By Richard Hurst
Several years ago my wife and I accompanied some close friends on a charter trip to Desolation Sound, Canada. We are sailors, but our friends are primarily power boaters. We agreed on a 39-foot powerboat (brand withheld to protect the truly guilty). Because our friends are both in the marine business, this particular boat was chosen because of the multitude of electronic gadgets.
After a check out in the boat, we loaded a huge amount of gear including diving tanks and a portable compressor to refill them. We flipped a coin for the owner’s cabin forward. I thought that I had lost the toss, but later events would reveal I’d really won.
Later that day, we finally shoved off, crossing Bellingham bay enroute to Nanaimo where we planned to spend the first night. Halfway across the bay, we noticed that the starboard fuel tank only registered one-half full. Through the modern miracle of cell phones, we brought this to the charter company’s attention and were informed that one gauge did not work properly and the tanks were indeed full.
As we proceeded farther across the bay, my friend (the captain) realized that the fancy autopilot which had been the primary reason for choosing this particular boat over one of its sisters was inoperative.
Still we thought it was a gorgeous day and four boat people were certainly capable of piloting without electronic help steering; besides, the electronic map with its precise GPS readings and the radar were enough to keep inveterate tweekers busy playing.
We cleared customs and docked in Nanaimo. After wandering around town for a bit, we ate a delicious meal at the restaurant on the wharf. We slept well looking forward to a quiet day crossing the Straits of Georgia.
We crossed the glassy Strait without event and headed north up the Malaspina Strait behind Texada Island. The boat couldn’t be run anywhere near full speed because the bow would rise high enough to obscure vision in spite of full deflection of the trim tab. It was too cold to go up to the fly'bridge so we were satisfied with ample speed. We entered the cloud-obscured Desolation Sound and proceeded down the quiet waters of Malaspina Inlet to Grace Bay where we dropped the hook. The bay was still. No boats were in sight. Time for wine, fishing, and reading.
We did notice that the bilge pump seemed to be working quite a bit, but the boat was unfamiliar to us so that did not seem worrisome.
The next morning it appeared as if the water from the forward pump was blue tinged and the forward cabin occupants wondered about the odor up there. A quick look in the bilge confirmed our suspicions. There was sewage-tainted water there. During the check out in the boat, the position of the handle for overboard dumping had been reversed (this was years ago, remember) and the holding tank had not been emptied. The holding tank was therefore full to the point of splitting its seams and draining into the bilge. The macerator pump was tried, but it didn’t work. The captain spent several hours overhauling it so that we could pump out.
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Undaunted, we headed deeper into incredibly beautiful waters. The clouds had cleared and the mountains seemed to come right down to the water. Anchoring in another sheltered bay, we slipped into the water with the scuba gear and searched the nearby wall finding some small rockfish and an assortment of other creatures. The captain let out a loud “Whoa” as he surfaced behind the boat. The reason the boat could not be trimmed was that the trim tab was missing! Not only was it missing, but also the screw holes were the source of much of the water in the bilge. With further inspection in the engine room, the packing glands were seen to be dripping much too fast. There was a fair selection of tools on board, but nothing large enough to adjust the packing glands.
The next morning, we enjoyed a great breakfast surrounded by clear mountains reflected in the calm bay. Gorge Harbor on Cortes Island seemed to be the nearest mechanical help in the area and we headed there after the batteries, drained by all that bilge pumping, just barely started the engine.
The folks at Gorge Harbor marina had all the tools and helped tighten the packing glands and the actuator was jury-rigged to work the remaining half of the trim tab. In exchange for tank refills, local sport divers at the dock put screws into the holes to plug them. The rest of the day was spent buzzing around the harbor seeing the sights and drowning some fishing lures.
The next morning, we arose to small craft warnings. A small boat in the harbor wondered if they should venture out. We being a large craft (after all we were 39 feet long), volunteered to leave first and radio a report about the seas. We weren’t too far out of the bay when it was obvious that the small boat should stay inside and we dutifully radioed back.
Meanwhile, we were bouncing ahead into larger and larger waves. As green water crashed over the bow, we sailors learned powerboaters’ little secret—those table lamps in their saloons are not screwed down! My wife, who gets seasick, considered turning green, but was so distracted hanging onto the lamp and holding on for dear life that she forgot to get sick. The knife holder in the galley flew across the floor spilling knives in all directions. The little flat vent that overlies the microwave
oven was apparently never intended to get wet because seawater drained down through it into microwave setting off sizzling sounds. Water seeped in through the sliding side windows.
Although we weren’t in any real danger, it was voiced that all but one of the life jackets were above on the fly'bridge and for sure, no one was going up there to get them! As we proceeded further, the captain uttered his “Oh no!” as he noticed from his vantage point that the lower bulkhead of the
anchor locker had given way spilling 200 feet of wet, muddy chain onto the owner’s bunk! I couldn’t help but laugh, remembering my loss of the coin flip.
We worked our way around to where a following sea was kinder to us and entered Cortes Bay. Since there was work to be done on the anchor locker, the boat really needed to be tied to a dock. The government dock appeared full, so an attempt was made to go to the Seattle Yacht club dock, which was completely empty. Despite the fact we were all charter members of the Clagget Creek Yacht Club (home base’ Kaiser tavern), we were refused moorage even for repairs. The harbormaster at the government dock allowed us to use the loading area. We dropped all the anchor chain into 10 feet of water, borrowed a drill, and jury-rigged the anchor compartment to hold the chain. The captain inspected the microwave oven and got it working again. A shrimper, unable to use the loading zone, rafted alongside, and unloaded. We purchased fresh shrimp and enjoyed.
The next morning the seas were flat calm and we headed for Nanaimo and the end of the vacation. Halfway across the Georgia Straits, one engine made some coughing sounds and died. Thank goodness we had two engines, we comforted each other. Five minutes later, the second engine died leaving us bobbing about in the sea lanes. Scared? Actually we dissolved into laughter that “the boat from hell” had done it again.
As we called the Canadian Coast Guard, a megayacht passed astern and I had an opportunity to fire a flare for real. They kindly stood by until help was on the way. We had actually voted to go aboard the yacht and scuttle our boat, but sanity won out. We had given the Coast Guard our precise coordinates (remember the GPS), and they were sending a helicopter and a tow boat was on its way from Howe Sound. Howe Sound was nearly all the way back where we started. The cell phone was again used to contact the charter company who assured us that we had run out of fuel and the tow charges would be ours to pay. But, the fuel gauge, which had read full, was reading half full, the one which was originally half full was on empty. Fuel calculations also suggested we still had half our original supply. "You can't trust those gauges," was the answer.
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We angrily waited for rescue. Then the Coast Guard radioed it couldn’t find us. “Did we see ferries?” Yes, both north and south of us. Well then, “Could we see their landing
lights?” Yes, to the south
—no, wait
—those
lights turned for a landing at Vancouver International. Finally, the helicopter arrived and circled us so the towboat, which was Loran equipped, (remember those GPS coordinates) could locate us.
We were towed to Howe Sound and a marina. The tanks were topped off with about one half of the boat’s capacity. Although we had replaced the primary fuel filters in an attempt to get us restarted, apparently the slamming into the seas had dislodged enough crud to clog all the filters. Once these were changed and bled, we were in business again. Since it was evening, we moored in a pleasant park across the way on the south side of Howe.
The next morning, we set off in a direct route to Bellingham. As we passed between the two Tsawwassen ferries, one engine died. Another quick filter change and we limped toward homeport. We contacted the charterer because at reduced speed, we would be late for the check in. We also had an opportunity to fill his ear about the $400 towing bill we had paid at Howe. “That was unfortunate,” he said. “How would we like to keep the boat for an extra day!” Yeah, right!!
After the check in, we were assured that we had knocked off the trim tab and they would keep part of the deposit. All four of us went to the office with blood in our eyes. After a heated discussion, we were returned our deposit, reimbursed for the towing charges, and refunded the two-day’s worth of charter cost that we estimated we had lost. The statute of limitations has run out. We received this refund only after swearing not to tell anyone about the “boat from hell.”
About the author: Richard Hurst has been sailing for 40 years, primarily cruising in Puget Sound. He and his wife, Dianne, own an O'Day 40 and sail out of Olympia, WA.
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