Part II: "Narrow Escape" Returns to Long Beach

Ensenada harbor with brush fire smoke visible in center distance.

It was hot in Ensenada on Sunday, April 27. Winds blowing southwest off the desert mountains made the air dirty, fed a huge brush fire southeast of the city, and earlier allowed racers to make it to the finish line of the Newport to Ensenada Race along the shorter shoreline route.

After a lazy brunch on the patio of the Hotel Coral, my three remaining crew and I motored "Narrow Escape" to the hotel marina fuel dock. Geoffrey Vanden Heuvel, our fifth crew member, had arranged a ride back home Sunday morning with a friend who raced down in a trailerable trimaran.

We had arrived with about one-fourth of my 20 gallons of gasoline left, after motoring from Long Beach to Newport Beach, motoring about 10.5 hours during the night, and then another five hours into Ensenada after we decided to abandon the race.

I wanted to calculate my fuel consumption, but it was not to be. The gas pump at the Hotel Coral Marina was broken. (The diesel pump was working). The fuel dock crew gave me a couple of jerry cans and told me to take a taxi to a service station in town. The cover for the vent hole on one can was missing, so I had to stop at four gallons instead of five. As a result I added about nine gallons, which gave me plenty to cover the 66 nm back to U.S. Customs and then to the Shelter Island fuel dock in San Diego.

Everyone has to stop at the Shelter Island police dock and clear customs. It was beautifully organized this year and maybe the new passport rule was part of the reason. Although you can still return to the U.S. from Mexico without a passport, you must show a driver's license and a birth certificate to do so. I gave my crew plenty of warning to get their passports renewed if needed, and did so myself.

The U.S. Customs Master's Oath was supplied in the Skipper's Packet by the Newport Ocean Sailing Association (www.nosa.org) which does an impeccable job of running the Newport to Ensenada Race every year with its all-volunteer committee. The form provided a space to enter each crew member's passport number as well as other identifying information.

With all of us on deck, all that was necessary was to approach the dock, bow first, and hand the customs officer the yellow form. He quickly scanned it and gave the bow a shove to send us on our way. I suspect that we would have had to stop and he'd have come aboard, however, if there had not been a passport number on the form for each of us. Prior to the race I had submitted a crew list, with nationality, to NOSA, and that information had been conveyed to both Mexican and U.S. authorities.

After that mandatory stop, virtually everyone heads for the fuel dock and the short-order eatery upstairs. I then was able to calculate fuel consumption, which had been .67 gal/hr since leaving for the race start.

My tactician, Nate Tucker, left the boat at the fuel dock to meet his wife who drove down to pick him up so he would be home to meet relatives on their way to visit.

After refueling, its either a non-stop bash home or a leisurely cruise. I've opted for the leisurely cruise ever since doing the non-stop bash the first year I entered the race.

For me, that means rounding Point Loma after refueling and spending the night in Mission Bay. Tuesday is a motorsail to Dana Point for the night. Then back to Long Beach on Wednesday. This year I had a slip reservation at Marina Village in Mission Bay and a guest side tie at Dana West Yacht Club the following night. DWYC is dark on Tuesday nights. But nearby Dana Point Yacht Club is open for its Taco Tuesday night, and boy was that delicious.

A highlight of the Mission Bay stay was seeing my long-time friends, Bob Dickson and his wife, Elsa. I've known Bob since junior high school and we've shared many adventures, and a couple of boats. They drove me and my two remaining crew, Hobby Hobson and Pax Starksen, to a great dining spot in San Diego's Old Town district. The Dickson's had been at their Ensenada condo on Saturday watching the boats stream in all day, wondering which one was mine. It was fun to be able to show it off to them up close.

The Sunday night motorsail up from Ensenada had been pretty easy. It was even warm at times when the offshore wind reached us. We stood watches of two hours on and two hours off, with a new person coming on watch every hour to break up the monotony.

The only excitement of the return trip came just as I was coming on watch at 2 am. Hobby was in the cockpit and making a 20-degree course change to starboard to follow our planned route up the Baja California coast. He punched the 10-degree button twice on the Raymarine ST2000+ tiller autopilot and it "exploded". The piston shot to port and kept going, falling out of the unit body to the cockpit sole. The boat did a wild turn before it was brought under control.

No problem. I have an older version of the same auto pilot as a backup. It was quickly put in place and cockpit life returned to normal.

I later discovered that all that happened was that the control shaft somehow had unscrewed itself inside the autopilot housing. I screwed it back in place tightly. It tested perfectly and I expect many more years of trouble-free service.

Autopilot disassembled. "Exploding" shaft is beside the uncovered unit.

Stainless shaft had unscrewed from bronze driver

Autopilot fixed

Pax left the boat in Mission Bay on Tuesday and Hobby and I made the rest of the trip, all in daylight hours, alone.

There were a couple of exciting episodes, however.

Late Tuesday afternoon, the outboard suddenly lost rpm and began running rough. I looked back and saw the oil pressure warning light glowing bright red.

Immediately shutting off the engine, I found it fairly easy to stretch out well beyond the stern pulpit, remove the engine cowling and pull the dip stick out for inspection. No sign of oil on it. I carried extra oil. The oil filler plug is at the rear of the engine. It is about an inch in diameter and it was possible to pour oil into the filler hole without spilling. I stopped a couple of times to check the level with the dip stick. I was surprised to find that the oil sump took the full 800 milliliters of oil that is the engine's specified capacity. The outboard restarted immediately, idled normally, and ran fine after that.

I have chosen to call this event an environmentally-friendly oil change. It is done by running the engine dry so that a full change of oil can be poured in.

Joking aside, I'm more than a little impressed that the Tohatsu was able to make use of every last drop of oil before it signaled its distress. Signal is what it did, too. Reading the owner's manual later I found that in case of low oil pressure, even intermittently, it slows and runs rough to get the operator's attention. Sure worked for me.

What I don't know, is where the oil went. I had checked it in Ensenada, but may not have wiped the dipstick and replaced it for an accurate check. The oil level was fine again in Dana Point the morning after this incident, and again the next afternoon when we reached Long Beach, a total of about five more hours of operation.

During the race we had been bothered with difficulty unfurling the jib. Each time I found that the furling line had jumped out of its drum guard and wrapped around the top of the drum. It was easy to clear at the bow of the boat, however, and I didn't try to fix it until we got to Mission Bay.

I decided that the furling line fairlead attached to a leg of the bow pulpit had loosened and worked itself too high. So I moved it down and put a hose clamp around the stanchion leg above it to prevent recurrence.

We didn't use the jib until Wednesday, however. That was when Hobby and I attempted to unfurl it and it jammed tightly on the drum and couldn't be budged. The jib was only part way unfurled.

This time I read the furler manual before "fixing" it. I had put the fairlead far to low on the stanchion.

Equipped with a set of metric allen head wrenches and screwdrivers for the hose clamp and the fairlead I made my way to the bow, which was bouncing in boisterous wind-driven seas. Opposing machine screws secured the two-piece line guard to the base of the drum, not far off the deck of the bow. The manual had cautioned that the screws were "not captive", meaning that they would fall out when loosened and probably be lost.

I carefully unscrewed one and put it securely in my jeans pocket. As soon as I started loosening the other, the guard fell from the drum. The second screw still held the two parts together, but I discovered that I could manipulate them enough to remove the guard from drum and unwind the furling line that had taken three very tight wraps around the bottom of the shaft that held the drum in place.

The allen screws are visible at bottom of the furler drum guard. The guard had been mounted too low on the drum, allowing the line to squeeze above or below it and jump out of drum.

Improperly positioned fairlead initially forced line to wrap at top of drum and then pop out of guard. After I first repositioned it by guessing the proper position, it directed the line to wrap at the bottom of the drum and then jump out and wrap tightly underneath drum. Photo shows proper position, with hose clamps added top and bottom to keep it secured.

Soon enough, the furler was in perfect working order, and I was back in the cockpit with all my tools still aboard the boat. Maybe next time I'll remember to look at the instructions while the boat is tied motionless in a slip before I "fix" something.

Just a Great Day

The ocean surface was alive with fish, birds and dolphins last Friday as a couple of crewmembers for the upcoming Newport to Ensenada race and I made an outboard engine endurance run to Avalon. Getting back from Ensenada later this month is going to require upwards of 25 hours of motorsailing. I wanted to assure myself--and my crew--that the engine was properly fixed after being trolled through the waves for a half-hour last month.

Our motorsail to Avalon was flawless. It was even better than that because we were treated to special sights that seem to happen mostly in the spring.

The run began under low clouds and a temperature barely into the 50s, but with dry decks as we left the slip at 8:00 a.m. We weren't far beyond the Long Beach outer harbor breakwater when large boils of bait-sized fish began erupting on the glassy sea all around us. Some were dozens of feet across and one or two may have been a half-acre in size. Larger predators below were probably driving these small fish to the surface in frantic efforts to survive. As we watched, squadrons of sea birds homed in to get their share from above.

As that spectacle ended, another began. A pod of dolphins leaped into view through the waves and soon groups were surfing our bow wave on either side of the boat, stacked one above another as well as side by side. They looked a little larger than us, perhaps six to eight feet long. Many had long scars on their backs from other encounters with something hard. Occasionally one would hit the side of the hull with a bang and veer away.

My experience has been that such encounters are rare and that they don't last very long. So I watched from amidships while my mates, Hobby and Nate, went to the bow for a better view.

After awhile I remembered that I had a camcorder in the cabin and I went to get it, hoping that I would still be able to get a little video. I need not have worried. The first group probably stayed with us for seven or eight minutes before getting bored.

Then, which has never happened to me before, we soon came across another large pod and they altered course to come take up escort positions at the bow. They stayed about as long as the first group and were replaced later by yet another group of dolphins. By this time I had taken up station at the bow and was so fascinated watching them that sometimes I forgot to press the record button. Still, I ended up with a lot of video.


After perhaps a half hour, all the dolphins were behind us and we retreated to the cockpit, seeking the protection of the new dodger and letting the autopilot handle the tiller duties. We talked about how cold it was and how much colder it will be on the overnight Ensenada Race, and the overnight motorsail back to San Diego afterwards.

The gray sky and gray sea merged into a seamless dome of gray that surrounded us. About 15 miles out from Avalon, Nate said he could see the east end of Catalina Island. But I couldn't, and he wasn't quite as sure that he had seen it. In another mile or so, however, it was clearly visible. At 10 miles out we were proclaiming that we could see the landmark round Casino building. Or maybe it was the condos spilling down the hillside above Hamilton Cove.

Originally we talked about trying to get a mooring in Avalon for a couple hours and take the shoreboat to town for lunch. But Nate had another idea: if I'd get him back home by 7:00 p.m., I could join him and Barbara for dinner out that evening.

Thus it was that at about 12:30 p.m. we were within a mile or two of Avalon, the wind was calm and the seas were smooth. So we stopped the engine and retreated to the warmth of the cabin for lunch while letting the boat drift as it wished. Amid sandwiches, chips, onion dip and chocolate chip cookies, we made periodic checks for traffic, and noted that the boat made at least two lazy 360-degree turns under the lifeless main sail. It was once again pointed at Avalon when we returned to the cockpit.

With no discernible wind, it was a perfect setting for doing an inaugural test of my new light-wind sail, a "windseeker".

Hobby and Nate were part of my Ensenada Race crew two years ago when we sailed only four miles in the first four hours after the start and I decided to drop out and motored us back to Long Beach.

With that embarrassing performance in mind, I talked to sailmaker Harry Pattison this January about how to improve my performance "if I could buy just one new sail".

He recommended the windseeker, which is made of 3/4 ounce spinnaker nylon, but is shaped like a jib, not a spinnaker. It is red, orange, yellow and blue in a pattern that I chose, so it certainly dresses up my boat, which does not have a spinnaker or the gear to fly one.


The windseeker comes stuffed in a bag with a snap shackle fastened on the bottom, which is actually the tack point for the sail. It clips onto a shackle attached on the bow just behind my jib furling drum. The luff of the sail contains a cord that serves as the sail's own forestay when it is hoisted on a spare halyard.

The colorful sail instantly proved its worth. With no apparent breeze it quickly got the boat moving at three knots and we head back for Long Beach.

Our timing was perfect. Within five minutes there was enough wind to roll out the working jib on the furler and retrieve the windseeker. We were up to five knots right away as the afternoon seabreeze began building from the southwest. By the time we were half way back across the San Pedro Channel, we were consistently in the 6-6.5 knot range and the sun was shining. It was still hazy and cold, but it was a wonderful sail home. We made it in about four hours, which gave us a lot of anticipation of a great performance in this year's Ensenada Race.

It's been a windy winter and spring this year. I'm telling myself that it's time for another windy Ensenada Race, since the last two were light wind drifters.

A Dodger

I watch while Dan Loggans, right, owner of Harbor Custom Canvas, measures for a new dodger.

Narrow Escape has survived 39 years and who knows how many owners without a dodger. But these last few weeks, while I was wrestling with problems of keeping my outboard firmly attached to the transom, Narrow Escape was being fitted with a dodger.

The engine problem is now solved. A new carburetor restored the Tohatsu outboard to its normal smooth, quiet, powerful self, after its recent ocean dunking. And then a new oil pressure sensor switch turned off the red low oil pressure warning light that came on and stayed on while I was out testing the new carburetor.

That episode was only slightly traumatic. I knew the engine was full of new oil and it didn't sound like an engine consuming its innards for lack of lubrication. Never-the-less, I did make for the nearby fuel dock where I tied up and called the repair shop for reassurance before motoring back to my slip.

I've owned several boats in the past that came with dodgers when I bought them. I always appreciated their protection, while also noting that dodgers can make it more cumbersome to see forward and to move forward.

But it was time for Narrow Escape to have a dodger. She's entered in the Newport Beach-to-Ensenada race later this month and a dodger would make the bash back north after the race so much more endurable, especially since the longest leg, from Ensenada to San Diego, will be motorsailed at night.

Since I had never bought a dodger before, I didn't really know what was involved, nor how expensive they are. I solicited three bids and found that the fastest response and lowest price came from the company whose label is on most of the dodgers in my marina, Harbor Custom Canvas of Long Beach.

It took about a month from start to finish, and it involved a surprising amount of hands-on, at the boat effort.

The first step was a two-man team who came to measure the boat and talk about exactly what I wanted. That resulted about 10 days later with another visit by the same team (which included the company's owner) to install the dodger frame.

Far from being a mere spectator to the installation of a pre-manufactured item, I was a participant in the custom installation of a made-to-fit frame. I wanted it installed farther forward on the cabin than initially proposed. That minimized obstruction of the cockpit by the side curtains, and also allowed the canopy to cover the entire companionway hatch slide. Thus the front of the dodger could fasten to a molded fiberglass lip on the cabin ahead of the hatch area. I also was able to keep the canopy lower so that it would never interfere with the low boom on the Ericson 30. I can see easily over the top while standing and steering with the tiller and through it with plenty of protection while seated.

Teak strips had to be installed on either side of the cabin top to attach the outboard fastners for the isinglass front. And teak wedges were fabricated to match the curve of the cabin at the outer edges, supporting the teak strips.

The frame was left in place, secured with straps, for me to live with for a few days to ensure that it was properly placed before the fabric was fitted.

When I say fitted, that's what I mean. The team next showed up with a wide swath of Pacific Blue Sunbrella cloth and tailor's chalk. They laid the cloth on the frame and marked it up much the way a tailor would fit me for a suit.

About a week later the cloth top of the canopy and the isinglass front section were installed, along with the two vertical posts near each rear corner of the cabin that make the frame rigid and able to serve as a secure handhold for moving in and out of the cockpit. Wide cutouts on either side of the rear frame provide the aft handholds. Curved stainless bars were later mounted fore and aft along each side of the dodger as handholds for walking forward along the deck.

The last portions of the dodger to be installed, a few days later, were the removable side isinglass panels and the covers for all the isinglass segments.

New dodger offers excellent visibility forward, and easy deck access.

In our original discussions at the boat I was adamant about wanting maximum visibility out of the dodger and they did a beautiful job of meeting my demand. The sunbrella borders that are necessary to secure the isinglass panels are barely larger than the teak and fiberglass strips to which they are secured. I find there is no reduction in forward visibility compared to having no dodger.

Looking sharp all buttoned up.

Similar care was taken when they made the remaining pieces of my order. I bought weather cloths for each side of the boat, which fasten over the lifelines running from the rear cockpit gate hooks to the mid-cabin stanchions. They'll work well while motorsailing home from Ensenada by reducing the amount of spray that reaches the cockpit over the sides. I didn't intend them for sailing, however, because they fit too close to the sheet winches to allow the winch handles to be used.

Other tidbits include a new sail cover and a companionway cover. The latter will put an end to an occasional rain leak at the junction of the hatch slide and the folding companionway door. The sail cover replaces the ancient battered cover that worked okay when it protected the thin, ultra-pliable original main on the boat when I bought it. After I bought a new main I had to sew a canvas extension along the bottom of that cover to make it big enough to go around the new sail.

Perhaps it was that experience that convinced me I should never ever try to make my own dodger. Or a new mainsail cover, for that matter.

A Little Overkill Never Hurts (updated)

Engine on its new mount

My goal was to never have my outboard mount break again, so I came up with the most indestructible unit I could think of, that I could make and afford to make. It began with a block of teak 1-7/8-inch thick by 11-11/16 by 11-1/2 inches. It was what I could buy at H&L Marine, Inc., which is a manufacturer of teak joinery for boats.

Unlike the Honduras mahogany block that split apart, the new teak block is large enough that I could mount it with the grain running vertically. Probably that was all I would need to do, but I studied the grain pattern and kept imagining how it might break vertically.

At first I thought I could prevent that by adding horizontal aluminum straps under the bolts on the back side of the teak. I had some aluminum stock 2-1/2 inches wide and 1/4 inch thick, which I cut to the proper width.

But then I saw that I also had some 1/8-inch aluminum sheet that was 11 inches wide. There was enough to cut into two 11-inch by 11-11/16-inch plates with which I could completely sandwich the teak block. I couldn't imagine any way such a unit could break. It also had the added benefit that the engine clamps could not dig into the wood and eventually loosen. I oiled the teak liberally and repeatedly for a day before installing it.

Teak block, on its side, and aluminum plates

The news on the engine was initially very good. The dealer reported that it was fine, having required only a two-hour labor charge to clean the starter assembly, the oil sensor and the carburetor. I was told it then started easily and ran fine in their test tank.

However, when I installed it on my new engine mount assembly, it was hard to start and then it wouldn't idle. Eventually I did get it to run pretty well, although there was some uneveness, and ran it in gear for about an hour, with the boat tied up in the slip.

But the next day, it balked at starting again, and wouldn't run at idle.

I took the engine back to the dealer today. The mechanic verified in the test tank that it would start and then die, and refused to idle. I then watched him remove and dismantle the carburetor. The bowl was coated with gray crud and the idle jet was plugged. I suspect one or more of the tiny drilled passages were also plugged. It is impossible to see through them even when they are clean.

I suggested that the carb cleaning I had paid for last week was never done, which drew a threat from another worker to throw me and my engine out of the building. As it was, I was ordered out of the work area. But not before the mechanic was able to demonstrate to me that the carburetor metal was still being dissolved by salt that had impregnated the metal during the dousing. I could literally see the light gray patina reforming after being washed with solvent, dried and scraped clean.

In a determined but losing effort, the mechanic persisted in trying to clean the carburetor and eventually reinstalled it and had the engine running. I was then invited to the back of the shop to witness the successful repair. But, then the engine died and was very difficult to restart. When it did, it wouldn't idle.

I returned to the front of the shop and ordered a new carburetor. I wish that I had been told from the outset to buy a new carb. It costs about the same as the two hours labor spent today trying to fix it. But I guess every case is different, and they were trying to save me some money to start with. As it is, we all end up a little unhappy with each other and I don't yet know who is paying the cost of today's failed effort.

The simple lesson I'm happy to pass along is that if you ever find salt water in your carburetor, throw it away and buy a new one.

At 100 pounds, with a 25-inch shaft and all the complexity of remote controls, it is not a simple matter to remove the engine and take to the dealer. I have it worked out so that I can do it all by myself, however, thanks to my engine hoist accessory for my radar mast, and a hand truck that I modified into an engine carrier with plywood for the mounting clamps and iron pipes that extend forward at the bottom to hold the hand truck upright when the engine is attached.

I was very glad for the assistance offered by a slip neighbor this morning, however, so that I did not have to wrestle it from the hoist to the hand truck. Nor did I have to pull it by myself up the steep gangway to shore at low tide.

And, once again, I was able to remove the push-pull cable fittings, the electrical connections and the battery cable without dropping anything into the water, nor falling in myself. When I raved in an earlier post about how convenient an outboard was compared to the old inboard, that was when I assumed that all I had to do was install it once and likely never have to take it off again.

Unwelcome Opportunity

Those pesky laws of unintended consequences aligned last Saturday to add some drama to my blog. As a matter of fact, they ruined my weekend. It remains to be seen what else is ruined.

It was a little after 2 p.m., with a light wind out of the southwest. I was motoring out of the Alamitos Bay channel in Long Beach, which is created by two parallel rock jettys. I followed my usual drill, hoisting the mainsail as I slowly motored into the wind while inside the small bay, adjacent the ritzy peninsula and Naples Island real estate. The tiller autopilot steered while I tugged at the main halyard at the mast, since I was alone onboard.

In fact, I had just exited the channel and turned ESE toward the Huntington Beach coastline, when I heard the engine suddenly cavitate and continue to run at high rpm. I looked back and could no longer see the top of the outboard behind the transom. I pulled the remote control throttle/shifter to idle neutral and went to the back of the boat to see what happened.

The thick mahogany plank I had used to make a shorter engine mounting block on my outboard bracket had split in two horizontally. The top half was firmly gripped by the screw clamps of the motor, which was now lying on its side in the water. It was being held to the boat by a Master Lock cable lock that was stretched straight, as well as the battery cable that exited near the top of the transom.


I was about 100 feet off the eastern jetty of the channel, which was now my lee shore. The main was close-hauled and filled, but the boat wasn't really moving. I remember looking at the knotmeter and seeing 0.0 on the display.

Just a few minutes earlier the red Vessel Assist towboat had passed me inbound to the bay, and it wasn't towing anybody. I reached for the cockpit-mounted VHF radio microphone/speaker unit and tried to hail them. "Vessel Assist, Vessel Assist, this is Narrow Escape. Over." What I heard back was loud static. I remembered hearing this earlier before leaving the slip. Someone on Channel 16 seemed to have a stuck mike and no communications were getting through.

I changed the trim of the main to try to get moving and wondered if the cockpit mike was interfering with the main set mounted inside the companionway. I unscrewed its cord from the receptacle and went forward to the main radio to continue trying to reach Vessel Assist.

I've listened to both sides of these conversations hundreds of times over the years. There's a lot of back and forth. Usually the dispatcher answers and asks if you are in any immediate danger and other defining questions, such as whether you are a Vessel Assist member, how many people are aboard, description of vessel, etc. I looked at the jetty. It seemed to still be about 100 feet away and I still didn't seem to be moving.

Only later, as I write this, would I realize what an effective sea anchor I was dragging along behind me.

It is the skipper of the Vessel Assist boat Alamitos who answers me; the boat that had passed me earlier. "I'm in no immediate danger", I tell him, looking again at the ever-present jetty. But I'm gonna be pretty quick if I don't get outta here, I'm telling myself.

We switch to Channel 78. The skipper of the Alamitos says he'll reach me in about five minutes. The dispatcher comes on and I read him my member number, which I had long ago written with a Sharpie on the fiberglass headliner behind the VHF radio.

I reach back and punch in a 10-degree turn to port on the autopilot and try to get the boat moving. The jetty is a little farther away. I walk back and look at the new engine. It is still horizontal in the water and about half submerged. The cable lock seems to be holding. The broken, wet mahogany is a beautiful red-brown contrast to the black engine and blue-green ocean.

Usually I wear a self-inflating life vest when I go sailing alone. I started that several years ago when I began thinking that I would be very sad to fall overboard and watch my boat sail away under autopilot. At least with a life jacket on, there would be a chance of watching another boat approach and pick me up. But I didn't put on my life vest this day. And now, in the fog of this little bit of an emergency, I felt I couldn't take the time to go below and forward to the v-berth where I kept the life vest.

It never occured to me to open the cockpit locker a foot away and take out one of the eight Coast Guard-approved flotation vests or orange three-segment life preservers sitting right there.

Thus I wasn't wearing any life-saving equipment when the Alamitos pulled up on my lee and I went forward to the bouncing bow to try to catch and attach the towline. The seas are always more confused near the channel mouth and were in the 1-3-foot range. When a boat is moving, that's not much motion to deal with. But when two boats are nearly motionless, its something like two people making uncoordinated jumps on a big trampoline.

I missed catching the first towline heave. The skipper had to manuever his boat before he could try again. As his stern backed toward my bow, I feared we would collide. He assured me that we wouldn't. But he had to stay at the helm a bit longer to make good on that promise, by which time we were drifting apart again. I did catch the one-inch yellow polypropolene line this time and clamped the large caribiner through the center hole of my bow cleat.

But the line was behind the forward bow pulpit leg and would have to be moved before the tow could begin. The jetty was slightly further away. The line was taut now, and I couldn't move it. I waited for the boats to bounce through the waves closer together. Then I repositioned the line and made it secure.

The Alamitos skipper towed me into the wind and I wrestled the main sail down, trying to flake it as best I could. The lazy jacks helped. I went below for a single sail tie and returned to make it fast around the forward part of the sail. I did that two more times until the sail was secure and I told the skipper I was ready.

"Dead slow", I hollered.

I went aft and for the first time tried to pull the engine head up by the cable lock. I managed about six inches. And where were the third and fourth hands I'd need if I could raise it high enough. I let it drop back into the sea. In the time between radioing for help and waiting for the tow boat, I had retrieved the four-part Garhauer hoist from the other cockpit locker and attached it to the fittings on my radar mast at the stern. Now its hook swung dangerously back and forth at the stern. The engine was not going to be picked up out here in the ocean.

Nor was I going to be towed "dead slow". The twin-diesel towboat of about 25 feet in length, couldn't idle that slowly, nor did it have any steerage. The pace turned out to be in the 3.5 to 4-knot range as we made our way down the channel. And it wasn't a particularly pretty sight. Even though the autopilot was now on "standby" and held the tiller firmly amidships, Narrow Escape did not obediently follow the tow boat.

My bow yawed one way and the Alamitos' stern yawed the other. We seemed to be lurching toward the shoal spot in the channel and it was almost low tide. I hollered that my draft was five feet. He shouted back that we had 13 feet under us. I pointed at the shoal ahead and he said he'd take care of me. Later, I was ashamed of myself. He does this everyday for a living, and I'm trying to tell him what to do. Obviously, he'd heard it all before and graciously didn't tell me to shut up.

By now we were in calm water. Finally I decided to detach the autopilot and steer my boat to try to counteract the yawing, some of which must have been from the outboard strapped sideways to my transom. It worked great and we made the last several hundred yards into the bay in proper nose to tail fashion.

Once inside, a smaller Vessel Assist boat came out to meet us, and the Alamitos told me to remove the tow line. I drifted while the two Vessel Assist skippers transferred between the boats. My rescuer, Darcy, then came alongside in the smaller boat, about 18 or 20 feet, and lashed my boat to his.

Next we motored to a city dock, where he put me gently against the dock and another co-worker joined us. He stepped onto my extended, empty outboard bracket at the stern and reached down and attached the hook of my hoist to the outboard. I hauled it up and ran the clamps in as far as they would go, under the stern pulpit rail. Then I secured the engine some more with a length of line and we began the final part of the journey to my slip.

Darcy guided Narrow Escape down its marina fairway, spun it part way around and backed its stern against one finger of my slip where I could climb off and pull the boat in by hand, stern first so that I could work on the engine from the dock.

With the boat secure in its slip and a semblance of calm beginning to settle over me, I looked down at the engine controls and noticed that the ignition key was turned off. I have no memory of doing that when I throttled the engine back after if fell off.

I already knew why it broke off. I had mounted the mahogany plank with the grain running horizontal instead of vertical. It broke along a horizontal line between the two upper bolt holes that attached it to the outboard bracket. I did use large diameter washers. The force of the break bent the tops of those washers. What if instead I had fashioned a couple of U-shaped reinforcements from hardware store aluminum strap to clamp the wood front and back against the bracket.

What if I had used plywood instead of a single thick piece of mahogany.

As to why I mounted the grain horizontal. Simple. The plank from which the piece was cut was only 10 1/2 inches wide. The outboard bracket needed a piece 11 3/4 inches wide to straddle the two mounting flanges. The wood I bought wouldn't fit with the grain vertical.


The Tohatsu owner's manual says take a submerged engine immediately to the dealer. If that can't be done, remove the sparkplugs and pull the engine through with the starter cord to expel water in the cylinders. None was apparent when I removed the plugs, but some spray was visible when I pulled the cord repeatedly. Pour engine oil into the sparkplug holes. I didn't have any way to do that, so I sprayed lots of WD-40 into them. Change the engine oil. There was some emulsified water-oil mix, but not much.

The manual made no mention of draining the carburetor. Sunday I finally realized that the brass screw on the flat plate on the outside of the carb was the drain plug. Water came out. I also bought an oil pump can and pumped oil into the upper cylinders. Then I had to figure out how to secure cloths around a couple of places along the engine shaft assembly to keep oil drops from falling into the water.

Next stop. The Tohatsu dealer.

New outboard original installation

 

Engine sits high when no one is aboard the boat. With me on board, it is at proper depth. Bracket raises 14 inches, enough for engine to be above the water even with crew on board. That was before the Albin inboard was removed and the bow water tank was filled.

Garelick hydraulic bracket original position

 

After weighting stern with water-filled tubs to simulate engine weight, and measuring according to Tohatsu and Garelick instructions, this is the original position I chose for the outboard bracket.

Original outboard

 

This is the Nissan outboard that was on the boat when I bought it. Note the offset location. Although it had electric start, it was a hassle to use because stern pushpit interfered with access. After-market throttle extension shaft help, as did my home-made gear shift extension.

A Very Full Circle Indeed

Careful readers may assume that I'm now back where I started. I bought an old boat with a new outboard and an old inboard. I put all my effort and money into the old engine and sold the new outboard. The old engine ultimately failed. I threw it away and bought a new outboard.

I did have the satisfaction of restoring a moribund old Swedish gasoline engine designed in 1925 and getting another 110 hours of life from it. The two-cylinder flathead Albin with its 50-pound flywheel had its charms -- and vibrations. But our relationship had run its course and I'm not going to miss it.

In its central location just behind the companionway ladder, I can put the boat's batteries where they will be easier to reach and provide the best ballast. And I'll still have room to build a large storage shelf above them.

When I bought the Ericson 30, various people suggested how lucky I was to have a new 4-stroke outboard on the transom and how easily I could lighten up the boat by removing the old inboard. I rejected the idea without ever seriously considering it. I couldn't wait until I could get the inboard running and remove the outboard.

The original Nissan outboard made the same power as my new Tohatsu. It's the same engine except for the label. Except it isn't really the same. The original was a long-shaft (20-inch) model with electric start and manual controls. It was mounted on the port side of the transom because that is where it was possible to reach it by crawling beneath the stern pushpit in a gap between the backstay and a vertical support.

That difficult effort was required when lowering the engine and again when pulling it up out of the water when under sail. In other words, using the outboard was a big hassle. Every time I did it, I looked longingly at the cockpit-mounted ignition switch, gear shift and throttle lever for the inboard engine and hardened my resolve to get the Albin running.

With help, I did. We fixed what was obviously needed, such as new valves, new piston rings, new and improved wet exhaust system, new carburetor and, eventually, new cylinder head when the old one rusted through. We didn't touch the bottom end, nor even separate the transmission from the cylinder block. Both were fine in test bench runs and remained that way for 110 hours back in the boat. But something eventually let go, causing a loud knocking that demanded immediately shutting down the engine. The source of the knock defied my in-the-boat attempts to identify it. I won't ever know what it was now that the engine is gone, left for scrap at the boat yard.

With hindsight, it now is clear that fronting the estimated $10,000-$12,000 cost of installing a new diesel would have been smarter than spending half that in increments as the Albin restoration project crept forward.

But having already spent that, I couldn't see now putting another $10,000-$12,000 into a new diesel. Spending about $4,000 for a new outboard and fancy Garelick hydraulic motor mount made a lot more sense.

However, I have made the new outboard nearly as convenient to use as the inboard by purchasing a remote-control model, and mounting it on a Garelick hydraulic outboard bracket. I can lean over the pushpit, not crawl through it, and let gravity lower the engine by merely opening the hydraulic bleed valve a half turn. Raising it requires only a dozen swings of the hydraulic pump handle.

The electric starter, choke, throttle and gear shift are handled with a robust control unit mounted on the sidewall of the cockpit in easy reach of the tiller. So is the combination tachometer and hourmeter, which is an after-market unit from Teleflex.

The ouitboard feeds from the replacement aluminum gas tank I had built for the boat a year ago, through the same Racor filter/water separator that served the inboard engine. The Tohatsu's fuel pump easily handles the extra length of the heavy Coast Guard-approved fuel line. And I can carry and easily switch to standard outboard fuel tanks to supplement the 22 gallons in the main tank.

Fuel economy is predicted to be about the same as the Albin - about a gallon an hour at max throttle. But exhaust emissions are much, much lower. The Tohatsu is a three-star ultra-low emission engine.

The six amp alternator built into the electric-start Tohatsu is enough for the low electrical loads on my boat. It's about the same output as the oddball starter-generator on the Albin.

The noise level is lower in the cockpit and virtually gone inside the cabin. When we motor back from the Ensenada race next spring, the off-watch crew is going to sleep easily.

Finally, when the Tohatsu needs professional servicing. I can easily lift it off the transom and take it to a dealer. And I'll never again have to spend $1500 for a new prop, prop shaft, cutless bearing and stuffing box.

I will have to spend something eventually to remove the existing shaft and seal up the hole. However, since it exits the hull behind and above the rudder, with no strut, there will be minimal drag if I simply remove the prop for now and secure the shaft outside with a zinc collar against the cutless bearing and inside with a couple of hose clamps ahead of the stuffing box.

So, yes, as a practical matter I am back where I started, having made a substantial contribution to keep the consumer-based economy afloat along the way. It was an interesting journey. I still have a great boat. It is a much better boat than when I bought it. It still needs work.

I suspect there are a lot of old sailboats that could be improved by replacing an unreliable inboard with a quiet new, remote-controlled outboard.

Back in Business

Oops! I've had this slip for a dozen years and I had never overshot it before.

It had been four months since the last time I had approached my slip. That was Aug. 4, the day my 39-year-old Albin two-cylinder gasoline engine broke its innards and had to be put to rest. That incident was the first time I had entered my slip under sail. I did it single-handed and it went perfectly.

Since then I had worked out of state for three months and then installed a new Tohatsu 9.8 hp outboard to replace the Albin. The outboard promised to be nearly as easy to use as the inboard, since it was mounted on a hydraulic mount on the transom and had remote control and electric start operated from the cockpit.

It was December 6. Christmas lights were strung fore and aft from my masthead, forming the outlines of imaginary sails. The real sails, however, were furled and snugly covered in Royal Blue Sunbrella. The genoa sheets were securely coiled and hanked at the bow. The coiled mainsheet hung from a cleat at the back of the cockpit.

During the hour and a half I motored at low throttle settings, it did occur to me that I was placing supreme confidence in a brand new engine. Not just in Tohatsu's quality control, either. I also was relying on the quality of my installation including control cables, electrical connections an a custom fuel system to feed the engine from the inboard fuel tank. I had previously run the new engine a total of 1.2 hours while tied up in the slip. And prudence dictated having the standard Tohatsu fuel tank and hose at the ready in the cockpit.


It wasn't engine failure that plagued me that afternoon, however. What failed was my judgement. Returning, I cut the power too soon heading down the channel to my slip. And I wasn't paying attention to the tide, which had just turned, flooding the basin with a discernible current. Too late to recover with throttle, I shoved the tiller over and hoped for the best.

I quickly saw that my turn wasn't going to carry me into my slip and ran forward to fend myself off my neighbor's stern, if it came to that. The boat seemed to slide sideways as much as it crept forward, but at last the bow was close enough to my dock finger for me to swing around from the pulpit and land on the wobbly planks. A couple more minutes of tugging and pushing had me tied securely in the slip. Whew!

Sail What You Got

Broken engine or engine removed, it didn't matter. Narrow Escape was a functioning sailboat from the day I bought it. And I took it sailing a lot. This picture, taken by John Dickerson from his Catalina 34, Pelican, was on one of those early days in the fall of 2005.

The picture tells a story for anyone interested in sailing and doing so on a budget. The story is that once I bought the boat and finished with the survey haul-out and initial repairs I was ready for daysailing and Catalina Island cruising in Southern California. Most of the hours and dollars spent thereafter, and there have been a lot of both, were unnecessary.

But I'm a tinkerer. I like to putter around my boat. I like to fix things. I like to make it better. I take pride in my work. I like to look at the results and tell myself that it was worth the cost and the effort. And I believe it.

However, I'm realistic enough to know that this photo shows that other people could logically reach a different conclusion.

If you stick with me on the blog, I'll explain a lot of the things I've done to Narrow Escape since I first got it back in the water. And I'll provide some cost figures, though not accurate to the cent. I didn't keep a lot of the receipts. Besides, I don't really need to know. Its not like I would have wisely invested the money if I hadn't spent it on the boat.

The Nissan 9.8 hp electric start outboard was a fine engine. But a little awkward to use. I did a couple of things to improve that.

I found it hard to reach all the way to the stern to control the throttle when I was motoring with the Nissan. So I bought a HelmsMate outboard extension handle, the $60 model with a universal joint. Problem solved

Trying to shift the engine from neutral to forward and back again, or to reverse was even more awkward. Just when I most needed to be looking forward, docking the boat, I had to turn around and lean backwards through the pushpit to reach the shifter

I couldn't find any off-the-shelf solution, so I made a shifter extension out of plastic plumbing parts from the hardware store.
By trial and error I selected a plastic pipe nipple that would slip over the shifter on the Nissan. To achieve the needed horizontal motion and allow necessary flexibility, I added a 45-degree fitting and a closed cap fitting. The horizontal pipe was given cap fittings at each end.

I joined the two cap fittings between the 45-degree piece and the horizontal pipe with a stainless machine screw and oversize washers inside each cap plus a lock nut. I drilled the holes in the end caps larger, to allow the machine screw to wobble, but not too much. That work was done in increments and tested on the boat until it worked well. Then all of the plastic parts were cemented with plastic plumbing cement.

I made one omission that was discovered in a most awkward fashion. In April, 2006, as my crew and I motored out of my slip in a hurry to reach the starting line for the Newport-to-Ensenada race, the shift extender fell overboard. Air trapped in the long handle (despite the oversize screw hole) kept it afloat long enough for it to be retrieved. Later I added a lanyard to tie the extension to the pushpit when in use.