I had my last day of school yesterday, Tuesday, December 16, 2014. From now on I will be home schooled or boat schooled. I left on a Tuesday. On Monday, my second to last day, I didn’t feel badly, but at the end of school on my last day, I felt really bad because right when I was leaving, some kids from class gave me notes like, “I will miss you.” Not everybody gave me a note, but everybody said goodbye. Ms. Myers, my English teacher, didn’t get to say goodbye because she was not present on my last day of school. It felt both good and really sad to say goodbye to my teachers and friends. But fortunately I collected a whole bunch of my friends’ phone numbers. I think I’ll miss my music at school because we just got to the good part of learning new music. I already really miss my friends because I might not see them until we are possibly 15 or older. I don’t think I’ll miss the schoolwork. I didn’t like most of the homework.
I have gone to four different schools since starting kindergarten – two schools in Los Angeles and two schools in Ventura. The difference between school in Los Angeles and Ventura is that every one in Ventura talks about the ocean. In LA nobody really talks about surfing or even the water. In Ventura I think the schools are better because in LA, I went to a German school and I had to study extra at Kumon. Maybe it was because the teachers taught in German and I could not understand. In Ventura the lessons were taught in English. I don’t know if LA middle schools are better because I never went to middle school in LA, but I really liked middle school in Ventura. Now I’m going to be boat schooled, and we’ll be in many different cities. I’m excited to be boat schooled by my parents, but I will always remember my days at school, the many things I learned, and especially the teachers and friends I met.
Ventura photographer Pascale Landry took nearly a hundred fifty images of our family last weekend. We struck an assortment of poses around Kandu under the melting glow of the ‘golden hour,’ hoping to capture our Christmas photo this year. More than a couple dozen turned out very well, including the one we’re now using as our profile picture on Twitter, Instagram, and this website. Thank you, Pascale.
This morning, Leslie notified Cabrillo Middle School that this coming Tuesday would be Bryce and Trent’s last day in school. We preferred they stay in school until next Friday, the last day before winter break, but the boys chose Tuesday. Maybe by leaving mid-week, the boys show their classmate that they really are leaving on the trip. Before rushing off to school, we provided them letters to give their teachers, explaining what we’re doing, hoping to enlist one or more of them to connect their classrooms with our adventure. We affixed our boat’s postcard to each letter as well. Cabrillo Middle School, Home of the Mariners has been a good experience for the boys, a school for our mariners. Leslie and I are grateful to have had them attend a near-by public school that is safe, clean, caring, and offers terrific extra-circular activities. Bryce particularly enjoyed woodshop and Trent enjoyed band, rare opportunities for a middle-schooler in California these days.
Here’s a copy of the letter:
Last Day of School: Tuesday, December 17, 2014
Bryce and Trent are leaving soon with us aboard our 42-foot sailboat, Kandu, to begin our family’s circumnavigation. More than sailing, we intend to immerse ourselves in the various cultures along the way. Were we to sail non-stop, we’d be done in less than a year. We anticipate being gone for 5 years, plus or minus a couple years, depending on how much fun we’re having and finances.
Our intention is to share the experience through our website blog and video channel, supported by Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. We plan to demonstrate cultural diversity, what other kids do for fun, what they eat after school, what their school and home lives are like; as well as the math and science associated with our self-contained nautical lifestyle. Bryce and Trent are surfers and we intend for them to chronicle their experiences, what they learn from kids of other cultures, what surfing requires of them, obstacles they overcome, posting on the blog and producing videos.
Our family is aligned with a couple studies and a volunteer program: collecting seawater samples to measure micro-plastic levels, measuring plankton densities, and delivering needed supplies to remote communities. For the American Numismatic Association’s educational branch, we will collect coins for their museum and share our traveling experience with their youth charters.
Our website is shaping up, and will include a map that tracks our current location. We will be able to send and receive text via satellite and email via high frequency radio. In ports with WiFi, we will be able to Skype or Facetime live, connecting classrooms of different cultures with each other, to share how they live, what they do at school. Our first destinations include Baja Mexico (fishing villages) and Puerto Vallarta, then Galapagos (Isabela Island), then Easter Island, then Pitcairn, then French Polynesia (Gambier, Marquesas, Tuamotus, Society) where we hope to stay for up to year (if we receive our one-year extended stay visa next month).
For school, we’ve purchased some home-school programs in math, English, and science. The boys will be participating in the process of navigating and maintaining our home afloat, where we must repair nearly everything ourselves, including our watermaker. They will learn how to relate to other cultures and environments, what each demands. Where possible, they will be introduced into classrooms of the regions we visit, attending for weeks or months at a time.
We cannot know what will happen, when, or where we will go until we get there. Circumstances of weather and life will drive much of what happens. If you’re interesting in learning more or ways to incorporate our trip within your classroom, please contact me. And of course, we hope you’ll follow along at: RigneysKandu.Com.
Eric Rigney
Bryce, last June, at the end of his seventh grade year. Kandu’s postcard
Last night, not a drop of water entered as Kandu weathered the heaviest rains experienced in Ventura over the past 5 years. While winds gusted to a crescendo at 1 a.m., I slept peacefully with the knowledge of how sound Kandu is, the benefit of having worked so hard and meticulously these past two years. In the aft cabin berth (bed), quiet and snug, I was able to take full advantage of being docked in slip with six dock lines (ropes) securing us, instead of being anchored in a cove and having to take anchor watches. Around 5 a.m., having knocked over and re-assembled the 4-foot Christmas tree Bryce had configured between their berths three days earlier, Trent crawled into our berth between Leslie and I, waking me up.
One of the neighboring motor yachts had their Christmas display damaged by the storm, its wooden frame collapsed, its black plastic sheeting shredded. With a break in the storm and some help from friends, the boat’s display looks as good as new and ready for tonight’s annual Parade of Lights, an event where lavishly decorated boats, bedazzled in lights, travel around the inside parameter of Ventura marina for the benefit of the city’s spectators. This year’s theme: “Holidays of the World.”
The storm has brought large surf, 15-foot waves and greater, so no surfing. When Bryce returns from school this afternoon, if better weather holds up, we’ll finish decorating our dinghy, installing his Christmas tree, mirror-ball, blue rotating police light, Trent’s stuffed animals, our mini-PA sound system with Christmas music, and tree lights powered by our little Honda generator. We’ll join the parade unofficially, putting between boats and waving to the crowds.
Repairs made on the recently storm-damaged Parade of Light’s motor yacht.
Two days ago, we visited the French Consulate’s office in West Los Angeles/Century City. A month earlier, Leslie, my first French angel (she’s not French but she speaks it and has a degree in French literature), made four appointments, as each person applying required their own time slot, most likely to allow time for the French clerk to review the requested documents. And there were many. The weekend before, while preparing the many documents, Leslie noticed the consulate provided an email address against which we could address any questions prior to our appointed times. We asked about the entry date, wondering whether we could post a date as late as June, and we asked whether all documents needed to be translated into French. I included my cell phone number in the email. Because we were sending the email so close to our date with the Consulate, I didn’t expect a response in time to matter. To my delight, a helpful clerk called me the afternoon before we were to arrive. She stated that French Polynesia and the consulate’s office understood that in the case of a sailboat, it takes greater than the 90 days typically required of applicants, to arrive in the French territory after submitting their visa requests. She also understood that sailboats often like to visit other countries along the way, and gave examples. She asked when I wanted to arrive in French Polynesia. I said June 1, 2015. “That would be fine, no problem,” she replied. I asked whether any of the documents we were providing required a French translation. She replied, no, that the LA Consulate and French Polynesia understood both French and English, and therefore no translation was needed. A huge burden immediately lifted from my shoulders. In my mind, her voice transformed into that of an angel’s.
She also said that the boys would not need identification cards beyond their passports, that their parents’ ID cards would cover them. I informed her that police departments wouldn’t provide clearance letters for the boys. “No problem, we don’t expect them for children,” she said.
“They don’t have their own financial statements either, just copies of ours,” I declared. She said that was fine too. I said that we’re providing a financial summary of our investment portfolio, indicating the value of our trust, instead of the bank statements requested on their website. She said that we must provide copies of our bank statements, that investment summaries could be included, but that French Polynesia wants to see bank statements. She then asked if we had the other documentation, going down the list of what was required. She said that with the boat’s documentation, we wouldn’t need to provide the original, as she understood it was legally required to remain with the boat. She asked about the medical insurance and had me read some of the information to her, after which she said that upon arrival in French Polynesia, if our visas were approved, we’d likely be required to show coverage over the entire one-year period we expected to be there. She was extremely helpful, and even though it meant even more printing and photocopying work for Leslie, the Consulate official gave us the information we needed to succeed in our endeavor to acquire a long-stay visa. I was so grateful. As tears of frustration welled in Leslie’s eyes, I pointed out the bright side: we know what is missing and still have the time needed to get the necessary documentation in order, that no translations were needed, and that we had the time we needed to sail to French Polynesia. We could now visit Easter Island, Leslie’s most anticipated destination of the whole trip, and spend more time in Mexico and Galapagos. This was for me a huge relief. Leslie was concerned that the significant sums of money spent on the boat these last months depleted our bank accounts, showing meager balances. We both had heard about a boat that was recently rejected for insufficient funds. We could only hope that the cruising nest egg that was our trust would be enough to convince them of our financial solvency, and that the officials on the other side would understand that that’s where we kept our funds and not in our bank accounts. Leslie went back to the task at hand, getting everything ready for the next day, spending the next three hours printing the additional documents and later, copying at FedEx.
The family awoke before dawn the next morning to drive down the picturesque Pacific Coast Highway to the French Consulate’s office in Los Angeles, the city of angels. We arrived minutes before our scheduled appointments. Because we’d been there eighteen months before, we knew that the visa office was outside, around the corner and not on the 6th floor where the main offices are located. After standing outside for a couple minutes, we were buzzed in by the security guard. With a look of suspicion, he confirmed our appointments and identities, asking that all electronic devices be shut off before allowing us to enter further.
As we entered, the clerk behind the protective glass asked to see us together. She looked at me and said that she had been the one who had spoken to me the day before. My second angel had a friendly face and an easy smile, and a great French accent. One by one, she requested documents as Leslie dutifully shuffled through her four folders, one for each crewmember, retrieving and furnishing the requested articles. After reviewing the documents, depending on the type, the angel would give us either the original or the copy to keep. Leslie had everything our angel asked of us. When it came time to hand over the financial documents, Leslie explained to the angel about the financial trust. Good thing too, because the angel had seen only the retirement accounts. After Leslie’s explanation, the angel nodded approvingly. After electronically capturing each crewmember’s fingerprints and mug shot, she told us the visa response would likely be provided to us in 4 weeks. Instead of mailing back and forth, they now scan the documents and email them back and forth. The website had stated 6-8 weeks and Leslie and I added another week atop that to allow for the holidays. The four-week timeframe meant we’d have even more time to visit other countries before arriving in French Polynesia. I was elated. For the first time in many months, instead of new problems popping up, events were seemingly working in our favor. We handed the angel the pre-paid, self-addressed FedEx box Leslie had prepared for our passports and other official documents to be shipped back to us, hopefully with visas affixed. She provided Leslie receipts for our passports, in case they didn’t arrive. And we were done. With a sweet “au revoir” from our angel, we passed by the now smiling security guard, leaving the visa offices toward the underground parking garage, the happiest six-bucks I’d spent in a long time.
Crew of Kandu celebrate on Rodeo Drive a successful day.
Excited and optimistic for our chances, I wanted to celebrate. Leslie had worked so hard to prepare all the documents; I thought she could use a special treat. Close to Beverly Hills, keeping it French, I suggested the Patisserie Artistique in the Rodeo Collection on Rodeo Drive. Thirty years early, I had worked as a captain* in what was the penthouse restaurant of the Rodeo Collection, Excelsior. The restaurant long since retired, the space was used for other business needs. At the pastry shop, Bryce chose a small white chocolate cake, intricately fashioned into a present with an edible colored bow and all. It resembled a decorated ring box. Trent selected a small circular pecan tart coated with caramel made on premises. Leslie picked a piece of sliced-pear tart with almond filling and a cup of French-roast coffee, in honor of our excellent French Consulate experience. It was a good day, filled with much promise.
* Footnote:*Wait staff in a traditional fine European dining room in the ’80’s, comprised typically of men, included a busboy, back-waiter, front-waiter, captain, and maître d’. I started at Excelsior as an evening elevator attendant, then worked my way up (pardon the pun) through the ranks, from busboy to captain. American-born captains were rare in Beverly Hills; a young one, even more so.
The nine-year-old boy who made model planes and, from his living room floor, flipped through pages of images of America’s fastest planes came back to life as the crew of Kandu visited NASA’s Air Research Center yesterday. Previously called the “Dryden Flight Research Center,” in March the center was renamed “Neil A. Armstrong Flight Research Center,” after the first person to walk the moon’s surface. My brother, Tom, a NASA project manager at the center, offered last weekend when he and his family visited aboard Kandu, to give us a private tour of the facility, as its not open to the public. Located on the Edwards Air Force Base in the Mojave Desert lives this iconic ‘Disneyland’ of American flight engineering.
Nasa’s Armstrong Air Research Center from above (photo from Wikipedia)Crew of Kandu registered with the Visitor’s Center.
We were able to see and touch many of the favorite flight craft of my childhood fantasies: the sleek and mysterious “Blackbird” SR-71, the aggressively simple F-104A, a piece of the crashed X-15, and, most emotionally satisfying, the historic Lunar Landing Research Vehicle (LLRV), one of only two remaining in existance. The other three trainers were destroyed in flight tests. The LLRV and the Lunar Landing Training Vehicle (LLTV) were required flight training for all of the U.S. space program’s moon-landing astronauts. Knowing that every astronaut that ever walked the moon had flown the very craft I was touching somehow connected me in a small way to their greatness. At that moment, I hoped that some of the mojo of their courage and dedication might rub off on me, helping me guide our family’s exploratory watercraft safely around earth’s oceanic surface.
“Blackbird”“Starfighter”
Tom arranged for us to examine his team’s latest project: a Gulfstream III jet modified with their Adaptive Compliant Trailing Edge (ACTE) flaps. A week earlier, they had successfully completed their first full flight test. His press quote summarizes the project goals: “’The first flight went as planned — we validated many key elements of the experimental trailing edges,’ said Thomas Rigney, ACTE Project Manager at Armstrong. ‘We expect this technology to make future aircraft lighter, more efficient, and quieter. It also has the potential to save hundreds of millions of dollars annually in fuel costs.’” What happened next would be Leslie’s favorite part of the day, for Tom gave us a rare inside look of the test jet. The flight engineer allowed Bryce and Trent to sit in the pilot seats, panel lights on, sporting headphones with mics. Scrat, the acorn-obsessed saber-toothed squirrel from the the animated film series Ice Age, is the engineering team’s unofficial mascot. A mid-sized stuffed plushy of Scrat hangs from the aircraft’s ceiling, above racks of test equipment. The equipment measures something like 20,000 parameters.
The modified Gulfstream III outside its hanger. (photo NASA)View of the ACTE flap modification. (photo NASA)Drawing emphasizing the ACTE modification. (NASA)Ready to board the GSIIILanding alongside chase plane. Note the difference in wing shape between the experimental Gulfstream and the traditional chase plane. (Photo by NASA)Brother, Tom, boarding his team’s project test jet.“Ikhana,” a modified Predator drone, Tom’s previous NASA research project.
After lunch, Tom accompanied us to the Center’s fight simulator area. Walking through its second floor corridor, we passed sets of steel double-doors with each’s ceiling placards hanging above, identifying the craft that is simulated inside. We entered the one marked “Gulfstream III,” the actual jet that Bryce and Trent sat in earlier. We all got a turn at taking off, flying, and landing the plane that Tom’s team so deftly modified. Then it was off to the F-18, the fighter jet that chased the Gulfstream during its test flight.
Co-piloting the Gulfstream III simulatorSeated in the F-18 simulator cockpit.Piloting an F-18 over the Mojave Dessert at mach speed.
From the simulator center, we were off to the gift store where we said good-bye to Tom, and thanked him for the greatest of days. When Tom was 8, he drew rockets on pieces of lined paper and then dropped them into neighbors’ front door mail slots, ringing their door bells to alert them of the gift’s arrival before running off. To know what has become of that eight-year-old boy is a source of great happiness for me. Trent asked how old I was before I knew what I wanted to do. The experience of seeing Tom in his element may have triggered Trent to wonder when he might discover his career passion, or in my case–passions.
Bryce’s favorite experience was seeing the M-2/F2 drop plane, the predecessor to the futuristic Dream Catcher spacecraft whose simulator he briefly sat in. Trent liked seeing the Cessna Dragonfly trainer jet. Fortunately for Leslie and me, they both like the smaller crafts!
Bryce’s favorite aircraft, the M-2/F2, predecessor to the “Dream Catcher.” One of these crafts crashed landed here at Edwards. The footage was later used in the introduction of the 1970’s television series, “The Six Million Dollar Man.”Trent’s favorite, Cessna’s “Dragonfly” trainer jet.
Leaving the base, its Air Research Center and museums, the nine-year-old boy in me smiled with satisfaction, having been briefly brought back to life, making real as an adult what had previously been a childhood dream. The Center has a saying, “To create what others only dream.” We got a chance to touch dreams, making them real for me. With what rudder we have in the water, we hope to create a little of the same as we prepare to lead our own planetary adventure.
Installing, testing, and loading equipment takes up a large part of our weeks at this phase. One question was how well would our folding aluminum bikes tow our dock cart/bike trailer. On Sunday, we pulled the bikes out of their bags and attached the cart with a special towing arm converting our folding aluminum dock cart into a bike trailer. The arm attached to the bike post of one of our bikes using a bracket designed and fabricated by a professional car re-conditioner.
Trent tested folding bike cart on folding bike.
Taking advantage of yesterday’s day off from school for Veteran’s Day and the flat windless seas, Kandu and crew plus Uncle Bill motored 2 ½ hours through Monday evening’s heavily overcast sky over to Smuggler’s Cove on Santa Cruz Island. We chose Smuggler’s for its proximity to Ventura, easy grabbing sea floor, and large area; making it easy to ‘swing’ on one anchor without hitting other boats.
Nearly pitch black, we tested again our Simrad autopilot, and B&G navigation and RADAR equipment; learning how to dim the panels so as not to rob our night vision. Stationed halfway between Ventura and Santa Cruz Island, we motored safely past the oil platform and its large steel can buoys.
Passing platform Gail at night
Oil derricks in the Santa Barbara Channel are lit up like Christmas trees, so oil platform Gail is quite visible at night, but her buoys are not. The broadband RADAR work well to point them out to us before we saw the shadow of one of them against the glow of Gail.
Cautiously entering the dark cove, to confirm our location, we tried out our new LED spotlight. It worked like a champ, lighting up the shoreline and the Coast Guard’s mooring buoy. At a depth of 30 ft, we dropped hook (anchored) using our new 65 lbs Mantus anchor and snubbed it with our new Mantus bridle. The anchor impressively grabbed the muddy sand bottom. The thick nylon ropes and the innovative chain hook that comprise the bridle worked well to keep our motion gentle and quiet through the night. The crossing and anchoring were a success.
When anchored, wind blows a boat downwind. With the anchor chain fixed to the bow, the boat is held head first into the wind. Wind and swell usually come the same direction. In normal circumstances, a boat will rock in the more comfortable fore and aft motion, not side to side, which is uncomfortable. When rocking side to side, the boat rattles and rolls, making it difficult to sleep or work. That night, Smuggler’s Cove had a small, short frequency sea roll. Without wind to point Kandu’s bow, we often came sideways to the swell. At 3 a.m., I decided to deploy one of our two new, never-before-used stabilizers, or “flopper stoppers” as they are commonly referred. I quietly moved through Kandu’s interior, pulling from the main hanging locker (closet) the two stoppers in their separate bags and climbed one of them up the companionway ladder and into the cockpit. It took about 10 minutes to rig the unit off the mainsail’s boom, something I had previously configured at dock a few weeks prior. I locked the boom in place over the starboard quarter and dropped the shiny stainless-steel folding wing into the water. Leslie said the benefit was immediate: the boat rocked less. Later that morning, on the opposite side of the boat, I deployed the second stabilizer from the spinnaker pole. Roll was very slight after that.
Still awake at nearly 4 a.m., I decided to try and download a weather fax off the HAM radio and into our HP laptop. Excitedly I was able to receive several weather fax transmissions, sent by the Coast Guard at Point Reyes near San Francisco. Now I need to learn how to clean up the images. They came white on black instead of black on white, they split alignment halfway through the image, and are slightly fuzzy in sections.
Weather successfully received and downloaded fax onto laptop
After a hearty breakfast by Leslie, I worked to commission the watermaker. I cleared out all the tools and lubricants to gain access to the plumbing that supports the watermaking process.
Tools cleared to access water maker plumbing
The first step in the commissioning processes was to turn on the saltwater feed to the boost pump. When I opened the valve, seawater poured out from around the fitting that feeds the system, so we didn’t get any further in the commissioning process. I put everything back in its place, realizing this was an issue that will have to be addressed at dock where I’d have easier access to parts.
One of the main reasons for heading out to Santa Cruz the night before was to take advantage of the forecasted light winds that would allow us to sail for the first time our newly re-cut gennaker, our large colorful light wind sail. After lunch, while the boys kayaked to the beach through small waves, I rigged up the windvane self-steering, in hopes of testing it along with the gennaker. We pulled out from under Trent’s berth the newly re-cut gennaker sail, no easy task as the sail is large and the living space we walked it through, small. We prepared it on the foredeck. The netting I laced days earlier kept the sail from falling off the deck and into the water.
Foredeck netting
With the boys and kayak safely back aboard, we started the engine and weighed anchor. It came up fine, except, darn it, the sharp point of the anchor poked through the green gelcoat line of Kandu’s bow. I’ll need to take greater care when pulling up the anchor those last two feet. With anchor away and stowed, we motored past the Coast Guard buoy and unfurled the mainsail. Once set, we tied the mainsail’s boom preventer line to protect us from accidentally jibing, which means holding the heavy boom in place so it doesn’t dangerously swing over (or into!) our heads without warning. We proceeded to hoist the gennaker, Leslie on the foredeck, me in the cockpit. The light-wind sail easily slipped from its sock and gloriously made its colorful presence felt. We were impressed and pleased with the effort.
Gennaker off Santa Cruz Island.
Too soon the wind died and we re-snubbed the gennaker, pulling its enclosing sock down from its head (top) to its tack (bottom). With no wind, we were unable to test the self-steering wind vane, another thing for another day. Just as we had done the night before, we engaged the hydraulically operated autopilot to steer us home. We again motored past Platform Gail, this time noticing the sea lions basking atop her buoys.
Platform Gail in the daytime.
Before long, we entered Ventura Marina, successfully docking without any of the incidents or fanfare that occurred the last time we pulled from our slip. All in all, it was a productive 24 hour period, filled with good test runs, yet with still more to come . . . several more.
To improve her sailing skills and nautical vocabulary, Leslie volunteered as crew during this past summer’s season of “Wet Wednesdays” sailboat races, a series organized by the Ventura Yacht Club. Every Wednesday evening, around 5, the fleet of a little more than a dozen boats met just outside the Ventura marina to race around a course of buoys. The course was determined by the race committee aboard the committee boat minutes before each start. Where the committee boat anchored was where the race began. In these races, when sailing downwind, the sailboats typically deployed a spinnaker, the great-big colorful cloud-like sails you see billowing in those overly-saturated photographs of sailboats sailing in a cluster. Spinnaker sailing is something we won’t likely do aboard Kandu, but it’s great sailing experience.
Claudia, a new skipper with a new/used sailboat, a J-24, adopted Leslie. Claudia was very tenacious and eager to win. To expedite her learning, she sought and received guidance from more experienced J-24 skippers, who joined her on several of her races. By proximity, Leslie received an excellent education. As it would happen, within the first month, Claudia collided with another boat at the start of the race, an expensive error. From the other boat, Leslie heard from the skipper’s mouth words uttered only by drill sergeants and prison guards. He had just dropped (not a literal term) his boat back into the water after having it professionally painted, an expensive process.
A couple weeks later, during a Saturday practice trying new trimming skills, Leslie fell overboard. Her expensive hydrostatic inflator technology malfunctioned, so her lifejacket didn’t inflate. Fortunately, she held on to the genoa sheet she was trimming before she fell overboard thus not drifting far. Claudia immediately stopped the boat, and she and the remaining crew helped Leslie back on board. The life vest, which doubles as a harness, came in handy as a harness because the crew was able to hold onto her by grabbing the back of it. Leslie returned the vest to learn that it had been recalled earlier. The notice hadn’t reached us, but West Marine, the chandlery store from which we purchased the units, gave us a new vest to replace hers and one other to replace the one we had in stock that was also part of the recall.
About six weeks later, Leslie got the chance to try out her new lifejacket. Before the start of the last ‘Wet Wednesday’ race, Claudia arranged to practice jibing the spinnaker with Leslie as trimmer and added a very novice third crew member (fourth time to race on a boat) to perform as foredeck person (the one who stands on the deck in front of the mast and rigs and unrigs all of the headsails). When a jibe goes awry, a spinnaker often tangles around the headstay (the front cable that holds the mast up in place), and that’s what happened . . . but this time, a bit closer than usual to the beach. Claudia’s radio pleas for assistance went unheeded until it was too late; Within Reach drifted into the surf and onto the beach. Leslie jumped ship as the boat’s keel made contact with the sandy bottom, a wave knocking her off the hull side for good measure. This time the vest worked well (but this time it would cost $70 to re-arm it), and from where she fell from the side of the boat, Leslie’s feet touched bottom. Leslie was able to bob-walk safely to shore. After agreeing to the terms offered, Vessel Assist later worked successfully to pull the boat from the beach ($250/foot, so $6000!). The incident made the local paper, the Ventura Count Star.
‘Within Reach’ Beached Off Ventura Marina. Photo by Eric Rigney
That was Leslie’s last day aboard Within Reach, but not her last opportunity to fall overboard and auto-inflate her vest. Yesterday, while leaving for the first time the slip from where Kandu is currently berthed, as she jumped aboard Kandu’s forward port quarter (closer to the bow on the left side of the boat) Leslie noticed the bow was dangerously approaching the concrete pylon. In an effort to correct the boat’s trajectory, Leslie decided to jump back off Kandu back onto the dock to push the bow away. Leslie didn’t realize that in that brief moment, Kandu had backed far enough away to where Leslie was no longer above the dock. As she proceeded to jump back down, she fell directly into the cold grey seawater, weighed down by her clothing and equipment. She instantly sank several feet before her life vest auto-inflated, as designed, and popped her up to the surface, face first. Byce too had fallen in, but, with his light-weight life-vest, was able to readily get himself up on the dock. Leslie doggie-paddled to the other side, where the dock was lower to the surface and Bryce could help her up. The only injury sustained was a deep bruise to her right elbow and a little bruising to her ego. Fortunately, Leslie was not otherwise harmed and we continued with our sailing plans for the day.
As Bryce and Trent watch on, Leslie doggie-paddles to the lower dock where Bryce will walk around and assist her. Photo by Tom Rigney
Leslie’s boot camp has done much to build her confidence. Within Reach won two races and earned second place overall in the first session. Leslie’s practical experiences have taught her that she can survive very challenging circumstances. And I’ve learned as well. From now on, while near land, we’ll wear our standard static life-vests until we’re on longer passages. For now, we’ll put the pricey life jackets away. At $70 a pop (pun intended), Leslie’s boot camp was getting to be expensive.
Post Script: It just dawned on me that our policy of requiring everyone aboard Kandu to wear a life jacket paid off enormously Saturday. Wearing all her gear, without a life-jacket, Saturday’s circumstance may not have been so casually dramatic. Leslie sank so quickly, she didn’t have time to react before she fully understood that she was underwater, sinking. She said she didn’t know whether she would have had the presence of mind to have manually pulled the rip cord as quickly is it inflated on its own, or what she would have done had the vest not performed as engineered. With the auto-inflate feature built into the vest she was wearing, Leslie was at the surface before she had completely realized what had happened. Leslie’s dip could have been a tragic one were it not for our strict policy of wearing life jackets; either static or self-inflating. Were Leslie wearing a static life jacket, as we will in the future when near shore, she probably would not have bounced up through the surface as quickly, but she would have been swimming okay, instead of sinking like a rock. Bryce was dressed for swimming, so he easily swam to the dock and got himself out. But Leslie was not. To swim, a person either needs the resistance of bare skin against the water (try swimming with water socks and gloves on, you get no grab on the water) or be sporting a pair of swim fins. Leslie had neither. I was at the helm of a 15-ton sailboat, with 6 novice passengers aboard, backing toward many other boats. Had Leslie not worn the life vest and sank to the bottom (it was a very high tide that morning, so 20 feet), what could I have done and would I have thought to do it? I was fully dressed too. I would have had to strip down, grab our Spare Air mini SCUBA tank from under our top companion way step, and dive after her, leaving the boat adrift, hoping the others would steer her out of harms way from docks and other boats. As I write this, I now know I need to leave a set of flippers with our Spare Air, along with the mask and snorkel and dive knife we currently have strapped to it. I’m thankful that we are so stubborn about wearing life jackets aboard Kandu. It was a fundamental lesson taught to us as part of our Coast Guard Auxilary Safe Boating training. This experience strengthens our resolve. Thanks to the Coast Guard Auxiliary, to Mustang life-vest engineers and manufacturing, to Leslie’s experience aboard Within Reach and for West Marine’s swapping the faulty jacket, and to Leslie for wearing it (she had re-adjusted her vest’s straps less than an hour before her plunge, insuring her vest was snug to her chest); our family took the unplanned event in stride and enjoyed a lovely sail on what transformed to a beautifully clear day, sailing over calm seas in a light breeze along the picturesque Ventura coastline.
My 80 yr-old dad sailing with us after Leslie’s plunge, his vest a little too loosely fitted. Photo by Tom Rigney
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
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