May 162012
 

It’s almost exactly two months away from my return to the States! That’s still a loooong time, but the part of me that loves to plan has already started scheming my next adventure. I’ve been haunting the sail-training and yacht crew websites for some time now, and shining up my resume.

This has been my desktop lately:

My desktop as of late

You can see my list of potential employers. Some of them are new to the list — the Oliver Hazard Perry is a new and still uncompleted build that will be Rhode Island’s flagship — and others have been on my list for years now. SEA (The Sea Education Association) does scientific research and sail-training aboard tall ships in the open ocean with college students, and have been my dream employer for a long time (although all of this sea-sickness has me second-guessing a bit). Employment with SEA is pretty competitive, but once you’re in, it seems like dependable seasonal work year after year, with good benefits. They’ll be hearing from me again this year, but until I have licensing, my chances with them are small.

My availability this season is somewhat limiting for work in New England– August 1 through the holidays — but I’m confident that something will work out. My favorite picks right now are the Isaac H. Evans in Penobscot Bay Maine, the Clearwater on the Hudson River, and Sultana in the Chesapeake Bay. And then who knows, maybe the Caribbean or back to Australia in the new year!

May 152012
 

Well once again it’s been a bit since I’ve written. I definitely overestimated the amount of time, energy and internet access I would have during this voyage season. We’ve got about another three weeks to go before it ends. In the meantime, a little bit from my life:

These last two voyages were the most difficult for me, and I suppose it comes down to the intensity of the schedule, and my propensity for sea-sickness. The experience of sea-sickness just cannot be described in any decent way to anyone who has not been sea-sick. You can list the symptoms (headache, nausea, vertigo, lethargy, painful awareness of the impossibility of escape) but the sum is equal to more than its parts.

Some sunrise or sunset, somewhere...

Some sunrise or sunset, somewhere...these pretty sights help with the recovery process quite a bit.

My latest source of hope in the face of this brutal disease is the thought that I am not allergic to the sea as a whole, but maybe just to the Southern Ocean, or Windeward Bound, specifically. I’d experienced mild, passing nausea in the Pacific Ocean before coming to Tasmania, but I’d never been so constantly and severely sea-sick as I’ve been here. I refuse to believe it’s a permanent change…

But such an experience does lead a little adventurer like myself to ask some pretty confronting questions during those wee morning hour watches. What will I do if I never overcome my sea-sickness? What will I do with all of my dreams of world travel across oceans on sailboats? How stubborn am I really? Stubborn enough to live permanently in the world of dizzying, miserable, punishing sea-sickness?

The real answer, much as I hate to admit it, is no. I’ve lived a good portion of the last two months in that state, and I have finally reached my limit. My plan now is to tie up my commitments here in Tasmania, go home, get myself back on a schooner, and enjoy some coastal sailing for a little while.

Then, when I’m ready, I will get myself back out into the open ocean, and before giving up on blue water entirely, I will try one ocean crossing. If my brain and my inner ear don’t start playing nice after that, then I will just have to content myself with quiet and comfortable coastal sailing. Not the worst thing in the world, at least until I’ve had time to get antsy for travel, and forget just how awful it is to be sea-sick…

 

May 012012
 

 

In 2010 and 2011, I had the pleasure of overseeing a deck restoration project on the Bill of Rights. The deck was original, making it forty years old. About twenty years into its life, it had started showing signs of deterioration, so the operators at the time decided to cover it with a material called Arabol to prevent leaks.

Twenty years later, the Arabol was far beyond the end of its life, and the deck beneath it was rotten and leaky. The rot was almost entirely caused by and surrounding the rusty steel bolts used to fasten the planks to the deck beams, so scarfing clean pieces in wasn’t a viable solution. We had to replace entire sections of the deck.

Complicating factors: I had limited carpentry skills and no prior experience with such a project, and it was my job to see that the deck got fixed; if you imagine the smallest budget you can, ours was far smaller; the deck had to be usable at the end of each week so that we could do weekend public sails.

So how did we manage? We had a whole team of old salty-dog volunteer boat-builders, carpenters and machinists who generously shared incredible amounts of time and knowledge with us. Add an enthusiastic and committed team of staff and volunteers, and a bunch of donated equipment and supplies, and we were half-way there.

At the end of it all not only did we have a leak-free deck, but I’d gained a level of knowledge and experience in the repair and maintenance of wooden decks beyond anything I’d dreamed.

Here is some photo-documentation of the project, with a few notes about process, materials, and lessons learned.

Removing the old worn-out airball deck covering.

 

 

 

1. Removing the old, worn-out Arabol, anxious to see how much of the deck was salvageable. A note about Arabol or similar coverings: this can only be used as a stop-gap measure to stop leaks until a proper deck repair or full replacement can be made. The Arabol WILL leak, allowing water in, but not out, and causing the deck to rot further.

 

 

 

 

 

After 40 years, all of the steel spikes had rusted, causing the wood around them to rot.

 

2. The steel spikes originally used to fasten the decks beams had rusted over the years, causing the wood around it to rot. Because they were rusty (and 6″ long), these spikes were painfully difficult to remove without shearing them off, and left gaping holes in the deck beams when you did.

 

 

 

 

Some of the planks were a little difficult to remove.

 

3. Removing planks was a multi-step process. First we drilled several holes large enough to fit the blade of a jig-saw, and cut the planks into sections, being very careful not to come anywhere near wiring below. Then small sections either fell away, or were removed by pounding them out with a sledge-hammer, as seen here. The hardest bits were around the spikes, where we basically had to see-saw the pieces out.

 

 

 

Hole in the deck!

 

4. Here is a portion of the deck with all planks removed, and one new plank already installed from the test-run repair we’d done in the fall.  We chose to use the pre-existing holes from the steel spikes for our new fasteners where possible to avoid turning the deck beams into Swiss cheese. This was a great idea in theory, but ended up creating a lot of challenges later on in the process.

 

 

 

Each plank went through the jointer, the table saw or band saw, and the chop saw to bring it close to its final dimensions.

 

5. Each plank went through the jointer, band saw or table saw, thickness planer, and finally the chop to bring it to rough dimensions before it was brought down to the boat. Before its final fitting, we put a bevel around the top of each plank, which would later form the seams between the planks.

 

 

 

 

Final dimensioning was done by hand for a perfect fit.

 

 

 

6. Final dimensioning was done with a hand plane to ensure as tight a fit as was possible.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1/2" x 4" zinc-plated hex-head lag screws were used to fasten the new planks, re-using the holes from the original spikes.

7. We used 1/2″ by 4″ zinc-plated hex-head lags to fasten the new deck planks. 1/2″ was overkill, but necessary to grab into the existing spike holes. Pre-drilling the planks in the exact right spot to match the pre-existing holes was nearly impossible, and led to many lags that became cock-eyed as they were driven in. In turn, this meant that our bung-holes had to be reamed out so the socket could fit at an angle. In the future, I would epoxy dowels of the same timber (in this case, white oak) into the existing holes, put the new fasteners elsewhere, and just accept that the beams will be less than whole.

 

 

 

With bungs cut and glued, the only step left before caulking, tarring and oiling is to trim the bungs.

 

8. Lags have been driven in, and bungs have been cut and glued in. Trimming  the bungs (a more delicate task than you might think) is the last step before oiling the new planks, and caulking and tarring the seams.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Finally, the planks have been oiled and the seams have been caulked with cotton and oakum and then filled with tar!

9. Finally, seams have been caulked with cotton and oakum, and filled with tar. We went a less than traditional route and used plain old roofers tar that works just fine. We were lucky enough to get a design for a really handy paying pitcher from a friend which we had custom-made by a local machine shop. The tool is basically a large cone with a hole in the end, a handle, and a piece of steel rod down the center that can be used to plug the hole when you come to the end of a seam. It seriously increases efficiency, and makes a normally messy process quite a bit neater.

 

 

Apr 292012
 
Sunrise at sea

Sunrise at sea

I can’t believe it’s been two full months since our voyages began. This was a sunrise photo I took during the first one in February, so long ago! It was a fantastic trip with a group of adult MBA students from Deakin University in Melbourne. As part of their studies, they have to take a course called “Audacious Leadership” which they can complete either in a usual semester, or in a week on Windeward Bound. Here is an excerpt from my journal, same day this photo was taken.

Sunday February 26, 2012, Afternoon of day two

Four bunks packed into one cabin...not a bit of space wasted!

Four bunks packed into about a 6'x8' cabin. Mine is behind the red curtain at the top. Photo by Lauren Elliott.

The boat is rocking gently as I write this, tucked down below, all dark and quiet in my bunk. The bunk I got placed in this voyage is possible the smallest I’ve ever had. There is about a foot and a half of head room above where my butt sits. When I first saw it I groaned inside, but as I always say, humans are very adaptable. Already I’ve tied and stowed things here and there, enough to make it comfortable and feel like mine.

Last night my watch was on 4AM – 8AM. The sky was brilliant – the Milky Way stretched across as bright as I’ve ever seen it. No moon, so the dimmest stars seemed to twinkle brightly. Glowing globes that I can only guess were phosphorescent jelly fish bobbed by us in the night.

Sailing was nice but steering was challenging. We were almost directly down wind, and somehow no matter how slight my corrections were, the boat would veer off course. Eventually the watch officer turned the engine on and we took in all sail so that we could navigate around some reefs. There was a fair bit of wind, and even with the sails in, I was still struggling to stay on course, so I handed the wheel to Alex. It was good to see that he was finding it a bit challenging as well, but I also picked up some things watching how he steered and corrected.

Now we’re at anchor, taking a little rest before heading out into the Tasman Sea. We’ll be heading up the East Coast and perhaps even crossing Moitessier’s 1969 route past Tasmania! It’s exciting to be heading out into open ocean, but I also know the sea-sickness will be rough.  I’ll just have to toughen up, as they say…

Apr 282012
 

After so long away from this thing, it’s hard to know where to pick back up. Where I left off, or where I am now? Perhaps a bit of both.

I recently wrote a good friend about some of the struggles I’ve been having aboard lately: loneliness, ongoing sea-sickness, blows to self-confidence and wavering determination. I received an incredible email back, funny, encouraging and honest. He wrote “I do hope you are journaling these thoughts elsewhere, because being a vagabond is having these thoughts. Servicing a block is interesting info, but lets get our teeth into something, and now is the time.” So here are the thoughts. Enough of blocks for now.

As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, the last two months have passed like rapid fire; weeks whiz by with no more than a whoosh to let you know they’ve gone, and yet somehow days drift sluggishly on. Forty-two of the last fifty-six were spent at sea, with one day off in ten. Friendships have deepened, but they become strained as well. It’s impossible to spend so much sleep-deprived time with even the best of individuals without a little something getting under the skin.

I guess I can report without too much embellishment that I have seen both the best and worst in myself in these past few months. I have reached deep to find energy, patience and humor in the most unreasonable of circumstances, like waiting almost an hour to raise anchor in the wee hours one morning after being hurriedly shaken from my measly three hours of sleep. One becomes practiced at choosing to laugh.

A crew-member sprawled out on the deck, waiting to weigh anchor

Waiting 45 minutes to raise anchor on three hours' sleep: sometimes this is all you can do.

The most recent trip was the most challenging. It was the final voyage before our first real chunk of days off, and the longest at 11 days, so we were all already exhausted; and the youth we had were mostly strangers to one another, half Australian and half refugee. As mentors and leaders, we not only had to guide them through the normal vaults and drags of a sail-training voyage, but we had the additional hurdles of language and cultural barriers to manage.

During the trip I found myself at times unable to disguise my emotions and frustrations. A small but biting comment from a fellow crew-member brought my American sensitivity back to full swing, and I’m afraid I punished him a bit for it. But as impatient as we are with each other moment by moment, we all thankfully seem to have an equal amount of patience for the long term. We are all struggling through the same arduous schedule, with the same trip-wires and sink-holes in our way, and if we didn’t have a little understanding for each others’ humanness, I guess we wouldn’t be cut out for this job.

So this is what it sometimes is to work on a sail-training tall-ship! Not always warm breezes and sunsets. It’s hard work, long hours, little sleep, and complex social challenges. Sometimes I do actually ask myself if it’s worth it. In the toughest moments I remind myself to take a fresh look when things have eased up a bit and I’ve had some sleep. The rest of the time I remind myself that living the dream isn’t easy, but it IS living the dream, and better than a nine-to-fiver most days of the week. And so instead of giving up, I choose to laugh.