace the parts, I feel confident that I could repair the steering, should the need arise.
So I come out of the ordeal with greater knowledge, greater skill (only 9,998 to go!), and greater confidence. Yeah, sure, I paid for it in money, time, sweat, and frustration. But there are worse ways to spend your time and money than on preparing your “space” ship for an extended world tour with your family. And in the end, I made several new relationships with really smart people. For me, BOAT now stands for, “Buying Our Adventure Time.”
Late one afternoon in Ventura, Bryce called to me, upset. I was below deck. He was on the dock. He had dropped Trent’s Penny Board, an old-school skateboard into the water adjacent to our neighbor’s boat. Trent recently bought it from a friend and really liked it. Bryce knew the cost to replace the board would be about $100, money he didn’t want to spend. Head in hands, fighting back tears, Bryce was lamenting his circumstance. I suggested he dive for it. I made up a weighted line to sound the depth; fifteen feet we determined and Bryce rushed to get his wetsuit. Together we deployed Kandu’s stern anchor and chain over the spot he remembered splashing the board. The sun was low on the horizon. It was warm above surface and below wasn’t terribly cold. We knew he wouldn’t see much and would have to rely on touch. Passer-bys encouraged Bryce to give it try, warning how difficult the task would be. It took a couple of dives before Bryce got his rhythm and technique down. Soon after, Bryce pulled up his brother’s skateboard. Many of the other live-aboards were amazed at Bryce’s success. He was very pleased with himself. I told him to wash the board off in fresh water and spray it with WD-40, which did immediately. The board survived with little damage until a couple of weeks when one of the wheel’s bearings froze. Trent’s Uncle Nick bought and replaced all of Trent’s bearings. Trent was satisfied with the repair.
il, your boat could sink. I knew this before I owned a boat, but after replacing them, I now have confidence in my bilge pump hose, and the other three hoses I replaced that the surveyor didn’t flag. I replaced the other hoses when, in removing the bilge hose, I saw that they were of similar type and poor condition. All the below-the-waterline hoses have now been replaced and tested with superior hose, new fittings, and the best hose clamps. Additionally, while fussing around to find the lay of the hoses’, I had the pleasure of peering into corners and recesses of my boat that I might never have otherwise (I ain’t scared).
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