We are just getting ready to get underway for the Galapagos Islands. First, we will stop and fill our water tanks, but that is our last chore before heading to sea. The trip will cover about 960 miles and probably take 6-10 days, depending on the wind. Check the “Current Position” page for a map showing where we are, updated every hour.
1805 (6:05 PM)- We are only a short distance from the Miraflores locks. If you check the Miraflores webcam in the next hour or so you might get a glimpse of two sailboats in the lock. We are ahead of a tanker with a red hull and will probably be tied alongside a tug. Starlight is the sailboat with dark blue canvas.
What follows is a description of a repair that I did not want to get involved in… After removing the damaged parts of the hull and seeing how well-bonded everything still was, I am pretty sure that Idle Queen would have survived another circumnavigation without issues from this area if I had just replaced the chainplates and continued sailing her. But, even if I had stopped new water from getting into the hull, the water that was already inside would have continued to cause further damage by rotting the core, slowly prying the skins from the core with each freeze cycle, and causing hydraulic damage when impacts from waves against the outer skin pushed the water into new areas. Ignoring the problem would have eventually meant the end of the boat because the hull would have weakened and the required repair would have just continued to grow.
I received a lot of advice from passers-by as I was contemplating what needed to be done after I removed the chainplates and saw water draining from the resulting holes. Mostly, the suggestions were to try injecting products like epoxy, or Git-Rot into the problem area. That would have been little better than just leaving the whole thing alone, as there is no good way to remove the water without completely taking off one skin. Leaving moisture in the core leaves the original worries, and by talking to people who have made these sorts of repairs before, I learned that trying to inject anything into the area is very close to useless.
The first steps of the repair, as already mentioned in the last post, were to find the extent of the moisture penetration, and then remove the outer skin. It was tough to drill those first few holes, but once I got past that psychological hurdle, the work went quickly. I could immediately tell where the core was wet or not when the drill bit brought forth either a stream of water (from the plywood area), damp, but still solid balsa, or dry balsa dust. As an interesting aside, a moisture meter passed over the hull from the outside did not register the extent of the moisture hidden inside. The outer skin on this Dreadnought 32 is between 1/4″ and 3/8″ thick. Maybe a moisture meter works better on thinner-skinned laminates.
I taped off the edges of the area that I intended to cut out and then picked up my oscillating multi-tool (a knock-off Fein multi-master) with a metal/fiberglass blade and began to cut the outline. Work slowed down a few minutes after getting started as the glass fibers dulled the metal teeth of the blade. Partway through this step of the project, a friend loaned me a Dremel high-speed circular saw with a diamond-tipped blade. I was able to set the depth of the cut to just more than the thickness of the outer skin and zip relatively quickly along each planned cut. At this point, I was thinking that this project was going pretty well and I was only taking about as long as I planned. Of course, that meant something unexpected had to come up soon!
That problem came in the form of a good bond between the balsa and the skins. I had built model airplanes when I was a teenager and was pretty familiar with the soft, easily-cut wood from hours of shaping it into wings and fuselages. I hadn’t expected that it would be difficult to get the outer skin off, and actually had visions of popping it off intact and re-using it. Ha! An hour after I began trying to pry the outer skin off one side of the hull it was totally obvious that the balsa core was going to force me not only to destroy the outer skin, but also spend a couple of days doing it. I began with a hammer and a very large screwdriver but only succeeded in tearing the outer laminations of the skin off. Lots of mat remained stubbornly glued to the balsa. After experiments that involved using every prying tool I had access to, including an air-powered chisel, the method I settled on was to cut the skin into two-inch square chunks and then pop each one of the little squares off. That meant a lot of lines to cut! I am amazed at how well the diamond-tipped blade held up, but towards the end it was more burning through the fiberglass instead of cutting…
Once the skin was removed, I had to chisel all the rest of the core material out. This was complicated, again, by the excellent bond between the fiberglass skin and the balsa wood, and also by the fact that the plywood part of the core extended beyond my cut-out area. It was very effective (and dusty) to take a high-speed grinder and 24-grit sanding discs to remove the balsa. A sharp chisel also did the job, but was slower and I had to be careful not to go into the inner skin. The plywood was a pain because I wanted to remove it from between the skins at the upper edge of the repair. I didn’t cut the outer skin all the way to the rubrail (which is un-cored) because that wouldn’t have left enough room to get a 12-1 taper for a strong repair of the outer skin. I slowly cut it out with the oscillating multi-tool.
Once that was finished, it was simple to finish grinding a 12-1 bevel into the surrounding outer skin, and finish grinding all of the inner skin with 36-grit in preparation for bedding in new core material, which is 1/2″ end-grain balsa. Instead of putting plywood back where it had existed before, I built the area up with layers of “1708”, which is a biaxial, non-woven fiberglass material which consists of two layers of continuous fiberglass strands (weighing 17 ounces per square yard) running 45 degrees each side of vertical (biaxial) stitched to a layer of 8 ounce mat. Layers of this material were laminated until the surface was level with the surrounding area where balsa was to be placed. The balsa was cut to fit the repair area, and then bedded in a thick mash of resin, chopped strand, milled fibers, and fumed silica (Cabosil).
Next order of business was to cut plastic to use as a “bag” to hold the balsa in place. I put an old through-hull mushroom in the middle of it. The through-hull was scored so it could suck air in even if flat against a surface. Once everything was cut to fit, and the filler mixed, I rolled resin onto the balsa to saturate it. It took a few heavy coats before it stopped sucking resin in like a sponge. I catalyzed the thickened mash mixture and spread it over the whole area with a heavily v-notched spreader, working quickly. The balsa was all pushed into place until mash squeezed out around all the edges. The ”bag” was taped over the area and a shop-vac used to apply pressure to the area. This does not apply the same pressure as a specialized high-vacuum pump, but it still applies a lot of force to hold the core tightly against the inner skin while the mash cures. It applied more pressure than I could by hand, as more mash squeezed out from behind the balsa.
After the core had cured in place, all of the scores in the balsa were filled with thickened resin. This prevents water migration in case there is ever a break in one of the skins. The balsa was cut out where the chainplates mount so they mount over solid glass. Then, all of the new balsa core was sealed with resin until it stopped soaking it in. Additional ayers of 1708 cloth were built up to make up for the difference of thickness between the core and where plywood had been used originally. There are as many as 15 layers of 1708 in the area of the chainplates.
I made templates of the repair area and used them to cut layers of 1708 biaxial mat for the new outer skin. Using a 3/8″ nap roller, I wet the area with resin and saturated the glass. Each layer was carefully laid in place and the extra resin squeezed out with a fiberglass laminating, or consolidating roller. It was hot work, with the sun making sure that I was soaked no more than 10 minutes after beginning work each day. After the final layer of 1708 was laminated, I covered the whole repair with a layer of “peel ply”, which is basically a fabric like nylon coat liner that doesn’t stick to the surface. When removed, it provides a fresh, textured surface that is perfect for adding more laminations, or fairing material. Saturated with resin, and then painted, it protected the repair areas while I went away for the summer to work.
To be continued…
When trying to compare the speed of different boats objectively, I like to use PHRF ratings to give a good idea of the actual performance differences involved. PHRF ratings are used to handicap all sorts of different sailboats so they can race together on the same course. They give a number which equates to seconds per mile, that is applied to a boat’s finishing time to determine overall performance in the race. If a boat has a lower number, it “gives” seconds to a boat with a higher number. Thus, a boat with a rating of 200 is expected to finish a one mile course 50 seconds faster than a boat rated 250. The lower-rated boat has to “give” 50 seconds to the higher-rated, slower boat when computing corrected times at the finish. So, if the boat rating 200 finishes the course 51 seconds ahead of the boat rating 250, it has won the race, but if it finishes, say, 48 seconds ahead, then it has lost on “corrected time”. The ratings are frequently adjusted to keep different boats on par. Racers are a competitive bunch, and this is a widely accepted system used for many different types of sailboat races, so I think it is a pretty good way to compare the speeds of different boats.
Just for comparison’s sake, let’s look at a Westsail 32, which rates 222, or 222 seconds per mile slower on average than a boat that rates 0. How do some other designs compare? The Crealock 34, which is a design that is held in quite high regard by many cruising sailors, rates 201. That’s only 21 seconds per mile faster, on average… How about a Contessa 32, another classic design that has a reputation for being weatherly and fast in a wide range of conditions? The Contessa 32 rates 180, or 42 seconds/mile faster than the Westsail 32. Over a 100 mile course, with both boats racing, the Contessa would be expected to finish 70 minutes faster. Over a 2,000 mile course–a huge distance: 23.3 hours. That’s a 1 day difference on a 2,000 mile crossing between a boat that has a reputation for being a slug and one that was designed as a racer/cruiser has a reputation for being quite fast in all sorts of conditions. The only PHRF rating I can find for the Dreadnought 32 is listed in San Francisco. There are not enough Dreadnought 32’s racing on the east coast to give the design a rating. The Dreadnought 32 PHRF rating is 222–same as the Westsail 32.
The PHRF ratings provide the most accurate speed comparison when there is a mix of different points of sail. If the above example citing the Westsail 32 and Contessa 32 were sailed all upwind, I would expect the Contessa to easily out-sail the Westsail every time. However, if the passage were mostly reaching or running (fair winds), the differences will be smaller. Cruising sailors prefer to plan passages that take advantage of fair winds so the actual differences may be smaller than the ratings suggest when that is taken into account.
In races, the finishing time differences normally stretch out to more than in the example above because of differences in decisions made by the crew. A poorly sailed Contessa 32 could easily finish a 2,000 mile course more than a day behind one that was sailed by a top crew. A similar time difference is possible due to poor sails. A difference in the duration of a passage is as likely to be caused by local weather, a meander in an ocean current, crew decisions, boat condition (how clean the bottom is, especially), sails, etc., as the actual speed potential of the boat being sailed.
The PHRF list I use is available at: http://www.phrfne.org/page/handicapping/base_handicaps Not every boat in the world will be there, as there has to be enough of them being raced to get accurate rating data. Still, you can get a pretty good idea of the relative speeds of a lot of different boats in real-world conditions. The system is not perfect, and each boat design has conditions where it will often out-sail it’s rating, but this data has been gathered over many years of racing in varied conditions and is frequently updated when it becomes apparent that a particular boat design (or even a particular boat) has an unfair advantage due to rating.
I hope the above gives enough information to at least keep the actual speed differences in perspective. It is impossible to consider take every factor into account when trying to compare boats, but some details will make a big difference. If you’re sailing in small, very protected waters in mostly light winds, the differences between a very heavy boat and a lighter one will be exaggerated, for instance.
In real life, I have found that my Dreadnought 32 is surprisingly easy to drive on most points of sail at speeds that keep me happy (4-6.5 knots) with very little strain on the rigging. My running average speed over the last 2,000 miles is about 4 knots (per GPS log), but I have sailed the boat overly conservatively due to suspect rigging (which I am in the process of changing). That average includes a mix of offshore and ICW miles, many miles of me being lazy and not hauling out bigger sails on light-wind days, sailing reefed down when being conservative at night, and the like. It also includes motoring, where I run my boat slower than many people partly because I only have 15 hp in a 20,000 lb boat, and partly because I actually enjoy just tooling along slowly when under power… My average speed under power is a relaxed 4-4.5 knots, even though Idle Queen will power at 6.5 knots when needed.
From mid-November to mid-December of 2013, Idle Queen was underway traveling between Cape Cod and North Carolina. Below is a video compilation from that trip. I now have a waterproof housing for my camera after missing lots of good action due to bad weather on that trip. I look forward to being able to film in all conditions this season.
Click here to watch the video on YouTube in a new window.
Idle Queen is back in Oriental, NC, for a visit and to get some maintenance done. I will get a trip log up soon. The last few days served up an interesting mix of weather, places, and people…
I am writing from a coffee shop in Portsmouth, VA. I can just see Idle Queen‘s mast from where I am sitting. It is wonderful not to have 6 layers of clothing on for the moment. Temperatures have moderated from the unseasonable cold that we experienced from the time we left Cape Cod until just a couple of days ago. Today’s high approached 60, and the low stayed way above freezing. It finally feels like we have made good progress south. Of course, it can get down into the teens here this time of year, but that is unusual. A week ago, we actually had temps that low.
The trip down the Chesapeake was slow, cold, and at times, rough. From Annapolis, we motored to Solomons, MD, where we spent Thanksgiving waiting out a gale. I decided to ride the tail end of that wind down to Little Creek, to visit with friends. The forecast called for light NW winds, so I figured that we would have to motor part of the way. We set out with 20 knots. OK. I thought it would taper off. Actually, it ended up staying up there, and then some. By the time we were nearing the southern end of the Chesapeake Bay, it was blowing 25 knots and gusting higher. The only sail up was a double-reefed main and the staysail, but we were cranking along at 6.5 knots and more. It was obvious that we would arrive in Little Creek much earlier than I wanted to. I was cold and tired, as the temps were in the high 20’s, so I decided to heave-to rather than enter the harbor at 0300. I found enough room and hove-to under just a double-reefed main. The next few hours were spent getting bounced around in a steep Chesapeake chop, but I could rest. Michele kept a lookout for traffic while we waited for first light.
As soon as 0600 rolled around, I unlashed the tiller and pointed us for Little Creek. With steep waves standing up in the entrance, the channel provided a bit of a challenge for the 35-foot sportfishing boat that I watched crashing out of the harbor in great white plumes of spray, but Idle Queen rode in on top of the waves without shipping even a few drops on deck. I needn’t have worried about entering this port in the dark. Little Creek has a huge, well-marked channel and I easily found a spot to anchor between the first two marinas. Sleep came quickly once the boat was secure.
In Little Creek, we had a marvelous visit with friends who also own a Dreadnought 32. They are a couple in their 30’s, which is a pretty small demographic among the cruising community. They have done a beautiful job renovating their boat, and I enjoyed soaking in ideas for improvements to make on Idle Queen.
As tempted as I was to stay in Little Creek for the winter, it was decided that we should push a little farther south before hauling Idle Queen for some much-needed maintenance. The current plan is to go at least as far as Oriental. We will be taking the Dismal Swamp Canal route, and will be making an early start tomorrow morning to catch a fair current. I am looking forward to a couple days on sheltered water…
Idle Queen is resting at Solomons, MD, anchored up Back Creek. The air temperature is in the 30’s, the wind is howling out of the northwest, and it is raining. It is time to dig a couple of those rust-spotted cans of creamed corn out of the bilge and turn them into a hot, super-tasty meal.
This is a meal that is easy to plan for even on a boat without refrigeration, as all of the ingredients keep well. Here’s what you need:
Here’s how I go about cooking it all up:
First, cut the “side meat” or bacon into bite-size pieces and fry in the bottom of a large saucepan. While this is cooking, dice the onion and garlic. Add to pan when cut so they can start cooking and adding their flavors. Cut up the potatoes into pieces about 1/2 inch on a side, and then add them to the pan. Barely cover it all with water–just enough to cook everything. Add the thyme and bring it all to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer until the potatoes and onions are cooked through. When the potatoes are cooked through, add the cream-style corn and cream. Bring it all back to a boil (or just hot if you’re conserving cooking fuel), and then it’s done. Pepper to taste, preferably with fresh-ground peppercorns. Since “side meat” is salt-cured, there is probably no need to add additional salt, but add some if desired to your taste and the ingredients that you used.
Enjoy!
After leaving Martha’s Vineyard, Idle Queen’s bowsprit pointed across a glassy, starlit sea toward the Block Island Light, and later the powerful beacon at Montauk. After a couple of days spent waiting for strong headwinds to blow themselves out, we were left with nothing to stir the sea or fill the sails. Hourly trips to turn the grease cup that lubricates the drive shaft bearing provided a means to mark time on this passage as the engine droned away noisily. How since we passed Cuttyhunk Island? 5 turns of the grease cup I noted at one point. There were a few brilliant shooting stars that night, providing some excitement when they left trails glowing in the sky where they cut into the atmosphere. We carried a fair tide all the way to the Race, thanks to having picked a good departure time and to the engine for keeping the boat moving.
A meaningful amount of wind did not cross the deck until we were on Long Island Sound. I had decided to head up the Sound because a strong cold front was forecast to sweep southward before there was any chance of making it to shelter if we had headed to the south of Long Island, and there was no reason to be caught offshore in the forecast gale that was to follow.
We were hit by the first blast of southwest wind when we were just short of Oyster Bay. I had really hoped to make it to Port Washington, as it would have left us in a favorable position for continuing with a fair wind later. Once the wind built enough to leave Idle Queen overpowered with just a double-reefed mainsail and the staysail, I began to have second thoughts about making it to Port Washington. It’s only 15 miles. We have a fair current. We can make it.
It was not to be. Rain came with curtain of fog and blotted out an overtaking tow that I had been watching that was only at that point about a mile astern. We have no radar, and it wouldn’t have done us any good as we pitched and heeled anyway. If I couldn’t see the tugboat’s powerful running lights, they sure couldn’t see the feeble glow from mine. I estimated visibility at about 50 yards. Idle Queen may have been lost in the rain and sea clutter on the tugboat’s radar. Even though they should have passed almost a mile to our north, I didn’t want them worrying about where that sailboat went, so I tacked away to the south, putting us perpendicular to their course and any danger of collision. With visibility so bad, it was time to seek shelter, so I made for Oyster Bay, where we sheltered for an entire day from the howling wind.
When we headed out the next morning to try to make it through the East River and out to the Atlantic in order to continue south, the wind was down to about 30 knots out of the northwest. That, however, was enough to make it painfully slow to make it out of Oyster Bay. Idle Queen is not a powerful sailer to windward–her keel is shallow; she has high freeboard to hold her back; and her sails have assumed a very relaxed shape when compared to the nice foil shapes they had when they were new. We can’t power very quickly into a blow, either. The engine is reliable and in good condition, but it is small–we have less than 1.5 hp per ton of boat. Take a headwind and add a short chop, and the result is slow going for Idle Queen. It took almost four hours to claw the three miles to windward so that we could make the turn to continue west on Long Island Sound toward the East River. That put us way behind the tide, so we anchored near City Island to wait for the next ebb to flush us through the East River and down New York Harbor. We would do that leg at night.
After breaking the anchor out of the thick, oyster-studded mire at City Island, I stood in the cockpit and motored toward the Throgs Neck Bridge. My hands went numb after just a few minutes, despite doing my best to avoid exposing them to the below-freezing might air. I needed to frequently pull out my flashlight to check my position and verify the upcoming lights, and the switch on the flashlight was too small to push when my hands were in gloves. With the exception of a moment’s confusion near Riker’s Island (where a few channels come together), the trip went smoothly. With a fast-running fair current and many rocks lurking in the dark, it only takes a moment’s confusion for the boat to end up against something solid. Fortunately, I figured the marks out and avoided getting into shallow water.
We ran the gauntlet between ships, tows, ferries, and patrol craft and made it down New York Harbor to where it meets the sea at Ambrose Channel. There, I enjoyed the wide, well-marked channel with few background lights to confuse after the hectic hours in the East River and New York Harbor. The wind was fair and whipping, so I set the staysail. We sailed into the Atlantic and turned right, making 5 knots with very little canvas set.
Dawn found us well past Sandy Hook. As the wind lightened, I set first a double-reefed, and later the full mainsail. Progress was good, but the ride was bumpy, with Idle Queen bouncing uncomfortably down the 4-6 foot swells. We were moving well and my spirits were high, despite an uneasy stomach. Maybe it was that can of peaches I ate earlier. I shouldn’t have felt so queasy given the conditions.
Late that night, with the incredibly huge video screen of Atlantic City still visible, I finally had to give in to my body and void my stomach. I am not sure what caused me to get sick, but it took a few hours to get over. Probably something that I ate. Feeling a bit weak, and with the forecast calling for headwinds the next day, I decided to turn in to Cape May and head up the Delaware Bay.
We fueled up at Utsch’s Marina, where I spent a short while chatting with the owner about the weather and the declining state of the pleasure boating business. “Ten years ago, all of these marinas had more transients than they could handle,” he said, sweeping his hand through an arc past at least three other big marinas. “Now, we don’t have half the business we were doing back then.” He knew that he was part of a dwindling number of family-run marinas, and seemed to indicate that he could already imagine the day when he couldn’t make it pay anymore. I was thankful to have given him my business, though it was just a small fuel sale. We continued on our way with some helpful tips about the Delaware Bay and a free cup of coffee.
The fair tide carried us to the Upper Bay, where we anchored not far from a nuclear power plant. We were completely exposed, with miles of fetch in every direction, but the water was calm by this point. The whole trip from Cape May had, at the most, about 10 knots of wind, which was on the nose, of course. After the sun set, the water was glassy. It was wonderful to be able to catch a couple of hours of sleep before the tide turned once again and we continued on through the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal at night.
Daybreak brought more headwinds. Fortunately, they were light and we were able to motor the rest of the way to Annapolis without ever having our speed over the ground fall much below 3 knots. Yeah, I am happy as long as the boat is at least moving at a good walking speed. We worked the shallows to avoid the flood tide, and stayed in deep water to get a push from the ebb. It was about 3 in the afternoon when we motored under the drawbridge to enter Spa Creek. It was time to take a break… The forecast called for freezing temperatures and gale-force winds.
It blew hard all day today, but the wind is tapering off now. With a couple of days rest and freshly-laundered clothes, we are again ready to continue our journey south. The current plan is to leave tomorrow morning and see how far we make it before the wind turns on us again.
A few photos from Marthas Vineyard follow:
Just a few words here, as I am about to pull anchor to head through the East River, down New York Harbor, and hopefully onward to either Delaware Bay or the mouth of the Chesapeake.
We had an easy run from Martha’s Vineyard most of the way up Long Island Sound before an approaching front brought fog, rain, and 50-mile per hour gusts. We staggered into Oyster Bay (from where I am writing now) quite overpowered though we were only flying a double-reefed mainsail and the staysail. There were a few scary moments shortly before we found the harbor when an overtaking tug and barge disappeared into a particularly thick pocket of rain. They had looked to be passing us to starboard, so I tacked away to head far from the course I anticipated they would continue. The scary part was that I had no confirmation until the rain let up 10 minutes later. By then, we were probably 1.5 miles from their track. Whew.
Now, with a new, strong northwest wind blowing over the island behind which Idle Queen is currently anchored, I see that it is time to go. This will be a good wind direction for us once we are headed down the New Jersey coast, and it is forecast to remain favorable for the next 48 hours. Our progress over that time will dictate whether we make for the Delaware or Chesapeake Bay. I will update when I next find an Internet connection…