When about to anchor, I would normally take the wheelhouse position and Lynda would be at the bow (opposite way round when hauling in the anchor). I would then use my fingers to indicate how much chain I wanted let out. Three fingers would be fairly normal, meaning ‘please let out thirty metres of chain’. I would have noted the reading on the echo sounder as being four and a half metres, added three metres to this (the vertical distance between the echo sounder transducer and the bow roller), and multiplied the result by four (sometimes as little as two and a half, sometimes as much as six, depending on the circumstances). This may sound a complicated calculation, but making it came to be second nature after a while. The sums became more complex when tides were involved. I would then have to allow for varying depths of water. The biggest problem was in allowing for other boats already at anchor or yet to arrive.
Our final anchoring rule was always to add an ‘anti-snub’ rope. We kept two ten metre long sixteen millimetre nylon warps handy at the bow for this purpose. Once the anchor was down and secured, we would shackle one of these ropes to the chain, tying the other end to a mooring bitt on the bow and selecting the length of anti-snub required (say, five metres). We would then let the chain out until the ‘anti-snub’ just took the boat’s weight in a strong gust. Then the windlass brake would be reapplied. By doing this we found we could eliminate all those noisy and alarming jerks we would otherwise have got. These were now being absorbed by the stretchy nylon warp. But if the rope broke, the chain was there to act as a ‘back-up’.
10.10 plumbing
Amazingly enough, it was the plumbing that turned out to be the hardest, the most uncomfortable and the most soul-destroying task in Tin Hau’s construction. However much we tried to make it otherwise, pipes usually had to be connected in the most inaccessible of places. What made the work so unnecessarily difficult was the annoying clashes between the metric and the imperial systems of measurement. Our imported British toilets and pumps were mostly imperial (I thought Britain went metric years ago!), whilst the South African plumbing fittings were generally metric. Time and again we would find ourselves attempting with all our strength to push one and a half inch (thirty-eight millimetre) hoses on to forty millimetre spigots. It became clear early on that this could only be done by first dipping the hose in boiling water for twenty seconds or so to soften and expand it. Invariably this took place under the cabin sole in the bilge, an area that took half a minute to squeeze into and several minutes to wriggle out of! I suffered bruises, grazes and razor blade cuts; also burns from the boiling water. Then there was the frustration when I found I needed another hose clip or spanner, which necessitated the long crawl out of the bilge before starting on the water boiling routine all over again.
Since we had to bring all water to the hangar in our vehicle (we had no mains water there), it would usually be some days before we could carry out any tests. Anxiously we would search for any leaks. But, sadly, we would just about always be disappointed. There would be a slow leak somewhere.
Subsequently we decided that one of the main causes of these problems was the specially ordered imperial hose we had managed to obtain in South Africa. Good and flexible as it was, we found that the spiral groove on the inside encouraged leaks. In the end we learnt to deal with this by melting the groove closed using the flame of a lighter.
What do you do when you have to go back perhaps for the third time to a place you utterly detest? I grew to hate some of the more inaccessible areas of Tin Hau. But there was little choice. The work had to be completed. More discomfort. More bruises. More cuts – ‘I’m only happy when I’m bleeding,’ I would mutter to myself. ‘Keep calm. We are making good progress. Boat building is fun. Many people would give anything to do what we are doing. We are the lucky ones.’ But finally I would not be able to take any more, and would let fly with every swear word I had ever learnt. Poor Lynda felt the same way. Once she got so stuck in the bilge that her only escape was to be pulled out by the legs, just like Pooh down Rabbit’s hole.
It was at about this time Tony and Paul found a name for me to show their respect (at least Lynda told me it could be interpreted as respect) – ‘Captain Bilgeman’. It took only a few weeks, however, for this to be shortened to ‘Captain Bilge’. Then ‘The Bilgeman’. Then ‘The Bilge’. I was being accepted! Finally it was ‘Hey, you, Bilgie!’ All this was fine. We had fun working together. But one day, when I was in my usual position (in the bilge), wearing my usual clothes (just a pair of shorts and some heavy building site boots), I thought the welders went too far. All that could be seen of me through the floor hatch opening was my bare stomach. I was happily ‘doing my own thing’ down there. Paul or Tony or someone (I never saw who) decided that this was the time to weld a few fixing lugs to the underside of the deck at a point directly above me. Every time the red hot slag fell on me I would yell, try to sit upright, bang my head on the underside of the floor, fall back and then receive the next smattering of slag. We had a good working relationship!
Thanks to having had such a long period of ‘waiting for Ronnie’, we had been able to educate ourselves on the subject of boat plumbing. Since we were planning to be a charter boat, we obviously needed something a bit more complex than the basic – and effective – ‘bucket and chuck it’ system. On the other hand I did not want an array of electric pressure pumps that might go wrong or use too much power.
After much thought, we decided to install a freshwater system that made maximum use of gravity. All that was required was a small header tank. By placing it high enough, we ensured there would be enough water pressure for our wash basins, showers and the galley sink. Individual pumps on the fittings would not be needed, nor any form of electric ‘master pump’. Once a day I would operate a hand pump (a Henderson Mark V) to lift water from the four main tanks; these would be interconnected through a number of valves living in the depths of the bilge (designed and assembled by Lynda and known as ‘the monster’).
Figure 11 shows the main freshwater and salt water plumbing features we adopted, including modifications made in Cyprus, where – amongst other things – the sea-cocks were much improved. It had been wrong – even dangerous – to install bronze yacht fittings on a steel hull.
One good feature of our freshwater system was that I always had total control over the amount of water being used on board (often a problem on cruising yachts). I learnt early on to make the pumping a daily chore, during which I would count the number of strokes made with the pump handle. Then I would place a dot representing this number on to a graph. Figure 12 shows a sample month (when we were in Mauritius with Jacqui and my mother, Margaret, and later on passage to the Seychelles). All that was required to make the point to a newly joined crew member or guest that they were using too much water was to show them the graph and hopefully alert them to the way its shape had changed since their arrival. I didn’t have to say a word. The graph did the job. Immediately, the water consumption rate would decline. The concept of having to be frugal with water or questioning its quality is unfamiliar to a surprising number of people. After all, they think, water just comes out of the tap. Lynda and I would normally use about twenty-five litres of water between us each day on Tin Hau (this would vary from ten litres to fifty litres, depending on where we were and what we felt we could spare for laundry and washing dishes). In a house, where admittedly sea water is not available, I estimate we use nearly ten times this amount.
I do not propose to go into the details of our gas pipework or the engine plumbing, with its associated freshwater and sea water cooling circuits, its diesel supply lines and its exhaust outlet pipes, other than to mention one near omission – the salt water cooling circuit siphon breaker. Luckily I realised in time that our exhaust manifold was just below sea level and so siphoning back of sea water might happen. I contacted David Read of Perkins Engines, and he advised us by return of post to install a water trap and a siphon breaker. I observed later, whilst cruising, that there were many boats
on which these precautions had not been taken. In one case it was only the tight-fitting rubber blades of the water pump which for many years prevented flooding of the engine. When eventually a blade broke, the engine was severely damaged.
I am no expert on diesel engines, the opposite, in fact. However, I have noticed that most problems that occur are not due to a fault in the engine itself, but from some fault in its installation, and generally in what could be termed ‘plumbing’. This seems to be a ‘grey’ area for which no one takes full responsibility – neither the engine manufacturer, nor the boat builder, nor the owner.
One final point concerning Tin Hau’s plumbing: our rainwater catchment area. In the tropics many yachtsmen rig up some form of tarpaulin when it rains, and ingenious methods exist for piping trapped rainwater into the tanks. From the outset I was extremely keen on being self-sufficient in drinking water in these rainy areas, and I wanted to have the best possible rain catchment system. This turned out to be yet another reason for choosing Tin Hau as the boat to build. The raised central cabin tops are ideal for rain collection, and Tom Colvin, with full knowledge of this, had detailed a rim all the way around them, eventually leading to drainage spouts (two on the aft cabin and two on the forward one). The plan was to collect the initial run-off in buckets and use this for laundry and deck baths. Once the water running off was clean, we intended to connect short lengths of hose pipe to the spouts and lead the other ends directly into the main water tanks.
Such was the success of this scheme that we went for sixteen consecutive months, between Mauritius and the Red Sea, without ever having to seek drinking water from the shore.
10.11 power generation
We wanted a home that would be self-sufficient in as many ways as possible, and one area of great importance was that of power generation. We needed power for domestic use, for lighting, for starting the engine, refrigeration, and for the running of nautical instruments. One solution was simply to have no engine (or, on a smaller boat, one that could be hand-started), no gadgetry, no refrigeration, and oil lights throughout. I admire those people we have met who do manage to cruise this way.
Being a larger vessel, Tin Hau had an engine that required electric starting. Given that we had to have batteries for this, I thought it made sense to use them for other purposes as well. With some help from a friend named Garth at HKS, I proceeded to design the twelve-volt lighting circuits. We resolved to make the best possible installation at the outset, knowing that this would be much easier than adding lights and cables later. The result was a good, clean, trouble-free network of light fittings throughout the boat. I also installed circuits to cater for any nautical instrumentation we might care to have.
The next question was: should we supply power to these batteries by any means other than the main engine’s alternator; and if so, how? This led me to undertake a lengthy study of the choices available: a petrol driven generator? A diesel driven generator? A wind generator? Solar panels? A free-wheeling propshaft generator? Additional alternators on the main engine? I even considered a generator we could operate by pedal power, building up our leg muscles in the process.
In the end, I decided we definitely needed additional power sources to supplement the main engine, and proceeded to install a combination of most of the aforementioned alternatives.
First we bought a Rutland wind generator and mounted it on a pole on the starboard quarter, running the power cable through a large ammeter mounted directly in front of the wheel. The helmsman could thus measure the wind speed in amps. We knew exactly what four amps of wind was (a typical trade wind, such as we experienced all the time in Mauritius), or ten amps of wind (a Port Elizabeth storm), or half an amp of wind (a common dawn or dusk lull). However there was one problem with the Rutland wind generator which we never resolved despite our best efforts. This was the half to one and a half amp growl or hum, a nasty vibration felt particularly in the pilothouse at certain wind speeds. At times I would quite happily have thrown the wind generator into the sea because of this, but reason would prevail. Its free power generation was just too useful. In the trade wind areas it looked after all our power requirements, which included the fridge/freezer (then being run just as a fridge).
The next acquisition was a Lucas propshaft generator. I felt that the potential cost-free power offered by the propshaft, free-wheeling while sailing, was just too good to miss – even though it would only be available on passage and not at anchor. It was much easier to install this at the outset than at a later date. We bought a large bronze pulley which we slid over the propshaft before it was fitted in position, and connected it via a rubber drive belt to the generator mounted on a bracket below the cabin sole. Along with the drive belt in use we fitted three spares, tied out of the way, to prepare ourselves in case of future problems associated with a broken belt (of course, we never had such problems!) As with all our generators, we fitted an in-line ammeter so we could see what current the batteries were receiving. Generally this was an additional fifteen amps when motoring, a useful four to six and a half amps when sailing at four to six and a half knots and nothing when sailing any slower (the propshaft did not turn).
Our fourth means of power generation was, in our case, a waste of time and money: a solar panel. We bought one at the same time as the autopilot in 1987 and fitted it on the pilothouse roof, an ideal location. I had thought I was buying thirty-six watts of power giving three amps of current at twelve volts. But I found to my disappointment that the maximum amount of current the solar panel was able to feed into the batteries was one and three-quarter amps, only lasting for a couple of hours. For another two hours the current might be one and a half amps; and for a further two hours only one amp; a total of eight and a half amp-hours over a sunny twenty-four hour period. I know this could have been improved slightly if we had set up a system whereby the panel could have been manually tilted every few hours to face the sun, but I did not want that complication. As our solar panel had cost about the same (about £300) as the wind generator, which would produce eight and a half amp-hours on a terrible day (virtually no wind) or up to two hundred amp-hours on a good day (storms!), I felt that its ‘value per amp’ was very poor.
In addition to all the twelve volt DC chargers, I decided to install a three and a half kilowatt air cooled, diesel powered, two hundred and thirty volt AC generator, made by Robin (costing 1,900 rand, or £1,100, in 1984). This enabled us to have two hundred and thirty volt ‘mains’ power on board when it was required. Those occasions were rare, but, when they did occur, our Robin generator was most helpful. It rendered ‘usable at sea’ all our electrical power tools, and this was invaluable in the odd emergency as well as for certain maintenance tasks. It also gave Lynda full use of the various kitchen appliances acquired during her ‘shore life’. It made our small one hundred watt plastic mini washing machine operational, when we needed to wash more clothes than could be handled by a bucket or two. It also powered the microwave ovens. During the building stage, our two small microwaves had been the sole means of cooking in our flat. These had later been fitted on the boat to supplement the gas cooker and they were most useful in, for example, the Chagos Islands, where our two fourteen kilogram gas cylinders were made to last much longer than their normal four months.
Our final means of charging the batteries was what is commonly called ‘shore power’, an AC power supply from the shore taken to the boat through an electrical cable, and then distributed throughout the boat (in our case, to an array of two hundred and thirty volt power sockets). We used a simple £10 car battery charger, left connected all winter long, to trickle charge the batteries – taking care that they were electrically isolated from the hull. Without this precaution considerable galvanic corrosion could have occurred to the hull underwater.
We first came across the luxury of shore power in Larnaca Marina (except for a brief spell in Port Elizabeth), where a new and ugly power requirement revealed itself – heating. Twice later, we were to ha
ve shore power – in Corfu and in Cornwall, both being places where we spent winters afloat. Our solution to the heating problem gradually improved from thicker sweaters, to thermal underwear, to a one or two kilowatt electric fan blower, to a 1.2 kilowatt oil filled thermostatically controlled electric radiator, to a Camping Gaz catalytic heater (not used in England where we found Camping Gaz refills cost ten times as much as in Greece in the same year!), and finally in Truro to a wood and coal burning stove, bought in Spain and installed amidships. Additionally, we double glazed our portholes to eliminate problems of condensation on the inside of the glass.
The best way to deal with the heating problem is quite obvious. Avoid climates where heating is required! This reduces clothing costs as well!
There are two areas where I would like to see Tin Hau’s power generating capabilities improved. Firstly, I would like to see a different type of regulator on the engine’s alternator – one that allows the maximum rated current (seventy amps in our case) to flow during most of the charge cycle. These regulators are available, but I never bought one as I was wary of the possibility of damaging the – otherwise good – existing alternator. It was always frustrating, however, to motor with only – say – twenty amps showing on the ammeter when I knew the batteries could accept the full seventy amps.
Secondly, I would like to have had a large – say forty amp – battery charger (with isolated primary and secondary coils) for use in conjunction with shore power or the Robin generator. This would have been a wonderful safety feature, as it would have provided a rapid means of recharging the batteries at sea, should they ever have mistakenly been allowed to run flat. The Robin generator, unlike the main Perkins diesel, could be hand-started.
Before leaving the subject of power generation, I feel I should comment further on the most important component of the power circuitry – the batteries. We had had early trouble with these in Port Elizabeth, where I had made the mistake of buying some second-hand batteries at a ‘bargain price’. On becoming more acquainted with these, I realised I was not prepared to trust our lives to them. So we advertised them for sale, successfully in the end, but only after several false attempts, including one where I learnt over the telephone all about South African pigs. We were being offered one pig, or ‘vark’ in Afrikaans, for each battery. I had to ask for the word to be repeated several times before I realised what was going on. At first I couldn’t understand why I was being so needlessly insulted. The South African ‘v’ sounds like an ‘f’.
Cutting the Dragon's Tail Page 6