My Hatches Drip On Me And I Let Them
Is a "Do No Harm" maintenance philosophy wise...or cowardly?
Directly above my bunk in the forward stateroom of Laughing Gull is a Lewmar Ocean 70 hatch. It provides good light and great ventilation when open. It also provides an annoying drip of water when it rains.
There are three Lewmar Ocean 70 hatches on LG. They all leak to one extent or another. That is part of the deal. Life aboard a sailboat is always wet in one way or another, and dripping hatches are common. That doesn’t make hatch leaks any less frustrating. The Lewmar over the forepeak is probably the worst. In big seas, with green water coming over the bow and rolling across the deck, salt water squirts through the hatch and soaks the ropes and gear I have stowed up forward. At least no one lives in there. The main saloon hatch, in contrast, in rough weather drips water directly onto whichever sea berth (and miserable sap of a crew) happens to be on the low side at the moment.
I have some Lewmar replacement gaskets that I could use to try and seal them up better. I have had them for almost a year, and “Fix hatches” has been on my boatwork list for even longer. The fact that I haven’t actually replaced the gaskets and crossed that job off my list is not because I am lazy (well, not that lazy, anyhow). It is because I rate the issue of mildly leaking hatches at about a 3 on the 1-10 urgency scale (more urgent stuff gets fixed faster). And I have a sneaking suspicion that if I remove the old hatch gaskets there is a chance I will only make the leak worse, which is the last thing I want before I am about to cross an ocean. Better to wait until LG is next laid up in a yard, and there is plenty of time to get it right, or call in some expertise if I botch it.
For the same reason, I also have an uninstalled depth sounder that I have carried with me since last November. That is when the old one failed. I was sent a warranty replacement, but installing it requires pulling the old one out of a plastic sheath that goes through the hull. If I crack the sheath somehow in the process, LG will have a major leak and need an emergency haul-out—if there is even a yard nearby than can lift Laughing Gull’s 20 tons. LG happens to have a fishfinder-style sonar setup that also measures depth. Better to swap over to that system and wait until LG is out of the water before messing with the replacement depth sounder.
Life in general is full of dilemmas that require subjective judgments like this. Getting to the best answer (I don’t say “right” answer) isn’t always easy, or they wouldn’t be dilemmas. Boat maintenance in particular is a tricky judgment game. Unintended consequences can sink you or cost you a lot of time and money. So before I do anything that isn’t routine or absolutely required I pause and ask myself whether my intended solution stands a decent chance of actually making the problem I am trying to fix worse. And if I make it worse, how badly will I suffer?
These are the questions all sailboats heading for the Azores from Bermuda this season must grapple with, including the ARC Europe fleet which just departed.
I always say I don’t want the last words going through my brain to be “I am so dumb.” If I tried to replace a depth sounder while the boat is in the water and sunk LG in the process I would definitely be feeling very, very dumb. So I have grown very fond, when it comes to making judgments about matters of maintenance, of following the guidance of ancient Greek physician Hippocrates: “First, do no harm.”
Of course, my cautious approach sometimes makes me feel like a boatwork coward. I meet lots of handyperson sailors who happily drill holes in their boats without a second thought, casually remove and rebuild engine parts, and rewire already working systems. I doff my cap to them, and stick to my cautious approach. And every once in a while I hear a story that reinforces my “Do No Harm,” do-nothing, grandpa approach.
Just this week, for example, another Salty Dawg skipper who is also sailing to the Azores and also trying to get his boat as ready as it can be, had the misfortune to capture the attention of the Gods of (Painful) Unintended Consequences. The Gods Of No Good Deed Goes Unpunished joined in too. Here’s what happened (full account is here):
Before I left Trinidad I asked to have a mechanic check out Pandora’s engine and to pull the injectors to be sure that all was in order. I had noticed a bit of smoking and wanted to be sure that everything was right before heading out on a big run.
He pulled all four injectors, had them tested and declared that they were in very good shape and running at nearly 90% efficiency. I wanted to be sure that all was well and in case I had to order new ones, that there was time to get them to one of my crew so he could bring them with him on his flight to St Maarten.
Well, the tech that re-installed the injectors really messed up the job and I can not begin to describe the leaking mess that ensued and several days that it took to try and stabilize things. I tried to get the leaks fixed along the way and finally determined that the tech had damaged part of two injectors when re-installing them and now they needed replacing.
It was a mad rush but I was finally was able to order new ones and get them shipped to my crew member Dave who brought them to St Maarten. After that installation, a few days ago, all was still not well as other problems had cropped up. I learned that the original work not only messed up the injectors but other related parts and the mess got much worse and while some of the original leaks were gone, new ones had cropped up.
I couldn’t be more sympathetic. There but for the grace of a whim of the universe, go I. On a boat, it is such a fine line between doing the right thing, and risking the wrong thing. Throw in a random mechanic and you are rolling dice. Which is a perfect insight into the state of being living afloat and voyaging across open water. You can do your best to mitigate risk. But you always have to accept that you sail on a sea of uncertainty, from weather to breakdowns. You humble yourself before forces that are sublimely powerful. You live by your wits, experience, and ability to adapt and problem-solve. There are random twists of fate, and adversity. You are not really in control of your own destiny.
It can get very stressful, like it did last night, with lightning striking all around, and gusts into the 30s, in a closely-packed anchorage (you know how Indiana Jones HATES snakes?—that’s how I feel about lightning). All of which makes the reward, when rewards are offered, so meaningful. That is the bargain we strike.
Anthropocene Notes:
Since I am on the topic of risk management today, here is a preliminary report on the tragic sinking of the superyacht Bayesian. And analysis by Yachting World:
The MAIB also commissioned a detailed study of the Bayesian’s stability – analysing the information in the yacht’s Stability Information Book and the angles of vanishing stability for the yacht at three states of ‘load’ – ie how full the tanks were at the time.
The study was conducted by the Wolfson Unit in Southampton, and is complex – we will follow up with expert analysis of the available data in further detail.
Simon Graves, an MAIB investigator, told the Press Association: “You have the wind pushing the vessel over and then you have the stability of the vessel trying to push the vessel back up right again. And what our studies found was that they show that the Bayesian may have been vulnerable to high winds and that these winds were likely to have been evident at the time of the accident.”
The report states that: “The study indicated that if the wind was blowing directly onto Bayesian’s beam and the yacht was in the ‘motoring’ condition, a gusting wind speed in excess of 63.4kts would likely result in the vessel capsizing.”It adds that, in the state of load that the yacht was in at the time “once Bayesian heeled over to an angle greater than 70.6° (the angle of vanishing stability) there was no chance of a return to an even keel.
And a report on the sinking of two boats in last year’s Newport-Bermuda Race. Sailboats that race from Newport to Bermuda are about as well-prepared as most vessels. The loss of two illustrates that offshore it is very hard to totally eliminate risk.
To close out, apologies: Can’t resist a good dig at superyachts:
If you liked this post from Sailing Into The Anthropocene, why not subscribe here (free!), and/or hit the share button below? You can also follow me on Substack.
This makes me feel better about waiting to re-seat the leaking jib rails on my Bristol 35.5 (which the previous owner told me you once owned?)!