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!
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