Kiwi bog (the floating sort)

Yes, I know it is a corny title of this ditty.  An ultimate topic of conversation of boaties is often about the boat toilet, or heads as it is called.
And why is it called the head, or heads?   I will reveal this at the end.

About 18 months ago between shifts loading logs and maintaining our Nelson residence, I installed a nice new Jabsco toilet in a revamped shower compartment.  18 months later, after a month off the boat celebrating seasonal family get togethers and another notable graduation, we returned to our boat and cranked up the systems for a Northland summer cruise.  Uh oh.  The Jabsco loo was leaking where the piston rod goes up and down.  (The pump gland).   After a period away the rubber surfaces often bind to the metal parts.  This was a circular seal made of rubber and a critical bit of stainless steel ring which keeps the seal tight against the metal, thus preventing leaks.   The problem was aesthetic only  because the leaking salt water is clean and contains no jobbies or wee wee’s.

plunger rod with offending gland.

In our previous toilet, an old Brydon Boy which took us (I should say expelled our excretions) around the world was patched up regularly with fibreglass.  The gland problem was solved by my manufacturing from brass garden hose bits a gland complete with little bits of gland packing.   It shortened the stroke, but it was always dry.

I found this small o-ring and pushed it into the seal

Well, the upshot of this unnecessarily long winded loo story is that I could not find a replacement  gland (sold out to desperate summer boaties), so I simply pushed in a suitably sized rubber o-ring where the old stainless spring ring was.  This was sufficient to maintain pressure against the metal rod.   By the way, the new Jabsco is so simple to repair this part. The whole bit is able to be unscrewed for replacement or repair.  Of course I could purchase the gland and surrounding plastic unit for $32, but hey, where is the challenge of repairing the offending part?  We are kiwis, and No 8 is still alive.  I love technology, but Slocum was out there circumnavigating the world too.

All right, you have been patient.  The heads area (over the bowsprit or bow area) on the old sailing ships was equipped with a wooden grating that sailors (and sailoresses) squatted over when the urge to purge was too great.  A wave or two in rough water washed the area clean.  I suppose modest people used bucket and chucket technology.  Please help me.  Who knows the technology used on the crowded pioneer sailing ships that spent months reaching New Zealand?  This is of academic interest.

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Any excuse to get a good view

Who's that fool up there?

I used to be terrified about climbing the mast, and had to take it incrementally (the psychological medicine) over a period of time.  Each small increase in height was an achievement.   Finally  I could race up the mast bare footed without a harness.  Now that was 17 years ago when we first purchased Wild Bird, and had less sense and a feeling of immortality.  Once I had reached the mast top that was.

We purchased a set of mast steps, made of aluminium and retractable.   You cannot see these in shops these days.  Is is because of liability if someone falls off?  They are brilliant.  These days, the Admiral takes me up clipped on, and with a harness seat that we make to fit my posterior.   It has special pockets for tools and a second hand car seat belt clips together at the front.   I can sit aloft and admire the view 17 metres up.

Lots of interesting things exist at the top of the mast, but today’s feature of interest is only a one metre bright yellow strip designed to warn ships in rough weather that something other than white caps of waves are out there.  Indeed, I once saw a freighter in a storm off the Australian coast many moons ago in our Wild Honey.   Its bright orange strip above the wheel house was first seen.    Also of interest was the spray orange dazzle that you get from the locked cabinets of hardware shops.  It very soon faded in sunlight.   Nothing permanent there for taggers.

Last year when the Admiral and I were putting up a new back stay (put together by me using the poured zinc cup terminals), we were grunting away lifting the heavy wire so I could slip the pin in and claim victory.  Nearby a young crew on a visiting boat were socialising in their cockpit, taking more than a cursory view of the proceedings.   When I loudly announced to the Admiral that we quinquaginarians had achieved our goal, our neighbours let rip a concerted cheer of congratulations.   Well!  Of course we would get it done kiddos.  Hey,we soon-to-be-sexagenarians must be called that for some reason.

By the way, I was also safety harnessed to the mast, so the fool had no way of falling at that stage.  Worse things have not happened at sea.

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Thermostat for 12V fridge

Now there’s and interesting topic, one to rivet you to this screen.  Interesting for boaties who, this summer enjoy a cool beer on board.  And fresh fish, fresh meat, veges and perishables.  It was not always like this.  We circumnavigated without refrigeration partly out of bloody minded Luddite determination to do so.  Part of the Kiss principle, a principle that the Admiral and I are readily abandoning bit by technical bit. The masochistic thing was to be independent of problems plaguing other cruisers.

We now have an Engel 12 volt fridge running a flat plate in a compartment with 5″ of insulation.   It is cool.  Working on the original installation, in my excited rush to complete the job I ran the physical thermostat sensing wire through the back of my electrical panel without preventing it from contacting live components.  Hmmm.   I wandered what that stink was one day.

Completed thermostat unit

I obtained a very nice unit to install.  Top of the range Danfoss.   To simplify matters I put the unit inside the compartment.  This would avoid complications of bending the sensor pipe and leading it through the insulated wall.   Only the 12v sensor wire needed feeding.   I was instructed by the expert to locate the sensor low down in the centre back of the fridge.  To protect it, I used a plastic water bottle cut to surround the sensor bulb.

I drilled perspex to fasten the whole caboose to the fridge wall.

Judicial use of cable ties and the strong drink container meant the arrangement was secure from being hit by flying beer cans or cabbages.

Bulb on left protected and in right position to read temp

The upshot is now the motor only cycles on for minimal periods, and we enjoy life away from the supermarket for weeks at a time.

Ps the bulb senses changes in the temperature much like an ordinary thermometer, by expansion and contraction of the gas inside.   The relay unit controls the power flow to the compressor motor.

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The R Tucker Thompson

R Tucker Thompson

It’s great to see the charter vessel R Tucker sailing every day in the Bay of Islands..   A lovely sight indeed.  It is super that sailing skills  required for this type of boat are being kept alive.

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Opua wharf, marina and hinterland from Russell road.

Great technology when one can stitch together three shots and call it a panorama.  The Admiral and I were out walking, searching for a Bay of Islands walkways track one evening.    Wild Bird is behind the trees on the left somewhere.  We are back on mooring after a nice week in the islands, one hour away.  (That was a few years ago, and as noted next, Opua is an old haunt of ours.)

Mooring in Opua
About 30 years ago we had a mooring made up and dropped at Tapu Point in the Bay of Islands. It was for our yacht Wild Honey, a Hartley 32 foot ferro yacht that I had recently finished constructing over a three year period. The Admiral has always joked that it was her surrogate engagement ring. (Well, what would you do, have a ring on your finger or a large ring on the sea bed? The choice was obvious.) We never extended ourselves to such a luxury…the finger ring that was, and a secure concrete block on the sea bed seemed to be a much more sensible acquisition. The Bay of Islands in Northland was the primo cruising ground of New Zealand, and back then, there were no marinas in the area anyway.
Today, most boats are on moorings. In our case, our preference for sailing without insurance also precludes us from using most marinas.
I had already ‘launched’ a mooring in Tauranga myself circa 1978. This was a two tonne mooring made to high specs. It was made on the nearby beach by filling a metal hoop ring with concrete and reinforcing. The bottom sand was heaped up so that a concave shape would enable the mooring to suck into the mud and stick. A large steel D ring poked out the top, locked in with much reinforcing. Heavy and light chain was then attached, a rope riser fixed onto the chain with a buoy on top. These were cowboy times, when a licence was not required, and no particular spaces allocated. It was cured by the cycles of several tides. Three days later I fixed four 44 gallon drums to the top, and floated the whole caboose out using a dinghy at high tide. At the spot X, I chopped the rope holding it and presto, it sunk to the bottom. Well, I tell you, it was exactly the same thing that has to be done using professional services today. And, it was made for a fraction of the cost of a professional one done today. Oh yes, I know about inflation, but today one pays about $3000 for a new mooring. However, that is if a space is available.
The Bay of Islands mooring was made by so called professional workers, but I had supplied the chain. For the cost of a dozen beer, I was gifted a length of ship’s anchor chain that was not wanted on the site of a major engineering works in Whangarei. The shackle was about 60mm diameter itself! (The cross sectional size of the ring metal.) Sadly I could not make this one myself, and handed it over to be made up. We sold it after Wild Honey was sold, and always lamented the loss of our private piece of marine real estate.

New spaces for moorings are like hen’s teeth. Mostly, they would be very far away from convenient dinghy launch spots anyway. Therefore one has to look for existing moorings that are for sale. Recently, we discovered a notice for a mooring for sale at Tapu Point, so snapped it up. It was newly serviced, and was only 100 metres from our original mooring. It is opposite the lovely new Opua Cruising Club to which we intend to become members soon. The block will save us expensive marina and/or mooring fees in the future when we have to attend family matters. We now have a base for Wild Bird in the Bay of Islands. A new adventure is ahead of us. The adventure of meeting new friends, and revisiting our old cruising grounds awaits us.
We have it advertised to let the mooring for the summer period as we intend to live on Wild Bird and cruise the Northland Coast, entertaining friends and family for some of that time. My original wetsuit from Wild Honey days has long gone, but a new ¾ wetsuit and new dive gear and fishing gear is ready for airing. The old wetsuits had an annoying habit of shrinking anyway.

POST SCRIPT.  Well, three years down the track and the mooring is sunk, sitting in the mud somewhere. It provided a good home to several visiting boats over the years and since we left to explore, The Admiral and I are now working as caretakers in the outer Bay where Wild Bird is now securely tied to a four tonne block.   We call it paradise, but put in 30 hours each (when panic button is not pressed) looking after two large waterfront properties.  A large mooring was kindly offered for our use as part of the job deal.

A strong storm had swept through the Opua area, and the boat on our mooring was forced to cut loose when conditions made it impossible to release normally.   The upshot is that  we have had made a much better (bigger, stronger, and better caternary) mooring that should be darned near immune to shifting again.   The mark two mooring (three if you count our first in Opua) has a four tonne block, two rings, 38mm bottom chain and 24mm intermediate chain with a whopping big 35mm riser rope and a massive pink bouy..  (Now available to cruisers to rent).

Annus horribilis (burst pipe in our ceiling of family home in Nelson, and father passed away) has presented a few other curved balls, but  events eclipsed by a lovely  new grandson. (Our first).IMG_2003

To the right, Northland Moorings are laying the new four tonne block with new heavy chain.

The Admiral inspecting new windy bouy, soft on hull.

The Admiral inspecting new windy bouy, soft on hull.

 

 

 

 

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Three remarkable French Couples

Three remarkable French Couples

We had just been fishing for snapper (caught four) and anchored in the lovely Roberton Island bay after motoring from the Kerikeri Inlet.    While in the dinghy ready to climb the hill for the day’s exercise, an inflatable with a family motored over to us.  Where we in the Canaries ten years ago? Did we have two teen daughters?  Yes, yes.  It was Vivien, who had taught our girls to cook crepes with her partner Patrick and three boys.  Yum.  After a walk to the top, reminiscing and catching up on the news we had the obligatory Mediterranean Post Meridian, and later went on their boat for drinks.

All sorts of adventures later they had turned up in the Pacific and chanced upon another French couple who had to offload their boat quickly.  It was in a remote atoll and the cyclone season precluded any notion of keeping the boat.  They had been offered jobs there.  The upshot was, our friends upgraded to a 15 m ketch for only 50 K Euros, and are now selling their old wooden 12 m boat on Trade Me.  Great news for the family of five who had hitherto been cramped on a small boat.

The next couple we met that night was also interesting.  The skipper had constructed his large fiberglass catamaran in Portugal.  He did not want the distraction of visitors. Ha, I remember the dozens of people who traipsed across the grass to dream with me on weekends when I was 25 and building a 10m concrete boat Wild Honey, that the Admiral and I had many happy years exploring the Pacific.  It was a great social time for me (while building) but had to work until 1am to make up for it.

The third couple had been cruising in Venezuela when they were boarded by pirates.  (Read hungry and poor locals who wanted to practice some socialism).  She screamed so hard that the pirates were forced to leave in case help arrived, not before shooting him in the neck (the 22 bullet went through a neck bone) and in his torso (the bullet went through the lung, liver and stomach).    They survived that attack and are now in the safety of NZ waters.  Better than on land where some idiot might start a fire.

All three face the dilemma of how to avoid the Red Sea while returning to the Med.  The last couple was considering a trip to Alaska via Japan then a trip down the US West coast then through the Panama.  Or I suppose a piggy back from Vancouver on the busy train carrying yachts across the continent.  Now that sounds good to me.

The Admiral and I at the top of Roberton Is, Bay of Is.

 

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Rangihoua Bay

Marsden Cross, Bay of Islands

Here we are gunkholing in the Bay of Islands, looking out at the Black Rocks and next to the  site of the European missionaries first service.  The impressive Maori Pa site is on the right.   Here in the evening I threw out a line and a pan sized snapper became entangled on my hook.

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Skipper almost asphyxiated donning wetsuit.

Weed mat stumps anchor or Wetsuit shrinks.

I am deep in my post meridian slumber when an urgent voice alerts us with a call of ‘Wild Bird’.  It was not your normal blood curdling scream, and The Admiral thought it was just another random visitor. If so, this would have been another highlight of our day.  Yesterday’s highlight was the view encountered on a walk to Cape Brett.  That was after one hour hike to a summit viewpoint.

Me and my better half near Cape Brett

We had each started off with a headache and two paracetamol tablets dissolved in our blood stream, and were doing this activity because it was there.  Knock the bastard off stuff, but not being beekeepers, were feeling our age.  Or was that the virus hijacking our metabolism?  The previous day’s highlight was spearing a butter fish for dinner.

Charter boat held tight to Wild Bird

I had left my previous job with a wellness gift of a set of skin diving gear, to replace my ageing gear from the days of Wild Honey, my 10metre ferro boat I had built on the sand dunes of Papamoa.  In those days (the seventies) the outlet for Moray Wetsuits (sounds slippery and sexy eh?) were hard to find.  A friend Snow Patterson measured me up.   Trouble was, I was like a muscular bean pole after three years building the boat.  Another time, another body.  A couple of years later the early generation rubber assumed a cardboard consistency- it took more effort to don the inflexible rigid garment than the entire dive session.         It is certainly true what they say about wetsuits- they shrink with age.  My body had developed, in Kiwi idiom, a puku.   Maori for stomach, but Pakeha translation is now the extended layer of middle aged love handles that envelop our bellies like a stack of tyres. The new wetsuit has extra stretch to accommodate Kiwi pukus.  It also has no legs and no arms.  In the water I feel like a liberated person, weightless and buoyed by a good supply of fatty tissue like a set of life rings.  Consequently, the weight belt had extra lead weights to help sink below the surface of the briny.  Now this has nothing to do with the main body of the story.

Anyway, the yell was not for social reasons.  A 12 metre charter boat was sailing in reverse, narrowly missing being impaled on our bow sprit.  Some guys having a rest between fishing were on the spot to help.  After boarding said craft to let out more chain, I dived in sans wetsuit (ouch) to inspect the small   anchor (an imitation Rocna) and wedge it into the sand.  The anchor had not dug in and was merrily ploughing  through a maritime field of grass.  Incidentally, one of our helpers also dived in, but in not by choice.   He was not in the right condition for standing in a dinghy and his immersion was involuntary. We also tied the boat to ours and waited for the skipper to return from his walk.  Back in Opua we notified the charter owner.  The owner had let out the regulation 3X depth.  Give me a heavy plough or CQR any day.

 

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Puppy dogs on train.

Puppy dogs and trains

Well, that might be a strange heading for today’s blog.  I heard that 175 million blogs are inexistence in the world today, and the average number of people reading each blog is… wait for it…. FOUR.    Therefore I would like to welcome you as one of four people reading this.   Hi mom.  Hi Sister Hi Angie.  Hi Random .  The most googled words when looking up a video production are trains and puppies.  I suppose followed by kittens.  I’m not so sure about blogs.  Probably not cruising nor maintenance of boats.  Well, it keeps up my practice on the keyboard.

New lines and smaller Puku.  Here, climbing the mast is the morning exercise.

Up mast painting the yellow strip

As an aside, today I replaced all fuel lines to my engine.  The 20 year old nylon tubing was getting a bit brittle.  Bruce at Seapower in Opua helped me find the correct fittings and the rest was hard work, calisthenics, cleaning bilges and bloody fingers.   Marion and I did find time to walk the hill behind Opua.  We are attempting to reduce my Puku in time for summer sailing.  Counterintuitively,  I am waiting for muffins to bake while I am writing this.

Apple muffins Hmmm
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Diesel throws a wobbly when asked to do a simple task like come alive.

I’ve written (republished from an article I wrote a while ago) a longer bit on diesel bugs etc.. a bit more technical if you are interested.   Look at post 30/11/14 Cheers.

Let’s hear that a’chuggin.

Shit happens.  It happened in the Bay of Islands.  Almost always at the most inconvenient time, this one after an eight hour trip by bus from Tauranga at six pm just when we promised the mooring owner that we would vacate and move to our newly acquired one .   We had rowed out to be greeted by a recalcitrant diesel that just refused to cough on command.  Wild Bird had been left unattended and unloved for a month.

The engine just refused to start, no matter how much pre heating and no matter how much cranking.  Step one.  Go to sleep.  Step two.  Read the how to books on diesels.  I needed go no further than the trouble shooting section on starting a diesel that refuses to do so.

I brushed past the section that told me to remove the bird’s nest from the air intake.  I kid you not.. this referred to troubleshooting on big fishing boats.  That gunk in the tank was not there.   The secondary filter bled clean fuel.   The air intake was fine, and the oil in the sump was clean.  After bleeding the two screws on the high pressure injector pump, it still did not start. Ahhhhg.  Back to the book.  I checked the stop button was working properly and in the right position.    I checked the engine flywheel was indeed flying around.

The final solution was brilliant.  Activate the stop button, then run the starter motor for a max. of 30 seconds then wait five minutes to start again.  The good book promised that this would do two things.  It would lubricate the cylinders with oil and most importantly, rid the injector pipes of any residual air.

Whoomph.  Away she went.  I think the old girl had lost some compression while we were off the boat when the cylinders and rings lost their lubrication.   For good measure, the 30 second crank would have rid the pipes of any air if indeed there was air present.

Incidentally, while working in the bilge again.. the default location for me in the mornings.. one of the fuel pipes cracked.   Hmm probably part of the above problem.   I then replaced all nitrile hoses and nylon pipes associated with fuel delivery and return to the tanks.  20 years service is not a bad run, and it would be embarrassing squirting diesel with friends on board this summer.

New nitrile pipes. De-Bug on the left, filter, water trap, filter.

The De-Bug is another story.  It is a marvelous little unit that kills random microbes before they wreck havoc in our fuel system.

Next, we go to a nice anchorage and clean the hull of fuzz and greeblies and throw out that bait catcher line while we breakfast.  Let’s see if the snapper are as keen to jump into our frying pan as they were in the Gulf.

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