Ventura’s friendly and convenient surf scene made getting Trent and Bryce into the sport a natural endeavor. We had previously provided them the “Waikiki” experience when they were very young, surfing in Hawaii on long foam boards with push-offs from the instructor. Twice they had a week of summer camp surf lessons in Ventura, but nothing compares to the surfing experience they’ve had over this past year. It’s made a significant difference in their abilities and in developing their passion for the sport. They currently surf a couple times a week, and frequently more. They have two surfboards and a Boogie board each. Although Leslie and I do not surf (yet?), we’re making surfing a priority on this trip. We’re getting great tips on where to surf in Baja and the Galapagos. At Wood Shop at Cabrillo Middle School, Bryce laminated strips of wood and fashioned them into a beautiful hand-planer. I never saw one before. They are a micro wooden Boogie board that you hold on the hand, extends in front of yourself as you catch a wave, which creates a longer water line, making you go faster with greater accuracy. As you glide through the water with accelerated speed, you take body surfing to another level.
Bryce monitors surf conditions in front of the Ventura Yacht Club.
Since entering Mexico, sailing down the Baja coast to the Puerto Vallarta region, then to the Galapagos, and now at the Marquesas, so much has happened. We want to share all of it, but how? Do we apply our posts in chronological order of our travels, or do we skip around to what’s of interest at the time, present and past?
Yesterday, Trent started college here in Taiohae, Nuku Hiva, the first American to do so. Bryce started today. Their fellow students are nearly all Polynesian, with the occasional French child here and there. Other foreigners, a New Zealander and a Russian, have attended previously, but as Americans, they make Nuku Hiva history. The college follows the French educational system for its outer territories. The class level numbers lessen as the child advances, thus the college takes kids from the 6th level to the 2nd. The more advanced 1st level and higher academics are provided in Tahiti. Trent entered the 6th and Bryce, the 5th. As they learn French, and if room is available, Bryce and Trent well be allowed to advance to higher grade levels (lower number). Course work includes Math, Science (Biology and Earth), Technology, French, English, Marquesan, History and Geography, Art, Physical Education, and Music. The student body is gentle and kind, everybody knows everybody and are typically related by some familial association. What occurs at school is immediately reported to the family. The teachers seem patient as French is also the Marquesan’s second language. Trent’s principal teacher is the 6th level’s English teacher, so this circumstance falls well in his favor as he begins his transformation into the French language.
With the boys in school, we plan to give them time to learn French and thus stay in Taiohae, giving Leslie and time to write and post our previous and current experiences. We have plenty to write about. Stay tuned.
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.
Trent and Bryce prepared to dinghy off to Oceanside Harbor Beach.
Today, Feb 24, 2015, I had to solve a problem. Early in the morning I decided to motor the dinghy over to Oceanside Harbor Beach to check out the surf because the waves broke on the other side of the quay. Even though we were pretty close to the surf from where our boat was docked, we couldn’t see the waves. So I prepared all the equipment for the dinghy, put on my lifejacket and headed over to see the waves.
Arriving on the other side of the harbor, I sidled up to the dock without trouble and tied the dinghy onto one of the dock cleats, then walked over the quay to the beach to look at the waves. I thought to myself that the waves were just surfable. Satisfied, I returned to set up the dinghy to motor back to the boat. I got everything ready to go, started up the dinghy engine then pushed off the dock. The inflatable started to move forward a little bit, but then the motor just sputtered out. At that point, I was headed straight for the rocks, so I lifted the motor to make sure its propeller wouldn’t hit. Then I pushed off the rocks with my hand, angling back over to the dock so I could see what was wrong.
I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with the motor. I tried starting it over and over again but it still didn’t work. I couldn’t call home because I hadn’t brought my phone. I could walk around the entire harbor, but then I would have had to leave the boat. That’s when I knew what I had to do. I set up the paddles and rowed back to Kandu. The return trip was a bit slower traveling, but only about 15 minutes.
When I returned to the boat, safe and sound, my parents asked what took so long. I explained to my dad the problem. He got into the boat and I watched him turn on the motor the very first time he tried. It was at that point that I remembered I had forgotten to push down the choke once the motor was ignited after pulling the starter chord. It was a good lesson in keeping calm and solving a problem. Next time I take out the dinghy, I will make sure to be a little more prepared.
The first real surf lesson I had was a private lesson with my brother Trent at Ventura Point. The instructor’s name was Jeff Belzer, a very cool and nice guy. He is also very well known in Ventura because he has won a lot of surf competitions and he is owner of a surf school and conducts surf camps: Makos Surf Lessons. To start off the lesson, we watched the waves and evaluated the surf, looking for the best wave break as well as determining the best spot for surf that day. It took five minutes to decide where the waves looked best. The waves were okay there, but we decided to change our spot to a bit better location and parked in front of our chosen surf spot. After getting our wet suits on, we grabbed our boards and walked down to the beach and started our warm-ups. We stretched and did jumping jacks then, headed into the water by ourselves without Jeff so he could evaluate our skills from the beach.
Surfer’s Point, Ventura, CA
As Trent and I paddled into the water, the waves crashed into us since, at the time, we didn’t know how to duck dive; it was very hard to paddle out. When I pulled into my first wave, I attempted to stand up, but tumbled headfirst back into the ocean. Trent on the other hand successfully stood on his board. Being the older brother, I was embarrassed that my little brother bested me. But within a minute I successfully caught a wave. After about 15 minutes of surfing, Jeff signaled us back to shore to give us a lecture on how to improve our surfing. A couple things he suggested included to go down the line when surfing, pop up quickly onto the board, and above all, always keep your balance.
We headed back out, but this time Jeff joined us in the water and Trent and I both caught some great waves. After 45 minutes of instruction in the water using our sushi boards, we got to try out some spectacular epoxy short boards that Jeff had brought along. I loved using these shorter boards! Part of the lesson was to have Jeff help us figure out what kind of boards we should upgrade to.
Bryce surfs with dolphin
When our sea time was up with Jeff, we met on shore and he gave us ideas of what the next step up for boards should be. Jeff suggested I get a wide 6ft 4” Roberts’s board, and make it wide. For my brother, he said the same but his board could be wide or skinny. Everyone liked the idea of epoxy boards since epoxy is stronger. Our boards living atop our boat Kandu, would likely fare better than fiberglass boards.
Thanking Jeff for all his time and great advice, I felt excited about how much I had learned. He gave us both great suggestions and pointers. I will always remember the advice that Jeff Belzer from Ventura Makos gave me.
Bryce with his Robert’s 6’4″ epoxy board at Surfer’s Point, Ventura, CA
Following our lesson with Jeff, we bought 6ft 4” boards and surfed with them frequently to put our new information to the test. We loved the feeling of the new boards! But for us it wasn’t enough. Trent and I decided to buy new smaller boards with our own money. Again at Roberts’ work surf shop, we found two beautiful surfboards. Trent bought a 5ft 7” fiberglass board that had a flaming paint job on it. I bought a 5ft 6” fiberglass board, which was just plain white: a blank canvas to paint a red and blue lightening bolt. We brought them both home and a few days later we were floating on clouds in the ocean.
Trent on Rapoza FireBryce’s Design Represents His Country and His Board Maker
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.
It’s odd how traveling accompanied by uncertainty and new discoveries aids a person to remember the passing days more clearly. Details blur less.
Kandu and sunrise at Ventura Yacht Club
Sailing south from Ventura this past month since our departure the morning of February 10th has heightened my remembrances of daily details. For example, burned into my brain are the particulars of our first 10-hour sail down the coast of California and docking at Del Rey Yacht Club. The trip south was rather unmemorable to mark the beginning of such an extensively planned trip. We attempted to sail but there was little wind so we engaged the motor the entire time. The colors of the morning were soft, the air fresh. The temperature warmed once the sun rose fully overhead. Our hard dodger kept the direct sun at bay until just past noon. The swells were stable generally angling behind us pushing us south. In the calm, Eric and I caught up on messaging our loved ones and texting photos of our debarkation from that morning. The boys slept to keep nausea at bay and later watched a movie down below. We ate crackers and Clementines. We set-up the new fishing line and trolled to no avail. We all wore our life jackets the entire time. I scratched a little at Sudoku. Those details I remember and much more…over a month later.
Arriving at Del Rey Yacht Club, a facility we already were familiar with having been members a couple years before we moved to Ventura, was a bit weird. The size of boats surrounding us were enormous (i.e.: lavish) and we learned over the next couple days these were very well kept by cleaners, but hardly visited. The members and staff were polite and kind. The facilities were deluxe including brand new bathrooms with lovely showers, swimming pool, table tennis, basketball, laundry and space for us to park our car as it traveled south to the border with us.
Kandu in all her cruising glory within Del Rey Yacht Club’s “Battleship Row”
What we remember most, however, was being asked to move twice after we arrived. Docked initially in prime view, perhaps our boat was an eyesore to the members sitting in the bar – albeit very well maintained and polished, Kandu’s deck is laden with five surfboards, two boogie boards, an extra propane tank, buckets, 3 diesel and 3 water jugs, 5 gasoline cans, water hose, etc…plus beach towels, wetsuits, and rags, drying on the life lines. Yet much more importantly, I fondly remember the quick visits we shared with our Los Angeles friends. Over four days, we packed in a punch. One of the times we moved, Jim and Joanne Schubarth, friends from church, delighted in a quick ride on Kandu and witnessed the crew handle the boat. I felt a funny sense of pride at having been able to ease their minds on our boating abilities. We celebrated my birthday over drinks and dinner with the Franks. The joy I felt at spending time with them again was deep. We enjoyed a BBQ with Cub Scout cronies hosted by the Calimlims. So many dear neighborhood friends showed-up to wish us well; I was overwhelmed. We relished visits from Bryce and Trent’s friends from swim team and school. The boys were touched by the families’ efforts to come hang out at the boat. Our financial advisor Spencer came to wish us off with big smiles, our property manager JP and his family brought us SPAM (good thinking!), and a girlfriend with her young family came to enjoy the California Yacht Club pool and a beautiful day in Marina del Rey: what incredible memories of experiences and feelings! All this I remember and in great detail because we were in unfamiliar circumstances – in traveling mode where the variation of our days makes for recalling distinct moments.
Kandu at California Yacht Club before departing to Long Beach
In my mind, each port in which we have docked this past month: Alamitos Bay in the Long Beach Harbor, Dana Point, Oceanside, and San Diego all remain very distinct in my mind due to the friends, the acquaintances, the places, the surf sites, the repairs we had to make and the paperwork we needed to address.
Alamitos Bay Yacht Club sunrise with KanduDana Point Yacht Club as the sun sets‘8 Crazy Nights’ at the Oceanside Yacht ClubThundershowers at San Diego’s Southwestern Yacht ClubKandu at historic San Diego Yacht Club, est. 1888Newly renovated Silver Gate YC’s Jacuzzi view of KanduKandu awakens before the Chula Vista Yacht Club, originally est. 1883.Navy YC at Fiddler’s Cove, a family friendly yacht club.
As uncomfortable and frustrating as it can be moving from one slip or marina to the next, the feelings are overshadowed by the many fascinating and helpful people we’ve met along the way. Good and bad, more than when comfortable on land, I recall clearly, in vivid detail, each of these days.
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!
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