Towns are planned and maintained differently in Mexico than from those of our native California. When it comes to zoning, which type of establishment should stand adjacent another, such seems freely decided by a property’s owners, not city planning. If a residence is found standing adjacent to a butcher, metal working place, or restaurant—so be it. And unlike the U.S.’s Protestant edict of “Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” theirs is a Catholic culture—“If it works, performing its needed function, then consider it maintained. Life is short. Spend your time with family, not fixing property.”
So, as with many Latin American towns, earthly dust covers all and everything within the town of La Cruz, except the most modern of establishments and vehicles, which are typically owned by the wealthier few. The sediment-coated buildings are often incomplete, in disrepair, and/or thickly painted with bright colors, bringing creativity and/or masking imperfections, or both. Stains, cracks, and exposed construction are the norm. The more dusty and disheveled a place, the more authentic it feels. If a property owner strives to manicure too perfectly his or her structure, he or she somehow foregoes Mexican culture, seeking instead to serve those outside the native community. Polished floors behind air-conditioned glass doors seem the domain of visitors and other, more seasonal inhabitants.
Corner approaching La Cruz’s Central Square
As an example, take some of the establishments surrounding the town’s plaza. La Cruz’s central square is relatively new, perhaps less than 15 years old. It is joyfully designed and proudly multi-colorful, well used by the community. There is no celebration this week so it is not swept. On its quietist corner resides the town’s church. Bells in Mexico are not decoration. In California, bells hang in the bell tower, but the bells one hears are that of a recording through a speaker. In Mexico they actually ring their church bells, with gusto, long ropes are pulled from in front of the church, on Sundays and for religious celebrations.
Let the church bells ring!
Two blocks up, a 7-11 type convenience store, with its glass doors and neatly stacked beverage trays, “Sale” sign adhered, has a beverage-truck driver unloading its U.S. made product.
Back at the plaza, diagonal to the church, on the corner lot, across the main square, a half painted two-story building misses its second-story roof. Only dilapidated brick columns stand above its first floor “roof.” The downstairs is treated like an open-air storage unit of plastic lawn chairs and wooden tables, with what appears to be a misplaced but active cooler. An LED reading indicates its cold Celsius temperature. Its brilliantly lighted door advertises a beverage that’s not contained within its chilled chamber. Is that a kitchen in the corner?
Two doors down, a one-story establishment is painted freshly white. The quiet, likely pane-less windows are closed shut with white wooden planked panels. It looks new. No telltale brown dirt creeps up the base of its wall where it meets the public walkway. What is this place?
La Cruz, like much of Mexico, has much magic about her. Your eyes ignore what is not active, what is not attractive. During the day, corners, small cafes, and shops come to life. But it is at night, when the humid tropical air cools, lifting the weight of its daytime burden, that the town transforms into an enchanted village, her people coming out into the streets, populating the square. What was a motorway intersection is now a communal volleyball court for all to join, rotating in and out, laughing and cajoling under a solitary amber streetlight.
Under the cloak of the evening sky, dust, rust, exposed rebar, and peeling paint are invisible. The tables and chairs stored below the derelict looking storage unit are pulled out into the street and neatly arranged. Downstairs, opposite the simple kitchen, in the corner to the left . . . behind the mop, buckets and brooms . . . spies a hideaway circular cement stairway that brings you to the rooftop, offering a ‘skybox’ view of the volleyball action directly below. The bare columns hold up strings of small circular light bulbs. The overall transformation reveals a romantic rooftop street café. Music fills the square from the now opened windows of the newer, whitewashed establishment, unveiling a restaurant-bar. Live Latin and popular American music emanates from its small lit stage, a bold seascape mural painted on the white wall behind its bar. Gone are thoughts of construction deficiencies—the structures are perfect, their simplicity, enviable. We love this place.
Thunderheads surround and engulf Kandu on way to Galapagos
Since arriving in La Cruz, Bandaras Bay, the push for me has been to get Kandu going and to keep her so. Several unexpected problems of significant proportion required my undivided attention and complete effort: physically, mentally, and emotionally. Delays were compounded by the pressures of the upcoming hurricane season, the French Polynesian visa requirement that we arrive in June, and the disappointment of having to cross so many desirous locations off our list. These demands left little time for visiting Mexico or writing. I went to bed exhausted around 8pm and woke around 5am. The pressure was non-stop. We knew that once we left Mexico, any chance of getting parts would be very difficult, time constraining, and costly. It felt like “now or never.”
Eric on evening watch off Mexican coast aboard Kandu
At one point, it looked like the lack of supportive wind would force us to cross Galapagos off our itinerary, a magical place I really didn’t want to miss. Realizing that the wind would not be dangerous, but variable, light, and rain-riddened, we made the decision to suck it up, spend the fuel, and go for it.
Red marks on RADAR heavy rain and Kandu in the midst.
The sail to the Galapagos was uncomfortable and discouraging. Sailing in confused seas (again), motor sailing often, having to dodge thunderstorms and squalls day and night, all as we passed under the latitude of the sun and its intense tropical heat (sea temp 89oF), against the southeast trades and current, placed in jeopardy the whole idea of sailing around the world. Rain forced us to close all hatches and portlights, cutting off ventilation. Were it not for the portable 12-volt fans throughout the boat, we would have drowned in our own sweat. I often sleep in the cockpit so Bryce and Trent have easy access to me should they have any question. The last 4 days were the worst, as we tacked back and forth against ever-changing winds, through wet thunderheads, rocking in all directions, while discovering that our alternator charging system (the engine powers the alternator that makes electricity to charge the ship’s batteries) had failed for some unknown reason.
Land Ho! After 17 days, rain clouds shroud Isla Isabela at sunrise just below the equator.
Arriving in Puerto Villamil at the southern tip of Isla Isabela, the largest of the Galapagos islands, 17 days after leaving Mexico, we focus on meeting the complex entry requirements. Were it not for the help of our agent, JC DeSoto, we’d not have done so well. Entry permitted, and although many more standard issues beckon, I apply intense focus on resolving the alternator problem. It takes 8 days, more than half of our intended stay. In between the other boat maintenance requirement and preparing for the next, and longest crossing, I visit Galapagos with the family, taking several half-day excursions, land and sea.
Time constraints of the Galapagos and of French Polynesia require we leave now. Instead of sailing to Gambier, a less comfortable sail, we’ve opted for sailing directly to the Marquesas, a more favorable direction with regard to wind and sea. I can’t very much afford another uncomfortable crossing if I want to keep morale up for a 25-day crossing. In Gambier, we’d have to leave after a week or two. In the Marquesas, we can stay a month or longer, providing the rest and stability we all crave. Off to the Marquesas we go.
Marina Iguana yoga position
The intensity of effort to prepare Kandu for the Galapagos and beyond, combined with the power issue that developed along the way, prevented me from blogging. Although I have many stories to share, I’m going to have to wait until we settle into the Marquesas before I can publish. Appreciating that such breaks from regular posting are the death of a blog-site, I hope you’ll bear with us and reap the reward once we are able to share once again on a more regular basis. In the meantime, for those on Facebook and/or Twitter, we have been posting regularly to these sites via our satellite texting device, Delorme inReach SE, which provides not only the text, but a link back to our current position. The same device provides the tracking and map location of Kandu, a link to which is provided on this site’s front page. So if you’re needing your RigneyKandu fix, look for us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/rigneyskandu or me up on Facebook (Eric Rigney) or on Twitter@RigneysKandu until we can get back to delivering more in-depth writing.
This is a recap I submitted to the Ventura Yacht Club’s, that they published in their newsletter, “The Forecast,” in its “Members on the Move” section. Leslie thought I should post it for all to read:
The Rigneys aboard their Tanaya 42, Kandu, made a soft start of their planned circumnavigation, taking full advantage of reciprocity to finish last minute items aboard Kandu. They wonder if YELP should include reviews on the various yacht club showering facilities? The clubs have been very accommodating, some more regulated than others. Clubs visited in order of appearance: Del Rey, California, Alamitos Bay, Dana Point, Oceanside (Eric gave OYC his VYC presentation), Southwestern, San Diego, Silver Gate, Chula Vista, Coronado Cays, Navy (They honored reciprocity as well. The Rigneys just needed a sponsor, which the Navy club provided), back to Silver Gate and Southwestern. The new showering facilities at Silver Gate take first prize.
Ensenada brought the first international leg, and the boys responded well. VYC members Bill Kohut and Joe Houska joined them for the border crossing. Eleven-year-old Trent was and remains bent on learning Spanish. Bryce was mostly interested in skateboarding the streets and port of Ensenada, drinking Mexican Coke and drinking coconuts. Between Ventura and Puerto Vallarta, some problems arose aboard Kandu. Debris from a dissolved inspection plate gasket blocked their fuel supply. The control unit of their windvane malfunctioned. Hydraulic fluid leaked from the ram of their autopilot. And the inside rigging of their extendable spinnaker pole gave way. But nothing “mission critical” occurred that redundancy couldn’t circumvent. The first overnight sails with watch schedules went well. Thirteen-year-old Bryce has difficulty waking for the 10 p.m. to midnight watch, but is otherwise fine. The confused seas, remnants of Hurricane Pam, didn’t make for comfortable initial crossings. After two nights, Isla Cedros was their first landfall. Then a surf stop at Isla Natividad on their way to Turtle Bay. Passage to Bahia Maria meant another two night sailing in confused seas. Leslie questions going all the way to Easter Island, but will wait to see how the sail to the Galapagos goes this month. They missed the Grey Whales in Mag Bay by a week (darn wind generator controller and fuel blockage!). The four day passage to La Cruz, just outside Puerto Vallarta, provided two days of favorable seas and wind, which calmed to a day and half of low rpm motoring (tachometer quit, so they go by ear until Bill Kohut arrives with a new sender unit in a few days). Bill Kohut is flying to meet them in Puerto Vallarta, bringing many requested parts and supplies. Kandu is thoroughly shaken down and ready for her long upcoming passages: Galapagos, Easter Island (maybe), and French Polynesia. Don’t forget to follow them on the website and subscribe to their blog feed at RigneysKandu.com. It includes a map link that will track in real-time their passages.
Post script: Easter Island and Pitcairn are off the list for now, due to time constraints surrounding our visa with French Polynesia. Maybe we’ll visit them on our return, after transiting the Panama Canal. Today, April 30, after many false starts, we plan to leave the Puerto Vallarta area for the Galapagos. It will take 15 days or more, before we arrive in Isla Isabela.
A couple of days ago on Thursday, April 2nd, we sailed to Bahia Maria from Bahia Tortugas. By the way, the Spanish word “Bahia” means “Bay.” We were told that it was a great surf spot. When we got there it was too windy to do much of anything except put the boat away, eat dinner, take outdoor showers, and rest from our 48 hours of sailing. The next morning, Kandu motored over to the other side of the bay to find some good surf. As we were looking at the waves, we saw on the beach some sand dunes. They looked like they could be really fun to slide down. Dad didn’t want us to go right away to the sand dunes because the only reason we were at Bahia Maria was to surf. So we found a nice spot and Bryce and I set off to go surfing. The waves were okay, but after an hour or more, we decided it was time to go sand duning.
Bryce and I paddled back to the boat to get ready for the dunes. Dad motored Kandu over to where the dunes looked the best and Bryce and I headed off on our banana yellow kayak with boogie boards. Once we got close to the waves we waited for a set to go by and started paddling as hard as we could. We looked behind us and we saw a wave forming, so we paddled even harder and faster. Unfortunately the wave crashed right behind the kayak and hit us. We totally failed at staying dry. I jumped off the kayak so it wouldn’t flip over, and started running with all my might, the kayak following right behind me. Bryce also jumped off, but into deeper water. We made it to shore, just a bit wetter than we had wanted. We had a really great time sand duning.
Bahia Maria, our own private playground of surf and sand.
Two days ago, we arrived in La Cruz, Mexico, not far from Puerto Vallarta. At first we anchored, but the next day, we rented a slip to make Internet easier. We have a lot of work to do that requires emailing and Internet research. Turning around Cabo San Lucas, we definitively hit a more tropical clime, T-shirts and shorts on watch. Since Ensenada, we’ve had two 2-night passages and one 4-night passage, stopping at three cove/bays. Some issues were shaken out of Kandu and we’re addressing them as timely and cost-effectively as we can. The hottest issue for us now is a leaking hydraulic ram used by the autopilot to steer the boat. Although it was recently rebuilt by the manufacturer, we need to replace it, an expensive and arduous task. My uncle, Bill, is really helping tremendously in this effort, postponing his joining us until he has a replacement in hand. It’s proving difficult to find an appropriate replacement, the right size for the available space. Consequently we think we’ll be “stuck” in Mexico for a couple of weeks, before we can head off to the Galapagos.
Leslie as we come into Cedros Island after two nights at sea.Turtle Bay Sunrise
After 21 days in lovely San Diego Bay and having imbibed various green beverages in celebration of last night’s St. Patrick’s Day*, Kandu and crew are prepared to leave San Diego for Ensenada Friday at 5 a.m. While in Ensenada, we’ll plan our sailing and surfing for the coast of Baja and over to Puerto Vallarta before heading out to the Galapagos. Friday will mark our first international port of call, an important milestone following years of preparation. Hope to have the inReach device working to post our positions for you. Follow as well RigneysKandu on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. We’ll do our best to keep you posted. Wish us luck!
*Trent and I took advantage of our last day of having a car and drove into town last night to enjoy some hot wings at Kansas City Barbaque, a restaurant used in the filming of Top Gun.
Sunforce 600W Marine Wind Turbine mounted on Kandu’s poop deck.
More than two years ago, I purchased and had my uncle install a replacement wind turbine, a propeller on its own mast at the back of the boat that the wind spins, turning an alternator. I bought a new one because the old one looked tired and parts were unavailable. Passive generation of electricity is important to us, helping us minimize the cost and time of having to burn hydrocarbons to charge our batteries.
As the wind spins the alternator, generated AC electricity is sent to a controller, called an MPPT (Maximum Power Point Tracking). Among its roles, the controller monitors the output of the wind generator and compares it to the charge on the battery. If the battery is drawn down to a lower voltage than the wind generator is producing, the controller converts the AC volts to DC volts and sends the electrical charge to the hungry batteries. If the batteries are charged, the controller avoids the conversion, and the electricity goes nowhere. My problem is that our controller isn’t sending the product electricity the wind generator is manufacturing to the wanting batteries.
Controller: the brains between wind generation and batteries. This one will be replaced.
To confirm my suspicion, I followed Brett’s advice (a retired marine electrician and former commercial fisher, living in San Diego, a friend of my in-laws) and drew down Kandu’s house batteries from 12.9 volts to 12.0 volts, making them very hungry batteries. When the wind came up, the controller should have been eager to feed them, but it would not. Calling the manufacturer, a French-Canadian company in Quebec called Sunforce products, I spoke with one of its support technicians, Fernando (a not so French sounding name, I know). After laying out all that I had done to narrow down the problem, he independently came to the same conclusion: a bad controller. But it had been more than two years since I had purchased the unit and they had since discontinued the product. Arrgh! I explained to Fernando that I had been working hard these past two years to prep our boat for our circumnavigation. Although I had installed it two years ago, assuming that because it was new it would be fine, and although I was having my suspicions about the unit, it was only now that I had made time to fully test it.
US Navy Yacht Club, Kandu awaits arrival of new controllers to San Diego.
Compassionate Fernando was not deterred. Sunforce had a few non-marine grade controllers left: one in the lab and a couple on the shelf. After testing them, without asking for a receipt or a serial number, just an address, Fernando shipped two units to me: the lab one because it was so well tested that he knew it would work, and a second, because neither were marine grade so he wanted us to have a back-up. The issue has delayed our departure by a week, . . . so what’s new? When the replacement controllers arrive, it will take a day to install the lab one, and we’ll be right as rain, arguably better than had there been no problem. I’m impressed with Sunforce for backing its products the way they do. May the (sun)Force be with us!
It’s funny how a single experience can taint one’s overall impression of a place. Having my phone pick-pocketed at Chula Vista’s Costco on Monday cast a negative shadow over this American border town. The officers of the Chula Vista Yacht Club have been one of the most welcoming of any club, with Commodore Ron and Dockmaster Jim coming down to greet us as we arrived at their spacious guest dock. They even arranged a fourth day for us. Chula Vista Marina is at the most southern end of San Diego Bay, just seven miles from the US-Mexico border. Coming in to the marina at low tide in the late afternoon was tenuous. Kandu’s depth sounder or transponder read 6.5’. She draws 6’. I couldn’t recall whether I set the sounder to display feet from surface or feet before grounding Kandu’s keel, a setting I’ll have to check this morning (no, duh). Chula Vista Yacht Club started in 1883, five years before the San Diego YC. But being at the harbors bottom and at the mouth of several washes, after a few flood rains, the basin silted up, and the club dissolved until 1988, around the time the harbor was dredged and the marina built. This is the first marina we’ve visited where a security guard patrols the docks. Still, we feel safe here, aboard our quiet home afloat, . . . that is, until the next day.
With their one-year visa, French Polynesia requires two passport photos per person upon arrival in French Polynesia. Our yacht agent at Tahiti Crew will be representing us, so we wanted to send her the photos to bring to the Papeete immigration office on our behalf. Costco is close to the Chula Vista Marina, so we drive over there to get our pictures taken.
It is quick. The photo clerk says it will be 30 minutes before they were ready: 3:50 p.m. We separate, Leslie and Trent go to the food court to get a ‘Chicken Bake’ for Trent, and I leave with Bryce so he can taste the various samples throughout the store. After half a dozen samples, we leave the warehouse interior to join Leslie and Trent outside, in line at the food court. I decide to get a ‘Latte Freeze.’ I don’t drink a lot of coffee, so when I do, I catch a significant energy high. After picking up our “food, glorious food,” I stay with Trent so he can eat seated. Leslie and Bryce walk over to neighboring Walmart to check out the $5 DVD movies bin. Since arriving to take our photos, I calculate that I’ve been at Costco for a total of about 30-35 minutes before Trent and I leave Costco and walk across the parking lot to join Leslie and Bryce and look for movies.
After ten minutes of sorting through movies, I realize that my phone is missing from my right, back pocket, which I recall having zipped shut. Bryce and Trent swear they don’t have it. A terrible feeling comes over me. Having recently reset the phone, the screen isn’t locked, providing complete access to my email and contact list. I fight off a sickening feeling, preferring instead to “review the situation.” First, I rush to our car to make sure I’m not having a “senior moment” (I now qualify for senior coffee at McDonald’s . . . ). Affirming it isn’t in the car, I rush back to Leslie and from her phone, call mine. Maybe someone found it and dropped it off with the store? Maybe someone was waiting for me to call it so they could return it to me? From Leslie’s phone I dial my phone. It rings. Someone picks up, but remains silent. I plea, “You have my phone. This is my phone. I need my phone . . . .” And they hang up. Now I know it is a theft.
So I call T-Mobile and shut down the iPhone’s calling service and lock its serial number so it can’t be enrolled in another plan. Talking with the T-Mobile technician about securing or erasing the media on the phone, he asks if I engaged the “Find My Phone” feature and whether I knew my Apple ID and password. That’s when I get an incoming call. Guessing it might be the person with my phone, I ask the tech to hold while I take the call.
“Did you call about your phone?” says a young man’s voice with a slight Spanish accent.
“Yes, do you have it?”
“No, but I’m with a man who doesn’t speak English who found it at Costco. He wants to return it to you.”
I’m hopeful that is was a dumb error and that I had actually left the phone somewhere and this good Samaritan was going to return it to me. “Great. I’m near Costco. I can meet you right now.”
“He’s not at Costco. He’s at the last trolley stop before Mexico.”
The sick feeling comes back. “How can I get it?”
“How fast can you get here? He’s on his way back to Mexico and wants to go now. Can you be here in 5 minutes?”
“I’m not from here, I’m at Costco, you tell me how long it will take and give me directions. I’ll leave now.”
“Is there a reward for the phone?”
“Yes. Okay. How much is the reward? What’s he want?”
“$20-$30.”
“Done. I’ll pay it. Where do I go?”
“Meet us at the trolley station next to Sunset Elementary. He’s wearing a red zip-up sweatshirt with a light-blue T-Shirt. What’s your car look like?”
“A red Prius. I’m leaving now.”
“See you.”
I tell the T-Mobile tech what I’m doing and to stand-by. He says he’ll call me back every 10-15 minutes to check up on me.
Man, I’ve got to pee, but do I have time? I shouldn’t have had that coffee. I’m buzzed. I take the time, then find Leslie and tell her what’s going on as she’s still shopping. I take Bryce and Trent because I think Latino’s like kids and are less likely to have any funny business in front of them.
Every stoplight is taking forever. Trolley trains are dropping arms in front of me. I’m nervous that this may be the very train the guy wants to take home. T-Mobile calls back. “Not now, Aaron, you knocked out my map!” I miss my turn and another trolley comes and drops the arms in front of me. I’m panicked. I’m taking too long. I shouldn’t have pee’d. The arms come up, I turn right, and tear down the street to the elementary school less than a quarter mile away. I pull up to the school and get out. A police officer, lights flashing, comes out of his truck behind me. “Identification and registration, right now!!! I’m pulling you over for speeding down Berry.” “I’m sorry. You’re probably right.” I get the documents he wants and tell him that this is a very bad day. “Some guy stole my phone at Costco and is going to sell it back to me somewhere around here, and now I’m getting a ticket.”
“We’ll get your phone back. And you won’t have to pay for it. Call your kids back.” I had Bryce and Trent looking for the guy, in case he was at the school. I’m concerned that he saw the police and took off with my phone. I am so frustrated.
“Here’s your citation. You can hire a $99 lawyer who can probably make it go away. Now let’s go get your phone.”
$250 Chula Vista souvenir
I park my car in a safer spot while the police officer writes up another ticket to a car parked near the school. Walking the three short blocks to the trolley station, I see a dark complexion Latino man in a red sweatshirt zipped down to show his light blue T-shirt. He’s leaning against the cement wall that leads to the trolley platform. A young man with curly dark brown hair leans adjacent to him, presumably the guy who spoke with me. They’re smiling as if one said something funny to the other. As I approach, Bryce and Trent catch up behind me. The two men are quiet. The young guy asks, “Come to get your phone?”
“Yes.”
The man in the red sweatshirt pulls out from his right pocket my phone. “Is this your phone?” asks the young guy.
“Yes.” And the red sweat-shirt guy hands it to me to check.
Whoop-whoop pops the siren, “You’re under arrest!” The traffic officer walks swiftly our way with has his hand over his handgun. “Show me some identification right now. Do you know it’s a felony to sell a . . . .”
I can’t hear him. My eyes are too focused. I see the left hand of the red sweat-shirted man pulling out a very stuffed leather wallet. His hand is gimp around the thumb. He couldn’t have pick-pocketed me, but he looks like a really bad guy. He moves very slowly and deliberately. I’m guessing he has people working for him, bringing them their catch, like the ‘Bill Sikes’ character from “Oliver.” I seem to recognize the young guy from Costco, looking at clothes, looking at me as I passed by him earlier that day. The young man is pleading his case, but I can’t hear him. I’m focused on what I see. The officer looks sternly at me and tells me to leave; reminding me that he has my information. “Get out of here, . . . go.” So we do . . . quickly, back to the car, with my phone and my ticket. The boys say they saw that the red sweat-shirted man had several phones in his pocket.
In the car, as I am driving away, my phone rings. It’s Aaron, the tech from T-Mobile. I update him. He says that this doesn’t happen everyday, and reactivates my phone. He said iPhones are hard to steal because providers can shut them down and track them anywhere in the world where there’s Internet. He thinks the thief realized I was actively pursuing my phone and thought it better to make money on the reward. Had I locked my phone’s screen, he wouldn’t have been able to locate the number from which I had called him. As we drive back to Costco where Leslie is waiting for us, Bryce puts the screen lock on my phone.
I feel uneasy, having been so close to corrupt forces. I think of all the heartache, sadness, and frustration these men cause and hope my odd series of misfortune takes them off the street for at least a little bit. Walking to our boat, I feel the need to lock her and all of our stuff up, the first time since owning her. Driving through Chula Vista, I’m not comfortable anymore. I’m on edge. The manager of the Costco said that in the two years that he’s been there, he’d never heard of such an incident, so he’s not prepared to change anything just yet. I’m most grateful for getting my phone back, not having to change all my passwords again or worry about everyone getting stupid emails from my email accounts. With the song “Pick a Pocket or Two” playing in my head, I think how sad it is that one incident can have such an effect on one’s perception of a whole city. But I’m optimistic by nature and know soon I will again feel that, all in all, “It’s a Fine Life.”
Things were looking up, passing under the Coronado Bridge on our way to Chula Vista Marina
Note to the reader. Again, just as with my last posting, this is one of the (even longer), “this is what I learned to today, everything you ever wanted to know about” blog posts. For those less technically drawn, my next post will be about retrieving my smuggled pick-pocketed phone near the US-Mexican border.
San Diego’s peacock-colored skyline at dusk, as seen across from the Silver Gate Yacht Club at Shelter Island.
Long time, pre-college friend, Deren, having read my previous blog post, “Fuel for Thought,” got on a plane and flew from Seattle to San Diego to help me finish getting Kandu ready. With his help, we found the likely source of a clicking sound I’d heard when we came in from Oceanside: the alternator belt on the engine was loose and worn. We replaced it and the refrigerator air-conditioning compressor belt as well. With a little help from Bryce, Deren replaced the rechargeable batteries in the solar vents, while I determined that the wind generator had a faulty controller and arranged for a replacement. We tested the Honda generator, insuring it could properly charge our boat’s batteries. And we went sailing in San Diego Harbor, successfully testing the wind vane self-steering. With Deren’s help, we accomplished three days of work in one!!! I was elated. We celebrated with a Bali-Hai Restaurant cocktail (the strongest libation California law allows a bar to sell) and a spectacular view of a full-moon rising over a peacock-colored San Diego skyline.
Full Moon Rising over San Diego
The next day, with fish net in hand, we removed the inspection plate from Kandu’s largest fuel tank, the 90-gal center tank, located in the bilge. Following legend Tom’s advice (read blog post “Fuel for Thought, Part II”), I had marinated the fuel in bacteria sugars-eating elixir for 5 days.
11″ cover plate. The towels buffer nuts from straying too far while removing.
Lifting off the 11-inch diameter steel inspection plate cover, we immediately observed the rotted edges of the black neoprene gasket material that made the seal between the outside edge of the cover and the 8-inch diameter steel tank opening. Carefully we cut away the rotted gasket material from around the opening, insuring nothing fell into the tank. Once cleanly removed, it was time to perform Tom’s other recommended tasks: 1) determine whether the tank’s drawtubes had filters on the end, and if so, their condition, possibly removing and cleaning them, and 2) find and remove whatever material may be blocking the drawtube.
Long time friend, Deren, sporting two sets of eye glasses and an LED spotlight, helps envision next steps.
Appreciating the importance of the tasks, I couldn’t leave success up to chance. I needed the best possible information I could afford. I also wanted to know whether I had a bunch of slimy tar-like sludge at the bottom of my tank, or slime growing on the sides of my tanks. Rather than blindly waving a fish net in hopes of capturing the offending articles, I decided to alleviate any doubt. From the outside face of the tank, I compare the depth of the tank against the length of my arm. The inspection plate is close enough to the aft-side of the tank and the bottom is shallow enough that my arm should easily reach the bottom of the drawtube. Removing my shirt, I reach the full length of my arm into the bowels of the tank. Fortunately for me, I don’t have the best sense of smell, so the Eau d’Diesel wasn’t bothering me so much. Besides, I find the newer diesel formula doesn’t smell as bad as the older stuff did. Reaching down to the bottom of the 5/16” drawtube’s intake, all questions were answered. A quarter-sized piece of rubber is stuck to its end and I felt no filter. Feeling around further, I found and removed large pieces of rubber, making up what was likely the 8” center of the 11” gasket. It turns out that the gasket wasn’t a ring but rather a single circular piece. The center had dissolved and dropped to the bottom of the tank. Piece by slimy piece, I pulled the harmful segments from the tank’s bottom. The diesel had apparently swelled the rubber material. Most satisfyingly, the slimy texture seemed more a result of oily diesel having saturated the neoprene rubber than that of a bacterial coating. Better yet, I felt no slimy sludge at the tank’s bottom or sides or top, only some rust sediment which is too heavy and would be easily filtered even if it did get pulled up into the drawtube, nothing to worry about. I am relieved, . . . very relieved. Better to discover all this now, in the calm of San Diego Bay than later, in the rough of Mexico and the Pacific beyond.
My elation is clouded by disappointment, why had someone installed such a poor gasket material, something that could dissolve and slough off into the tank and block fuel flow? The tanks had been cleaned by a professional tank cleaner four and half years earlier in San Carlos, Mexico, a popular boating town on the eastern edge of the Sea of Cortez. Surely, as a professional, he knew what he was doing when he replaced the gaskets? Then it dawned on me: newer US diesel is formulated with biofuels and additives that don’t exist (or at least didn’t 4.5 years ago) in Mexico. The new diesel eats rubber. Aware now of the problem, we made a plan to replace all four inspection plate gaskets (the main/center tank has two inspection plates, the second is a square opening added after the factory). First, we had to determine with what material to replace the faulty gaskets. While I moved on to other tasks, Deren walked to vendors along Shelter Island Drive to determine the proper substance. Cork was one idea that I rejected immediately. Ten minutes later, Deren called with a recommendation of nitrile. After a couple of phone calls, I located a distributor in northern San Diego’s industrial park. They said nitrile was indeed impervious to diesel. Thank goodness Leslie wanted to keep our car until we left California! An hour later, I had a $20 roll of shiny black, stinky nitrile rubber on board.
Cutting diesel impervious nitrile into inspection plate gaskets for Kandu’s fuel tanks at the Silver Gate Yacht Club guest dock.
While Deren prepared the other tanks for the removal of their inspection plate covers, using the center tank’s plate as a cutting pattern, and the side tanks having the same size inspection plates, I went on the dock and used a utility knife to cut the rubber to shape. Inspection plate by inspection plate, we carefully removed the deteriorating gasket material and replaced it with fresh cut, 1/8” nitrile.
Deren prepares inspection plate removal from saddle tanks.
The center gasket material for the side (a.k.a. “saddle”) tanks had not yet fallen in. We were able to remove them intact. But the center section of the second, rectangular, inspection plate, the ‘after-market’ one installed as an after-thought on the forward part of the center tank, had been eaten away, just the rotted rubber outline remained. So, without hesitation, we prepared a bucket, I pulled off my shirt and confidently slipped my arm carefully through the opening and into the cool cavity of pinkish diesel. But unlike the other side of the tank, I found no rubber bits at the bottom of the tank. Each tank has baffles, metal walls of sheet metal welded in place to prevent the fuel from sloshing back and forth. Holes in the baffles allow fuel to flow more slowly toward the lowest part of the tank, where by means of the engine’s fuel pump, the drawtube, like a straw, sucks fuel into the engine’s injectors, after passing through four fuel filters. The baffle hole edges are sharp. I needed to be careful when I reached into them, searching around and behind the baffle walls with my fingers like a game of blind-man’s hide’n’seek. Still, I found nothing. I did it again, to be sure, and again, I found nothing. The tank has no slime, but no trace of the deteriorated rubber either. Then it came to me: I had pulled a lot of rubber out of that first inspection plate port. Maybe with all the movement, the rubber from this port had made its way past all the baffles to the lowest part of the tank and to the other port. But how could I be sure? I recalled that when a mother gives birth, to insure the entire placenta has been removed, OB GYN’s piece together on a side table all extracted placenta bits and make a complete placenta, thus confirming no pieces remain inside the mother. On the dock, I set down a large black plastic trash bag and pulled from the orange 5-gallon plastic bucket the pieces we had collected. I set aside the saddle tanks’ gaskets, as they were intact. Making space for the center tank’s gaskets, I first took the drier edge remnants of the circular port and butted them up to each other. Paying close attention to how the edges lined up, careful to match their patterns, I made a ring. But the center circular section of the gasket was larger than the outer ring, presumably because it had swelled with diesel and slept on the bottom. Still I was able to piece most of it together. There were plenty of rubber pieces left to make up another gasket puzzle. I laid out the dry outer edge of the rectangular inspection plate gasket. The inside pieces dwarfed the outline, so I pieced the interior puzzle adjacent to it. It was a near perfect match and I was satisfied that we have recovered everything from the rectangular port. Only a nickel-sized strip was missing from the circular gasket. Either we weren’t so careful to toss all the extracted pieces into the bucket, or there’s still a piece of rubber floating somewhere behind a center tank’s baffle, large enough to plug the center tank’s drawtube. Solution? 1) Draw the fuel from the saddle tanks first. 2) Using the fuel polishing system, pull and filter fuel from the center tank into the emptied saddle tank. 3) Should the polisher’s fuel pump get held up by the orphaned piece, or once we get to a calm anchorage in a couple of months, I’ll reach in again and feel around for the rascal. In the meantime, because the saddle tanks sit higher than the engine’s fuel pump, it’s better to draw fuel from them, taking advantage of gravity to feed the engine than to draw from a tank that sits lower than the engine’s fuel pump, making it work harder.
Among the many tasks Deren completed in three days, adding two emergency backstays was one.
And so ends the mystery of Kandu’s fuel problem: time was devoted, knowledge was gained, and only a little money spent—a more-than-fair trade. The next day with Deren was as equally productive as were the first two, eliminating nearly all my hardware tasks. His was a gift well received. For the first time in two and half years, I woke up without a significant to-do list pointed at my head. The Bali-Hai Mai-Tai didn’t hurt either.
Imbibe at our own risk . . . we’d been duly warned!
Note to the reader. This is one of my long, “this is what I learned to today, everything you ever wanted to know about” blog posts. Not everyone’s cup of tea. But if you’re interested in the process of solving a problem on a cruising boat, and in state of the art biochemical technology, then this post is for you.
Diesel fuel ‘legend,’ Tom, prefers not to be photographed.
I woke up with one mission: to develop that day a cost and time effective plan to address our fuel tank problem. In order to develop a plan, I would need information, options. I usually do this by consulting with as many experienced yachtsmen and professionals as possible. From our cockpit I could see thunderclouds and the rain they carried, drifting off San Diego’s southern horizon. After breakfast, my father-in-law, Ron, who was staying at a nearby motel, visiting us, opted to join me in my quest. Together we headed off to one of the west coast’s revered marine chandleries: Downwind Marine.
Having the day before docked Kandu at the prestigious San Diego Yacht Club, we were only blocks away from this venerable vendor. Having previously visited West Marine, the US yachting industries largest (perhaps only) chain marine hardware store, didn’t carry fuel bladders. A fuel bladder is a sturdy bag capable of holding diesel or gasoline. Some boats have them to extend their range of travel (the more fuel, the further your engine can take you), but I wanted to use one to temporarily store the diesel within Kandu’s tanks, allowing me to clean the emptied tank without having to throw the diesel away. I had hoped that this privately owned shop would carry them, and true to their reputation, they did. I wanted a 50-gallon bladder, but the largest he had, held 25 gal. When I saw the price, $440, I realized a bladder was not cost-effective. I described to the clerk my intentions for the bladder. He then recommended a used plastic 55-gal. drum, sometimes free on Craig’s list. A second later, he explained that the fuel may be old and possibly contaminated. He suggested we consider having all 200 gal. of fuel pumped out and dumped by a qualified fuel dock, like Pearson’s down the street, then pump back in fresh diesel. At about $4/gal, $800 and maybe 4 hours to swap fuel, it didn’t seem crazy. I asked about cleaning the tanks. He recommended inquiring with Pearson’s for that as well, and provided directions to two marine diesel mechanic shops in case Pearson’s didn’t offer the service or have a recommendation.
Driving the four blocks down the street to Pearson’s, I was intrigued by this new option. It seemed viable, especially if our fuel were contaminated.
Exiting the car from Pearson’s parking lot, it started to sprinkle, so I pulled out a small black spring-loaded umbrella. Walking through the center opening of the beige and brown A-frame office structure to the fuel docks, I peek into their small offices but didn’t see any managers or clerks, so I continued on down the docks to the fuel pump area. A young attendant was casting off a cruising sailboat, presumably one which he’d topped up with diesel. As he walked back up the ramp I had just descended, I told him briefly about my fuel problem. He pointed to a guy walking from the parking lot to the structure and said; “See that guy in the red hat? His name is Jim. That’s the guy you want to talk to.”
Jim is an old salt: cynical, amused by the experience that others lack, and willing to help plebes like me. I told him my problem, that I had an engine with a fuel problem, about 200 gallons of two-year-old diesel in three tanks, and that I suspected algae had populated my tanks. He said, “A forest, and it’s more like 3 years instead of 2. I’ve been doing this too long. What type of boat?” When I told him a Tayana 42, he winced. I asked him why the look. He explained that Tayana’s have filters at the end of their fuel tank drawtubes, buried inside the tank, an unnecessary and annoying feature. He said that fuel filtering should be left to external fuel filters that can be easily replaced. He suggested I shock the tanks with a special additive engineered to address our problem, and added, “Hopefully you didn’t add BioBor?” “Just yesterday,” I replied. He winced again. “That stuff turns algae into tar, making it really tough to get it out of your tanks. You better talk to Tom. He’ll know best how to solve your problem.”
“Do I need to have my fuel pumped out and polished?”
“Talk to Tom.”
“Do I need to get my tanks opened up and cleaned?”
“Talk to Tom. He’s across the street at the yard, second floor, ‘Oceanview.’ Tom’s the guy . . . be sure to tell him about the BioBor.”
“I’ll tell him you sent me.”
“No need. He knows it’s me.”
I thanked Jim, and in the now pouring rain, searched out his highly recommended diesel fuel tank expert.
Finding Tom’s office wasn’t easy. Eventually we made our way to a boatyard’s receptionist. Wanting Tom’s best advice, I asked if she knew of the ‘legendary’ diesel fuel tank expert named Tom. She smiled and said, “So he’s a legend, is he?” and picked up her phone and dialed. “I’ve got two gentlemen in my office looking for the ‘legendary’ Tom?” The receptionist pulled the phone receiver away from her face and chuckled, “Did you see his name and picture at the Post Office?” She told Tom to come and get us.
Walking into Tom’s cramped office, Tom preceded to give us a thorough education on diesel fuel. It turns out Tom, former Navy, “loves” diesel, owns four diesel vehicles and four diesel vessels. He cleans tanks, polishes fuel, etc. His main business is salvaging boats. But more than anything, he likes solving diesel problems with simple solutions. He explained that we have a bacteria problem, not algae. That the bacteria grow in colonies between the accumulated water and the fuel at the bottom of the tank (water being more dense, sinks in diesel). The water comes from condensation that accumulates at the top of the tank from moist air by way of the tank’s air vent. Topping the tank minimizes this effect, but best practice is to burn through your fuel regularly. That’s why sailboats have problems with their diesel. They store it instead of burning through it like a powerboat does.
Tom explained that although the bacteria are small, about 1 micron, and could easily pass through filters to be burned up in the engine’s combustion process, they are unfortunately wrapped in a slimy coat of sugars that they feed off. This coating allows the colonies to stick together and accumulate on the surface of the tank, which makes them large enough to clog fuel filters. Their waste product (a.k.a. poop) creates a carbon like substance that aggressively adheres to the surface of the tank and offs acetic acid, the by-product that contaminates diesel. “If you don’t smell vinegar, then the fuel is fine. It takes 7-8, more like 10 years before diesel goes bad, so you’re probably fine to keep your diesel.”
Tom pulls open a file-cabinet drawer, reaches in, and lifts out a clear quart-size bottle of golden elixir. “This is what you need. This stuff came on the market only about three years ago. It dissolves the slimy coat that surrounds the bacteria, making them vulnerable. Dead or alive, they now pass through the filters and easily burn up through your engine. The elixir even eats up the by-product, ridding the tank of the hard dark-grey coating.”
“What about the BioBor that I added,” I ask.
“BioBor kills the bacteria, but leaves the dead bacteria and coating debris in the tank to clog fuel filters. This stuff,” holding the bottle up, “eats that dead coating debris too. It just takes longer. In about 4-5 days after a shock dose (2.5 regular doses) of this stuff and mixing it with your fuel polishing system, your tanks should be good to go. Remember to pour directly into your tanks, not the pour spout opening where it could sit in a down-hose bend. This stuff is putting my tank cleaning business out of business, but I have other things I can do that are more fun than cleaning tanks.” He showed us before and after pictures of a 500-gallon tank he cleaned using this product. “When I saw this,” he said, “I knew had to become a distributor.”
I inquired about the buried filter at the end of the drawtube on Tayana’s that Jim previously mentioned. Tom said it’s a two-edge sword. “Yes, it is a weak point, but it prevents larger stuff from getting stuck up and inside the tube, a bigger problem.” He explained that all sorts of stuff find its way into a fuel tank, from silicone remnants to candy wrappers. “You won’t believe what you can find in there,” shaking his head. He suggested getting a small fish net to try and capture whatever may be down there or paddle it up to see what floats up to view, and recommended trying to clean the drawtube filter if we can reach it, not often the case in an older boat.
Tom said one bottle should last me at least three years. Ron said, “We’ll take two,” and plopped down the cash. “My daughter and grandsons are on the boat. This chemical seems hard to get and I don’t want him to have this fuel problem any more.”
Tom reiterated the value of this new product and said before it, there was another product he raved more about: it burns off the carbon that accumulates around the top of the cylinders and injectors. But now he mostly sells this tank cleaning solution (which happens to be three times more expensive than his carbon cleaning solution). I told him that I’d heard that to burn off the excess carbon build up it’s supposedly good practice to run a marine diesel close to its top end, throttling up to its higher range of supported rpms, for the last 5-10 minutes of operation. He agreed and I bought the carbon burning solution as well.
Our lesson from the diesel ‘legend’ came to a close, our plan of attack formulated: add miracle solution to dissolve micro biotic sugars, check the bottom of tank for “God-knows-what-debris,” clean drawtube filters, and burn off the carbon build up.
As Ron and I left Tom’s office with our two bottles of elixir, I picked up and folded my umbrella. The rain had subsided and blue sky peeked out from around the billowy cloud-tops.
“Wasn’t that great?” I asked Ron.
“Unreal,” he said. “You should write what just happened in your blog . . . .”
Eric Rigney
Post Script: By popular (and obvious) demand, here are links and contact info to Tom and the golden elixir: Captain Tom Folkesson of Ocean View Marine(619) 523-4378 and Fuel Right
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