Rain drops & lost props - a story of struggle and triumph on the ICW

Little daggers of wind powered water pelt my eyes. It gathers; a powerful soaking army that pummels me relentlessly and I am at its mercy. For me, there is nowhere to run. I’m at the helm and we are motoring down the narrow ditch called the ICW. It’s raining. I am perched on the edge of my seat, arms outstretched to the wheel, one eye closed against the onslaught. I am as prepared as I can be in a hooded raincoat with it’s drawstring squeezing my face at the edges to prevent neck drain. I will not be on the cover of any sailing magazines today. I am fully aware of the pooling puddle at my waist and trickling down my legs. It’s cold. I repeat my silent mantra – “we are out of the boatyard, we are off the dock, we are moving south.”

It’s not working wonders but it gets me through a few days of this, when many bascule bridges later, we arrive in West Palm Beach! And in the nick of time for Christmas.

And it’s a wonderful celebration. We’ve cooked up our boat-y contributions for the occasion and we stand on the street corner dressed as the Santa Twins and their eager groupies. We get accosted by the public, “Are you guys a singing group?!”

Finally our host arrives and drives us inland, far from the waterfront and it’s lights and palms, to the land of acreages and today, deep fried turkey! Oh, and homemade biltong. This is the home of a South African. 

The day goes off without a hitch and is even followed by an uneventful day of walking off our indulgences and then repeating the feasting on leftovers. Pretty typical Christmas season stuff.

But then, as is the way of our nomadic lives, it was time to move on. Woke up with that typical mixture of excitement and trepidation. But first, off to the fuel dock for a quick top up of diesel and water.

All went well, except the classist world raised its privileged head and chucked us to the back of the queue when we were ready to leave. A megayacht had thrusted his way over to the dock to grab a quick 1300 gallons… And the meticulously dressed crew girls flitted around with fenders bigger than themselves, like obscene fat blow up dolls… We lost our dock helper in an instant. He was enamoured. Or anticipating his tip. What would the tip be on $4000 worth of diesel?

I had the nerve to be affronted. We managed to entice the guy back with our meager $10 tip to throw us our lines. It was going to be a tricky exit, with wind and currents pushing the boat onto the dock and that looming white nautical apartment building that had pulled up directly in front of us.

I took the helm and confidently told the guy our exit plan, “I’m going to back up straight then turn completely starboard, reverse on the starboard engine and forward on port.”

“That’s exactly what I’d do” he says and proceeds to loosen our lines. JW is ready to grab the lines and fend us off.

And then we entered the Twilight Zone. Just like that 70’s TV show where the world you know is suddenly in black and white and nothing is as it should be.

No matter what I did the boat wouldn’t respond. The boat slid backward against the dock, dangerously close to the corner where metal beams held it all together and threatened to tear us all apart. I looked away and focused on my job. Get us out of here. I tried all my maneuvers but Shiloh turned the opposite way. The wind pinned us to the corner of the dock and while JW and the lowly tipped dude pushed with all their might, Shiloh crunched into the corner. The guys made groaning noises. Poor Shiloh! Not to mention my ego! There was damage to the hull but there was literally no time to stress about that.

Alas, the boat fell away from immediate danger and the dock dude walked away without another glance. His mega called. 

Ok, we will deal with what went wrong later; let’s just get this boat out into the channel. More water around us please, less dock. But it wouldn’t move. It was floating backward. Channel markers, mega million dollar boats, other docks. No! I gave it all I could and she wanted to do donuts. Finally I put her in reverse and we spun our way in circles out. What a spectacle.

Meantime we’d been calling Alleycat, waiting patiently for us at anchor. “Alan, the boat isn’t doing anything it’s supposed to!” “We crunched the dock!”… He launched his dinghy, threw on his superhero cape and buzzed on over to us, flailing there in the middle of Palm Beach Intracoastal waters. Mega yachts to the left, palm trees to the right…

By the time he reached us, we had realised the problem lied with the starboard engine. It had zero power. We hobbled back to our anchor spot on the one engine and clumsily dropped anchor to investigate.

“It’s the clutch cone. Or the propeller is gone!” The second suggestion was absurd, so the boys quickly tore apart our bed to get access to the engine and check the clutch cone.

Alan emerged with a plan. First we'll move the engine forward, then drain all the oil from the gear box, open the gear box from the top, loosen the nuts under it that hold the clutch cone in place and pull the cone out. The hemispherical gears will have to come out as well.  It sounded like a multi-day, grunting, dirty, greasy frustrating job. We all sighed.

“But we should check the propeller first!”

And just then, a huge manatee flopped his massive self over with a bubbly breath. We exchanged glances as he disappeared under the opaque surface.

“Alan let’s hope he’s not feeling amorous!”

So we tied Al on to the boat against the raging current, equipped him in unmatching flippers and a snorkel set and he jumped into the cold grimy water.

He emerged a minute later, tearing off his mask,

“There’s no propeller! It’s just gone! The whole prop has slipped off the drive shaft. Nothing!”

I was exonerated. Inside, my ego and I did a quick little dance. It wasn’t me! I had been doing everything right but I had no power…. I wanted to rush back to the fuel dock to explain everything to dock dude. “I’m not an idiot. No, really!” But alas, that thought passed and it was time to focus on the problem at hand.

We had lost a $1500 specialized three bladed composite Kiwi prop! Luckily we had our old propellers on the boat, in a bucket. For an occasion like this? Who would have imagined.

Al convinced us this would be an easy install, despite the ripping currents, lurking manatees and zero visibility.

He went back to Alleycat for a rest while we waited for slack tide.

We put our cabin back together and sighed. The bridge we were to be heading through at 10am opened and closed, opened and closed on the hour and half hour. And we were not going through it. Plans on hold. Fingers crossed…

And then he was back with a plan. It involved a weight belt and ropes to hold him, the prop, the cone. There were tools and prayers and then it was time. Al was under the boat, popping up from time to time (to breathe) and asking for the scapula, the spanner… we eagerly played nurse.

There was pacing and nail biting. What if the prop dropped? It would be gone. What if the smaller pieces fell?!

Until Al was resting, exhausted at the sugar scoop. “It’s on! It’s tightened! Yeehaw!”

Time for another little victory dance, but now it was a gratitude dance. That involves a warm towel and glass of juice for the superhero.

He checked the other prop and gave it a little tightening for good measure and then we tested her out. Engine on, thrust, propelled forward!!!! Yippee! Reverse, same. Yeehaw!

But by now it was 5pm and the daylight was nearly gone and our plan had slipped by a day – hours of disaster followed by triumph. Our friend/savior/hero made his weary way home to Alleycat.

Time for a sigh of relief, a lesson or two learned, a glass of wine and some serious chilling.

Tomorrow we will begin again with the same enthusiasm and trust in the loose plan, the boat that carries us, and the amazing friends we have!

At 50 with love

It’s a dreary morning in the boatyard. The wind is the only one on duty today.

Grey. Swirling. Boats under flapping tarps. Dreams on hold. 

I’ve left it too long. My hair hangs around, sadly, leaning on my shoulders for support. It’s futile. I can’t write. I should write. Writing is my wind. It whistles through my ears. It is the voices I hear. It is my own voice.

My hands are pale. The pores, the brown spots. The veins are on duty. They are prominent. They exert authority above my docile keyboard. These are fifty year old hands.

Weeks ago the day came. The ‘officially old’ day. But before that I was reminded. My eyes. Blur. The tiny font on labels taunting me. My one dollar glasses, stuffed in every pocket and purse. Lenses smudged, scratched. In the mirror, the dark circles of age framing the failing eyes.

My hair, in clumps sliding down my body into the drain. Thinning. Duller. Older

But I was alive. Moving. Traveling. Fishing for my passport in the backpack with that sinking feeling each time, it might not be there! Then reassured. Removing my shoes for security machines. Setting my liquids aside in a ziplock. Worried. Excited. Alive.

And before that I was stood in blue, in a park near the boatyard, between friends. I was reminded. I am lucky. It was a ‘colour of the sea’ themed barbecue. It was a gathering of a certain type of people. A family of my choosing. Age, culture and country melting away over pop songs sung off key in unison. The food! Cake. The speech! The two hour drive for some. None of it taken for granted. All of it swirling in my mind, my heart. This family of my choosing. It’s fluid. People come and go. We come and go. 

I’ve slept in 26 beds between September and today. 26 pillows. 95 days. 11 flights. 6 countries. I’m moving. 

SO MANY PRICELESS REUNIONS.

Sitting on a plane to Zurich with South African elephant dung in the grooves of the soles of my shoes. Clung to my soul.

The joy in Emma’s eyes as she cuddled Rainbow the rhino. In the Gredos mountains of Spain, a little blond, blue eyed girl with a South African father who is American too, spends her days running and jumping through forests of wild mushrooms and chestnut trees. She is our grand daughter, and her tiny warm hand in mine, led us through her little life, while she held her rhino. Brought from Cape Town, with love. 

We’ve indulged, sampled the world - pizza, fresh fish off Cape Town’s shores, slap chips, meat pies, Spanish Iberica ham, blood pudding, roasted chestnuts. I’ve slurped aromatic sauces through my fingers over a bed of injeera in an Ethiopian restaurant in downtown Vancouver with my son and his girl and a dear old friend. 

Special moments. Burned into me. Carrying me beyond 50.

Carrying me back to this boat. Climbing the makeshift stairs. Working and waiting for the day she is gently returned by hoist into the sea where she belongs.

We will keep moving. South, away from cold. South to where the sun shines most days. Banishing grey. Places where the sun is always on duty. Where we have chosen to be. We will meet the friends who are family in different places. There will be more barbecues. There will be sand. Sunsets.

I will sweep my thinner hair up into a clip to let the breeze onto my sweating neck. I will splash my weathering face with cool water to start the days.

I will hold all these memories of our travels. Of the faces. Smiles. Loving the life I have.

I will write. It’s a promise I need to make to my fragile heart. I will put it all into words. The magic of sorrow and the flashes of beauty.

Here’s to life beyond 50.