Activity is a Virtue

I had reproached myself on more than one occasion last winter for leaving Ganymede in the water rather than hauling her out like she deserves, especially when friends helpfully sent videos of her bucking and plunging in the horrible SW gales that racked New England five or six times.  But we were just moving ashore, and money was needed elsewhere.  In the end she came though unscathed, though with her docklines in rough shape.

Ganymede at the yard

Ganymede’s bottom, sanded and ready for new paint

This winter, though, we’d put by enough to have her hauled out—for the first time since we were preparing to sail to Newfoundland—and give her a rest and a dry-out and a much-needed bottom job.  After some shopping around, we decided on the Borden Light Marina in Fall River: the same marina where we’d left Capella, so long ago, to return to California and build Ganymede.  It’s a casual, friendly  mom & pop place, where they don’t mind you working on your boat, and will give you a lift to the gas station if necessary.

We have been enjoying a mild late-fall so far, and though it was the last thing I felt like doing, I took a sander and a heap of 40-grit out to the yard last weekend and sanded her entire bottom to a nice, paintable surface.  It took less than four hours, which was surprising, and though I could probably sand some more, if I don’t get to it won’t matter.  I did get unbelievably dirty, and emptied an amazing amount of dust out of the catchment bag with every change of paper.

The gaff jaws I’ve talked about in previous posts are done, and with some provisional leathering are ready for testing next spring.  I also decided to strip the aluminum gaff, which was starting to show spots of yellow primer through the paint, and leave it bare.  Now that I have bare aluminum on mooring bitts and tabernacle, it might as well match.  The mast, whose paint is looking chalky, worn, and missing entirely in high-chafe spots, will have to wait till next winter.

One final thing I did for winter storage was to install a solar-powered exhaust fan.  Being unwilling to cut any holes in the deck or house, I simply removed the pie-plate skylight from the forehatch, built a quick fiberglass cap to fit over it using the pie plate-and-melamine method used for making the trim ring, and installed the vent in that.  Now there will be a small fan moving air around all winter, hopefully keeping things from growing stagnant inside.  In summer I’ll simply clap the skylight back on when sailing, and the vent if leaving her on the mooring for a while.

In landward news (we are officially landlubbers now, after all), much of our energy for the last few months has been directed at trying to buy a house.  In the long-term plan, barely visible in the fog of the far future, house ownership plays a pivotal role.  But houses are expensive beyond belief in New England, and the best we could do was a tumbledown cottage in some festering swampland in West Greenwich.

Little Cottage in the Big Swamp

The cottage we almost bought.

In the end we couldn’t even manage that, since the mortgage company, minion of some vile gangster named “Freddie Mac” (I’m not making this up), panicked at the last minute and pulled the plug.  In their well-meaning way, people keep telling us that Swamp Cottage would have been a disaster anyway—no one who looked at it had said anything other than that it oughtta be torn down.  Of course, they’d all said the same thing about Capella, which we sailed to South America and Maine; point being: hopeless projects are our specialty, and the more naysayers we can prove wrong the better.  Still, what can’t be helped must be endured.  So we wait, pouring gobs of money we’ll never see again into rent, and unable to build a boat-shed in the yard, re-configure the inside of our house, or really do anything meaningful for the long-term.  And if you can’t even get started on the big plan, when will you ever see it through?  Sure, patience is a virtue—but activity is a better one.

Keep On Sailing

Bunk Beds

Just enough room for a triple bunk bed.

Ever since our move ashore, the care and upkeep of Ganymede has been necessarily pushed to the back burner.  It was just one year ago that we moved off of her into the rental apartment we now call home, and though we have by no means neglected our dear little boat, there’s been a lot of other things to use up our spare time.  Since we didn’t own a stick of furniture when we moved in, much of this year was spent building bunk beds and shelves and desks and picture frames.  Now Apple Blossom Cottage is pretty well furnished—everything has a place to go, and there’s just one or two more small things on my radar to build.

Paint is white Rust-oleum; varnish is Interlux Schooner

New paint on deckheads and varnish on cabin sides.

With all that, we did spend a good deal of time last winter painting Ganymede’s locker lids and other removable parts in the basement, and in the spring did the gargantuan task of painting the deckheads and varnishing the cabin ceiling.  After that things slowed down as we chose to spend what little time we could devote to Ganymede in sailing her.  We even took a two-night cruise over to Prudence Island when I got three days off during a propitious series of tide cycles.

A fiberglass piece to replace splitting wood

A mold made from a pie plate and melamine plank makes a custom trim ring.

I’m happy to say, though, that in spite of all the distractions, I’ve been able to cross off SOME of the things on my list.  The first was my pie-plate-skylight trim ring (say THAT five times fast!).  The one I’d made of oak while working on the Coronet restoration was cracking horribly, and pretty weather-blackened.  I had always meant to make one out of fiberglass, and finally a few weeks ago I did.

A waterproof, inexpensive skylight

Trim ring primed and installed. It will be painted to match when the decks are repainted

The first step was to borrow another pie plate from my longsuffering wife and attach it to a piece of melamine-faced board with hot glue.  Four rings of fiberglass fabric went on next—three of 1708 (for the composite geeks reading this) and one of 10-oz boat cloth.  Once the resin cured and the piece was de-molded, it was child’s play to trim it with a jigsaw, sand the edges round, and slosh some 545 primer on it.  Fits like a glove, and looks far better than the clunky oak one it replaced.  It will look even better when I re-fair and paint the hatch it sits on….but that’s for another day.

Worked good, but might be improveable

Ganymede’s original mainsheet setup: two separate tackles

Another experiment had been the mainsheet.  Until now we’ve used two mainsheets, attached at opposite sides of the cockpit, which eliminates the need for a traveller and gives excellent control over the position of the boom.  Furthermore, two people working together can get the boom sheeted in easily in the hardest winds by tallying onto a tackle apiece.  It has worked splendidly in all the conditions that Ganymede encountered in five years of voyaging.

Making the best of that pesky sheet

Danielle being distracted by the weather sheet while steering into Isla Mujeres, Mexico

But the system has it’s downsides.  First, there’s two tackle falls to get all tangled up among the jibsheets and running backstay falls.  Second, the weather sheet, which is kept slack, tends to distract the helmsman, especially when it’s Danielle.  Then, when sailing with guests aboard, you have to have not one but two of them move to access the sheet cleats, which they are inevitably sitting on.

Five-part mainsheet.

Sailing with a friend on the first occasion of testing the new mainsheet setup.




So using some spare blocks and a very long piece of nylon rope left over from my old rockclimbing days, we experimented with a single mainsheet, rove from one side and back several times by way of the boom.  To my surprise it worked superbly on the one test-sail we’ve been on, well enough that I’ll probably spring for twenty fathoms of proper mainsheet line and a triple block for the boom end next time I find that a couple hundred dollars are disturbing my rest by crying out to be spent.


Experimental gaff jaws

Testing the prototype gaff jaws for fit.

Lastly, one of the things I’ve been thinking hard about for a long time is a set of proper gaff jaws.  It took ages to get my gaff saddle engineered so it would work properly, and it still manages to capsize from time to time, especially when I need to get the sail down in an hurry.  So I made a form out of a paint can (which is what I used as a mold for the saddle), some scrap lumber, Bondo, hot glue, and tape, and laid up a set of jaws on it.

The gaff jaws prototype required seven different sessions, with sanding between each

Piece by piece, the gaff jaws prototype goes together.

After a quick run out to the boat to test for fit, I’m now adding layers of carbon fiber here and there to ensure sufficient strength against the huge twisting force exerted by the gaff under full sail.  No doubt it will take several tries to get it just right, and the test model will get hacked beyond recognition before serving as a prototype for the proper one I’ll make later, but that seems to be the story of my boatbuilding life.  The important thing is to keep on tweaking, keep improving, keep inventing, and most of all, keep on sailing.

Sailing hard is great fun.

A breezy day on Mt.Hope Bay.

The Zartman Nautical Depository

Navigating on CapellaOne of the best parts of preparing for a cruise on Ganymede (and on Capella before her), was the day the charts would arrive in the mail and we could begin to inspect and organize them.  It has usually been a pretty big project, since we try to buy in bulk and get discounts that way.  Even so, the temptation to open up one chart after another and scrutinize it for possible anchorages and sweet cruising grounds is always irresistible.  Even after hours of carefully folding and labelling several scores of charts, one with a name like “Barra de Catarasca and Approaches” or “Gulf of Fonseca” would have Danielle and me poring over soundings and dreaming of tropical rain falling on thatched palapas.  It would be some time before we could get along and get all the charts in their proper places.

Nautical Chart ColoringIt was even better the first time we bought chart photocopies from Bellingham Chart Printers, which came in plain black and white (they print in grayscale now), and before venturing from one anchorage to the next, would sit down with colored pencils and fill in the land in pale yellow or green, the 2-fathom line in light blue, and the reefs in brown.  This helped us become familiar with the area immediately ahead, and was a pleasant pastime in the days before we had children and all our time was spent in caring for them.

Hand Colored ChartOur paper charts always live in the driest, safest locker on the boat (I built a special, easily accessible chart cabinet on each boat, in fact), with the next series we’ll need stacked in neat order on top.  In spite of all the modern hype about computer charting and navigation software, I can’t imagine going sailing without a proper paper chart to look at (I’ve written about this before), and whenever I have to look at a route or a passage on someone’s computer screen it seems the most uninteresting thing compared to tracing it out on a sheet of paper spread before me.  Call me quaint, but I love the nautical-ness of plotting lines with dividers and rulers; of walking bearings here and there from a compass rose; of a plotting sheet all marked up with spidery pencil lines and a line of ‘Xs’ showing morning, noon and evening celestial fixes.  To me, zoning in on a computer screen is bad enough when I’m writing an article or blog post; I don’t want to be bothered with computers and screens when I’m sailing somewhere, which is supposed to be enjoyable.  Even the prosaic plots off of the handheld GPS are improved by being made with a real pencil on a real chart.

There are some folks who fear that paper charts are going to go away entirely; there are even some who seem to delight in that idea, as though the precense of something physical and reliable rather than data dubiously stored on a fragile electrical chip was an offense to them (they’re like the people who not only use the Metric system, of all things, but are grumpy that the rest of us don’t).  I have no such fears, however; as long as there are sailors, there will be charts.  In fact, with modern print-on-demand technology, it may soon be possible to have printed a chart of the exact size and scale you want, with soundings converted back to fathoms, if necessary, all lights updated, and none of those pesky Loran or Omega lines that are such a distraction on middle-aged editions.

Old Nautical Chart ArtIn the meantime, as those charts of yesteryear age and decay, it seems a shame that they should be allowed to rot away uncared for.  They are, after all, how everybody navigated years ago (and a good many of us still do and always will), and some charts from the 1800s are still the most recent surveys we posess.  I have a soft spot for old chart editions, printed on yellowed paper with old-fashined italic fonts—several worn and wrinkled copies of such charts hang here and there about our house to remind us of favorite places we’ve cruised and spots we still need to go.  But now that we live in a house, I can do something I’ve had in mind for several years now, and that is to offer to take any and all charts that might be burdening our reader’s load; charts that it would be a shame to throw away, but are outdated, worn out, or no longer used.  If you send them to us, I promise to store them safe and dry, to keep them archived for posterity, to love them and look at them and appreciate them, and who knows? Maybe to display them next to my collection of outdated Bowditch editions, the Cuban Coast Pilot (in Spanish), and all the other odd navigational treasures I’ve gathered here and there on our travels.  Call it the Zartman Nautical Depository.  Here’s the address:

Ben Zartman

308 State St. Apt 1e

Bristol RI 02809

In For a Penny, In For a Pound

2015 06 05 Sachuest walk and canoe trials (57)One of the advantages of living and working in a boatbuilding town is that you’re surrounded by boatbuilders, and boatbuilding suppliers, and boatbuilding surplus.  Riches I had only dreamed of, when living in the faraway mountains of California and building Ganymede, are here at my very fingertips.  Not only do we have five or six boat hardware stores like West Marine within easy driving distance, there’s as many consignment and used marine goods stores, not to mention the major wholesale distributors of fiberglass, resins, and all other composite construction supplies.  While building Ganymede most of my supplies came by mail order, or by dint of a several-hours’ drive if I wanted to avoid shipping.  There was no possibility of browsing through piles of used cleats and winches, buying the last few fathoms of line off a spool for peanuts, or dumpster diving at the megayacht yard for the perfectly good gear they always throw away.

2015 06 05 Sachuest walk and canoe trials (69)Goetz Composites, where I worked over the winter (building boats, of course), is in a building surrounded by other buildings where boat stuff is also being done.  Right across from the shop’s front door was the Bristol campus of the International Yacht Restoration School, where they give instruction in boat systems and composites construction.  And one of the things they do is teach resin infusion by making canoe hulls in a 10 ½ foot mold.  Though the students are allowed to keep these and finish them if they wish, they usually have too much on their plates and the canoes wind up stacked next to the dumpster.  I had walked by them scores of times without giving them any thought until this spring, when it became evident that I needed a lightweight one-man boat to get out to Ganymede’s mooring without going through the bother of launching the big dinghy, which is a beast for one person to move around (Danielle contends that it’s a beast for two to move; I may have to build her a carbon fiber one someday).

2015 06 05 Sachuest walk and canoe trials (80)The hardest part of any conversation is starting it, but the reward of walking into the building and conversing with the instructor about whether it would be helpful to him if one of those canoes were to be disposed of was worth it.  He told me that if they All went away it would not “Bum him out.”  Five minutes later the cleanest one was in my car being portaged home.

Fiberglass/PVC StringersOf course by the time I snagged a canoe shell to finish out, I was no longer working at Goetz, where if I’d thought of it, I could have spent evenings and Saturdays all winter using their facilities and materials at an employee’s cost to trick out the canoe properly.  But nevermind, there’s no shortage of options in this town, like I mentioned before, and another friend whom I’d worked with—building boats, predictably—let me use his shop.  Turns out he’d built these same canoes in the past, and knew the best way to move forward with it.

2015 06 05 Sachuest walk and canoe trials (51)After a whole winter of similar work on a much larger scale, it was child’s play to vaccuum-bag a piece of ¼” core foam onto the sole of the canoe.  The bag ensured an even clamping pressure, and that the foam would conform exactly to the curved bottom of the canoe.  Another layer of fiberglass boat cloth over the entire inside of the canoe, a couple of ‘thwartships braces to stiffen everything up, and I had a very lightweight, easy-to-paddle canoe that I can quickly load onto the roof-racks I bolted to the roof of the car.  It’s a bit tippy and won’t carry much cargo, but nothing beats it for a convenient and quick ride out to Ganymede on her mooring, where I’ve been sloshing paint and varnish around lately.

2015 06 05 Sachuest walk and canoe trials (73)The children, of course, were wild with excitement.  A new boat! They were even more wild when they found out that there were more shells by the dumpster; they were dumbfounded that I hadn’t grabbed them all at once!  “Why on earth wouldn’t you?” Even Danielle wanted to know.  “We could have a canoe each!”  “I’m gonna call mine ‘Marshmallow’!”

2015 06 05 Sachuest walk and canoe trials (91)


I had hoped to avoid the cost, effort and bother of finishing THREE canoes, but had to yield to force majure. I secured the last four shells, gave one to my friend as a goodwill offering for letting me use his shop, and am now in the middle of glassing up the second one, this time with enough foam in the ends to keep it afloat in the event of a capsize.  The third one will have to wait a few weeks while other necessary projects overwhelm the garage—it’s tiny even for working on one small canoe in there—but before summer’s too far along I expect to have a fleet of canoes following the big rowing dinghy around, like ducklings in the wake of a mother goose.


Captains Outrageous

Gaff-rigged Schooner Aquidneck under sail.

Aquidneck’s staysail gets furled as she gently sails homeward at the end of a trip.

Sailing season has returned to New England again, and is quickly going into full swing.  There’s nothing like the strong blustery winds of May to blow the cobwebs out, shake down everything that’s likely to break, and remind incautious sailors to reef early and keep an eye to weather for sudden gusts.  This spring brings an extra note of interest for me, since I’ve been promoted to Captain of the Aquidneck, and now have 37 tons of schoonerific pulchritude under my command for exactly half the days of the summer.

Aquidneck under her winter storage canopy.

The schooner Aquidneck, nearing the end of spring commissioning.

I had expected to end up at the helm of a schooner in Newport eventually—it’s why I went through the extreme expense and bother of securing a captain’s ticket winter-before-last—but I hadn’t figured on getting there so soon.  It’s a most welcome circumstance, though, especially with house rent to pay as well as Ganymede to maintain.  In fact, knowing since the fall that I’d be a schooner captain come spring had made winter drag extra slowly, and the final thankless, bitter weeks at the boatyard getting the schooner ready to launch nearly unbearable.  Still, though the yardwork leaves a black place in the soul that never entirely goes away, eventually the boats go in, the sails go up, and the wheel kicks playfully at a hand that will soon be copper colored with days of endless sun.

Steering on the Aquidneck is with a worm gear.

Ben Zartman at the wheel the gaff-rigged schooner Aquidneck, sailing past Fort Adams in Narragansett Bay

Of course there was training; not only for me, but for an all-new crew.  In anticipation of this event, I had done a multitude of ins-and-outs from the long, narrow wharf where Aquidneck is berthed, as well as practice swipes at other lanes, nosing in, stopping, and gathering sternway back out again.  But still I needed additional coaching, and of the four deckhands only one had ever clapped eyes on a schooner’s deck before.  So for the first couple of weeks Curt Porter, the other captain, went out every day, teaching the hands the intricacies of schooner handling while discoursing with me on the proper way to goose the engine in reverse or forward to keep the bows to weather while they fumbled with the sails.

It’s probably good that early season doesn’t bring full boatloads of guests—it’s enough of a challenge for the crew to sail the boat without having four dozen people to trip over.  To be fair to them, there’s a lot of halyards and sheets aboard a schooner to manage, as well as topping lifts, docklines and assorted reefing tackle.  They’re slowly getting up to speed, and hopefully soon we’ll be able to move from blind routine (After belaying this halyard, cast off this line) to knowing what needs to be done by instinct: looking up at the rig, looking aft for signals from the skipper, seeing something amiss and knowing how to fix it.  That’s really the essence of successful sailing on any sort of boat.  You must have a perpetual and undistracted situational awareness.  In the meantime, Curt and I have to be extra watchful to clap a stopper over nascent bad habits; to gently correct unseamanlike behavior before it becomes routine.

What's on the grill?

A meal worthy of an intercaptain communication!

No doubt the new crew will forever have some scars from those early days: not one but two captains perpetually giving orders and coming alongside to tell them they must always pass the springline thusly, and not how they just did it, but when they understand it all they’ll be grateful in the end.  For now, they’re just happy that Curt and I work on opposite days, and we’re no longer both there at once to critique their handiwork from separate angles.  In fact, we captains won’t see each other again until it’s time to put the boat away in November.  Until then, any boat communication will be by notes in the logbook.  We could text, I suppose, but who wants to get that involved with work?  We usually reserve text messaging to communicate what sort of meat we’re eating on our day off, knowing the other one is stuck with either a lukewarm sandwich or hot dogs from the snack stand on the wharf.  Anything from a 5-Guys hamburger and better rates a text: bratwurst on the grill, sirloin tip burritos, pork chops in Jerk Sauce.  We share the joy not to rub it in, but to inspire for the next day off.

A porthole's perspective of the anchorage at sunset.

Two Newport Schooners douse their sails at sunset across the anchorage.

And so the stage is set: the crew will soon settle into easy competence, the schooner will go and return several hundreds of times, and the captains will exchange many lively text-messages about food.  The only pity is that it can’t go on year ‘round, but there’ll be time enough to regret that in the winter.  For now, it looks like a pretty good summer shaping up.

Improving, Maintaining, Re-inventing

The LetteringIt seems pretty cliché to say that winter seemed long—no doubt every winter in every generation has seemed long, especially in New England—but this one in particular has struck me as exceptional.  Even so, months and months of endless snow and wind notwithstanding, it hasn’t been so long that I got all my list of projects for Ganymede completed.  Thuth be told, partly because in the fall we were busy moving into a house, and partly because the weather went abominably cold very early and stayed that way until about yesterday, I did exactly none of the ambitious projects I had hoped to in Ganymede.  Paint, varnish, better stove shielding—all the things that would have required my presence aboard got put off till better weather.  We are having better weather now, in between rainy days, gales and icy fog, but all those days—or rather evenings after work—must now be given over to rigging and general preparations for summer.

Deadeyes painted

Masked and painted

What I did get done, and rather at the last minute, was a good overhauling of the shrouds, a few new dyneema strops made for here and there in the rigging, and a quick repair in the lower deadeyes.  These last are machined from solid aluminum, and are beautifully made by Colligo Marine, but I unwisely allowed the bronze cotters in the clevis pins to touch the aluminum here and there.  And everywhere that the two metals touched, corrosion ensued.  It is astonishing how very quickly bronze and aluminum will go to war, and also how rapidly aluminum will melt before the onslaught of bronze.  Interestingly enough, wherever I had used Tef-gel or Lanocote, the metals had remained isolated, but gooping the cotter pins with any sort of goo would have meant having it on every sheet and halyard that came even close.

Deadeyes in Awlgrip 545With a Dremel tool, I ground out all the corrosion pits.  None were deep enough to even begin to weaken the deadeyes; they were merely surface blemishes.  Then,to even everything up, I painted the lower half of the deadeyes with Awlgrip 545 primer.  A black topcoat will have to wait for another time.  I installed them with some far smaller cotter pins, which have no chance of getting at the aluminum, and gooped everything generously with Tef-gel again.

Getting the mast rigged up before stepping

It takes a few hours to get all the shrouds on in all the right places.

As long as the mast was down, I gave it a once-over: the stainless steel fasteners I put into the aluminum mast five years ago could still be backed out easily, thanks to the Tef-gel that is still goopy.  Lanocote would have hardened up ages ago (I scraped lots of hardened Lanocote flakes off of the chainplates), so Tef-gel gets the prize in my book.

The sheer-legs supports Ganymede's mast while the shrouds are set up

A simple, inexpensive sheer-legs made of 2X6 planks gets the mast up with ease and safety

It was on a predictably windy Saturday that we stepped the mast again.  With the tabernacle, it was a non-event, though I gave myself the luxury of building a sheer-legs instead of using the boom.  The sheer-legs is easier to rig and less dangerous, though it requires more equipment in the way of 2X6s and bolts.  It went up so fast and easy, in fact, that Danielle again didn’t manage to get pictures of the mast at half-hoist—in fact , she just might never.

All that remains now is to tune up the rigging, bend on the sails, and see what we can do with the engine.  Though it was running wonderfully when I winterized it last fall, the chassis, after five years of hanging six inches from the salt water, is rusting into little pieces, and it no longer wants to tilt either up or down easily.  Of course I’ve known all along that it will need replacement one day, but that doesn’t make the event any easier or cheaper.  Anyway, we’ll see whether it will last yet another season before being gently put down.

Regalvanized Anchor

Another winter accomplishment was to get Ganymede’s faithful anchor and chain re-galvanized. No other piece of equipment has been as critical to Ganymede’s safety or our peace of mind as this 45-lb Manson Supreme anchor.

I confess to feeling rather like a fool for taking everything out of the boat, and unshipping all the spice racks and lamp gimbals for the sake of a sprucing up that I never got around to—now all that has to be added to next winter’s considerable list, but at least I did chisel away at it, and have a newly galvanized anchor and chain that won’t dribble rust stains on the deck any more, a shiny throat halyard, an overhauled and painted gaff saddle, and upholstery on the aft cabin cushions.  And that’s how it goes.  Little by little, ever since Ganymede was launched, we’ve been improving, and maintaining, and re-inventing.  And what if the project list only gets longer as time goes by? Something worth having is worth keeping nice, and surely by next winter (I tell myself) I’ll find the time and money to give Ganymede the attention she deserves.  In the meantime, summer is almost here, the boat is almost ready to go: it’s time to put the chores list on hold and get some sailing done.

Throwing Caution to the Winds

Looking Chilly

Nothing like having a window to look through when the weather is like this.

It is, by all appearances, the dead of winter.  There’s piles of snow all around—not as big as when we had the big blizzard two winters ago,but these piles have been around for longer now than those were, and keep getting added to a couple times a week.  Nor is it as long a winter yet as last year, which dragged on far beyond the bounds of decency.  Nevertheless, it’s bitterly cold, and often very windy, and nothing could be farther from most people’s minds than going out seafaring in weather like this.


February 2015 BlizzardWhich made it all the more astonishing when I heard a couple of weeks ago that a sailboat had set out from Jamestown, RI., bound ostensibly for Australia by way of the southern ocean, with two people aboard on the eve of a serious, well-predicted blizzard that dumped a huge amount of snow, had some storm-force winds, and brought dangerously low temperatures across New England. Almost needless to say before they were barely a couple days out they called for a rescue and abandoned the boat.

That very same weekend, a little further south along the coast, a trimaran was abandoned and the people aboard airlifted out.  All of this coming on the heels of the Rainmaker incident, a large, brand-new catamaran that sought to defy the North Atlantic winter weather, got dismasted, and was also abandoned after a crew rescue.

Now, I haven’t heard that any of these boats were in imminent peril of sinking—in fact, the search for Rainmaker’s presumed-still-afloat hulk was still ongoing a few days ago, so it seems the crew called for a rescue because they were wet, or scared, or cold, or afraid of becoming so.  Don’t think I blame them for it: I’ll never judge anyone who calls for a bailout under any circumstances, since even a little while of being beat up, and cold and wet and uncertain amidst the tossing wavetops, or the threat of the same, can be a terrifying thing.  No, I won’t say that they were wrong to call for help, but I will say they were wrong for putting to sea in the dead of winter, and for either not checking the forecast or ignoring it.  One smacks of ignorance, the other of arrogance, and both of stupidity.

Zartman's Sledding

Well, it’s not all bad to be out in the snow.

Now, to be fair, Danielle and I have done our share of things others might consider foolish—putting to sea with a near-gale and 17-foot swells predicted, groping around unknown fog-bound harbors in the dark, sailing to South America in a boat with a broken-off centerboard, messing around northern Newfoundland and the Cote du Nord in September, but always (I’d like to think), with an extra measure of caution, and a keen eye on weather and season.  And maybe it’s only providential that our number hasn’t come up, but I don’t feel that we’ve tried anything that seems THAT unreasonable or strains credulity—certainly nothing like putting to sea ahead of a howling blizzard in the dead of winter in a boat only recently bought off of eBay.  Or in a brand-new, pretty much untested boat, as was the case with Rainmaker, and astonishingly enough, a brand-new Alpha Cat that suffered a similar fate one year before that.

Snowy GanymedeIt’s not as though the perils of wintertime sailing are unknown.  The Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens, set circa the thirteenth century, has Sir Patrick, the best sailor of his time, bemoaning the news that he must put to sea in winter:

“O Wha is this has done this deed,

This ill deed done to me,

To send me out this time o’ the year,

To sail upon the sea!”

 They drowned, of course, Sir Patrick and his Scots lords, and left their bonnets swimming half o’er to Aberdour.  But closer to home, we have another cautionary tale: The Wreck of the Hesperus, by Longfellow, tells of a storm that wrecks a New England schooner with the loss of all hands during an ill-advised winter trip:

“And then the shrouds, all sheathed in ice,

With the masts went by the board.

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank.

Ho ho! the breakers roared.”

Snowy Splicing Days

A good time for splicing lessons.

Whether these poems are based on actual facts matters very little; the fact is, three boats in barely three weeks this winter were abandoned on the high seas, making one wonder what the owners could possibly have been thinking.  Was it hubris? Ignorance? Arrogance? They might claim nothing more than a run of bad luck, but given this winter’s three, and last winter’s one, I hope sailors will think long and hard before attempting offshore passages in a season better suited for staying safely indoors, planning future voyages, and reading dark poetry.

Precautionary Maintenance and General Purging

Empty Everything Out

In Cartagena it was hot work no matter the time.

2011 01 01 boat yard 034

Looking back at this picture I could hardly even recall what our why we had these things…so glad they are not still kicking around for a rainy day.

There are few things more satisfying to my seafaring soul than periodically emptying the boat of EVERYTHING and giving her a good scrub and sorting and maybe a few coats of paint and varnish. Only one other time, in faraway Cartagena, Colombia, have we had the opportunity to do that to Ganymede, and after a year of living aboard with three tiny children and cruising hard in some dirty places, it was most desperately needed.  That time, as I staggered through the lounge in the boatyard with armload after armload of stuff to be cleaned and sorted, I received ever more incredulous comments from another cruiser who was limply fanning herself on a sofa in the crushing heat.  “Are you gonna take everything out?”

“All of it!” I gasped, sweat streaming in rivers.

“I’ve lived on my boat for thirty years and never done that!”

Sewing in Cartagena

In Cartagena we took advantage of the electricity and space to indulge in some sewing.

2014 11 18 002

Still a favorite pastime, sewing with plenty of space and the aid of electricity never gets old.

I pretended to be too out-of-breath from carrying the stove to be able to answer.  What could I have said?  “I can tell”?  Hardly appropriate, though true.  “You probably ought to”?  Telling others how to conduct their seafaring lives is the quickest way to being unliked.  I’d like to think that my silence spoke volumes, but likelier it fell on deaf ears.  Anyway, whether I set a good example of not, when we packed Ganymede up again she was spicker and spanner than ever, we knew where everything was and how much of it we had, and having got rid of tons of unnecessary junk, we had elbow room galore.

Our next chance at a full emptying did not come until this fall, when we moved into a rented house, four years after having emptied her in Cartagena.  It has taken more carloads than I can count to get everything out of her, but now she’s empty again, and scrubbed down, and ready for some much-needed paint and varnish, which we hope to apply when the weather begins to warm up again.  Deadeye and Lanyard InspectionTill then, all her stuff is at the house, slowly being gone over as time allows: lamps cleaned and serviced, anchor and chain awaiting galvanizing, canvas getting patched, locker lids painted, and most importantly to my mind, her rigging getting a complete overhaul.  We last did that in the winter of 2011-2012, when I had a tabernacle built so we could easily strike and step the mast ourselves.  It was then that I changed over from the rusting galvanized turnbuckles and shackles to aluminum deadeyes and lanyards.

Standing Rigging Inspection

A thorough inspection of deadeyes, lanyards, and all standing rigging.

Though I have no fears that my synthetic shrouds may be getting worn—after all, the far older synthetic shrouds I took apart for inspection after several hard years in the tropics were in pristine shape—I find it prudent to periodically go over everything with a fine-tooth comb.  Not that I don’t perform frequent inspections aloft while cruising, but it’s nice to stretch everything out at ground level and eyeball it closely from time to time.  A lot of lashings that are now over five years old will get replaced just as precautionary maintenance, and all stainless steel fasteners in the aluminum mast will be backed out and in again, just to make sure the Tef-gel they were bedded in is still goopy.  I can also cram more Tef-gel and Lanocote in appropriate places, and generally make sure everything is properly shipshape and not corroding into valueless white powder.

Painting Oars

Look, no wakes! It’s amazing how it changes your perspective.

Having a house with a little garage to do all this in is, of course, most convenient, and it’s just too bad that the boat is so far away, and the weather so cold that I can’t reasonably go down to her after work.  But the longer Spring takes to come, the more coats of paint I can get on the oars and locker lids, the better I can get the rigging serviced, photo 5and by summer Ganymede should be looking and sailing her very best again—better than ever, in fact, since every tweak and improvement of the rig makes her appearance neater or increases her efficiency.

Abednego Marine

Salty Sailor

Demeanor, comportment, habits, and behavior, the wool sweater and sou’wester say it all.

One of the pitfalls of reading too many books in your youth is that you’ll go into situations with preconceived ideas of what things should be like.  Having read an inordinate amount about old time sailing, and whaleships, and cannons and such, I had some pretty strong ideas about New England schooner captains; their demeanor, comportment, habits, and behavior.  So as soon as I was holding a captain’s ticket, and working on a schooner in New England (no matter that I wasn’t actually captain of that schooner: I was a captain, I was on a schooner, it was New England) I began to feel the necessity of acting like one.  Now I’d like to think that saltiness I have already in spades, language is coming along nicely (was I really mumbling “Hast seen the white whale?” a few nights a go in my sleep? You’ll have to ask my wife), smoking a pipe will have to wait till I’m all grown up.  Beard? Check.  Waistcoat? Check. Sou’wester? Several. Pegleg? Well, let’s not push it.  The only thing missing was a proper New Englandish schooner captain name.  Not that Benjamin wasn’t overused in those old time whaling days, but I needed something more flavorful. Ahab. Obadiah. Peleg. Ishmael—something along those lines.

Damaris and her Camera

Totally worth it!

What actually stuck was kind of accidental.  Damaris had just discovered the recording function of her child’s camera, and had begun surreptitiously recording things I said, no doubt for later blackmailing purposes.  Her favorite recording was a phrase from a book I’d been reading to the other two children: “Hold your hush, Abednego!”  It was played back for my benefit, with shrieks of laughter, more than a few times.  Then my wife took it up, whenever she wished to gently remind me that even a fool when he is silent is considered wise.  And so it naturally followed that all summer long on the schooner I was Abednego—“Captain Abednego Hooch, if you please; and be so good as to belay your halyards clockwise on my ship!”

These are Ganymede's plans, but different plans are on the table now!

These are Ganymede’s plans, but different plans are on the table now!

It was a great summer of being Abednego, and when I discoursed with my shipmates about the schooner I’d like to build some day, they began referring to it as the Abednego Schooner.  Getting used to the sound of that, when I started up a little rigging business and needed a name that was closer to the beginning of the alphabet than Zartman Marine would have been, well, there it was.  And here it is: Abednego Marine.  Though my attempt to raise capital for it through Kickstarter met with pretty resounding defeat, we’re still moving forward with it all.  More slowly, to be sure, but there should shortly be an online catalog and order form for Dyneema soft shackles, custom-length strops, and synthetic rigging parts on this site; the name will take you there.  We hope, as time and funds allow, to continue into machined toggles, Dyneema-stropped wooden blocks, aluminum belaying pins and other traditional ideas that modern materials are making feasible once more.

Halyard Toggle Shackle

One of many variations.

It might be wise, trying to go into business, to read books about that—how to cruch numbers for breakfast, squeeze blood from turnips, shortsell, upcharge, boost productivity and who-knows-what.  But every time my hand strays toward the bookshelf, it’s drawn again toward my seafaring collection, and I get lost in square-riggers, fogbanks, codfish and salty decks.  Can’t help myself, it seems.  Good for business? Maybe not, but we’ll embark on it anyway and see where we fetch up.

The Day of Small Beginnings

Drill Press

It was hard to get rid of the drill press, but we have other tools at the top of the list for the next shop.

One of the hardest things about setting out cruising five years ago was closing down the business I had created, selling off all my shop tools, and knowing that there would be no more time, money or space for projects not immediately involved with boat maintenance.  Not that that was huge cause for regret—after all, the business, the tools, the hillside shop in the side yard had all been calculated to speed along the process of building Ganymede and getting back to sea.  But the Ganymede project  had been fun—so many things to improvise, to design, to invent, and I’d become so used to having the table saw, drill press, and air compressor, that I could barely imagine cruising without them.  I even considered cramming my smaller drill press into the sail locker to bring along, but this being patently foolish I sold it instead.

Toggle In Use

A toggle from the tack of the jib has proven simple and reliable.

I didn’t have much opportunity while cruising full time to miss my shop and tools, but now that we’re contemplating a prolonged shoreside stint, the tinker in me is rearing his head once more.  After two winters in a row of building things for other people, my hands are itching to get to ideas of my own that were born long ago during Ganymede’s construction, or that I worked out from necessity during our cruise.  In short, I’m ready to get a little shop, start a business again and get to making things.

Halyard Toggle Shackle

Simple synthetic halyard toggle shackle. Easy to place and very secure.

In the interest of starting small, a friend suggested that I simply add a sale page to this website, get a credit card app, and sell Dyneema soft shackles and custom-length strops, which I can easily make without a big investment in tools.  From there I could branch out into local rigging, which I’ve already been doing on the side here and there around Newport harbor whenever a friend needs a new mainsheet or halyard spliced.  It got me thinking, though: why not go to the next level and put out the handy toggle shackles I’ve been testing on Ganymede for the last few thousand miles?  Standard Dyneema soft shackles with diamond knots are readily available from West Marine, but my own version—which I find easier to use with cold, wet fingers in the dark—are not.

Toggle on a Strop

A quick toggle on a strop served to raise Ganymede’s mast last fall.

Of course that led to the next thought, that the small supply of wooden toggles I’d made while I still owned a lathe would soon be exhausted, and then what?  The best thing to do would be to have aluminum toggles machined, in sufficient quantities to keep the unit price within reason.  But that would require an investment greater than I could responsibly risk—especially not knowing if I was the only person in the world interested in the endless rigging uses of the toggle.  It seemed that I needed an investor, but who would venture their capital on something so small, especially when the margin for profit will be so slim even if it succeeds?

Peak Halyard Toggle

Old design meets modern materials: our peak halyard toggle.

It took a few days of puzzling it out in circles in my mind before the solution hit me.  I first heard about Kickstarter a year ago while cruising Newfoundland, when Jim Thereal, a local who befriended us and ran me around in his car for some errands, suggested I use it to raise money to write and publish a book about our voyage.  Not that that’s a bad idea, but here was a more immediate use for it: why not see if I could crowdfund the first run of toggled shackles?  If there’s enough interest and contributions to be able to make the first batch of toggles and defray the ancillary expenses of starting up a business, it will be worth the time spent setting up and managing the Kickstarter campaign.  And if we can get Zartman Marine off the ground, there’s a whole bag of neat little gizmos I’d like to eventually develop.  But for now the goal is to raise $10,000; for toggles, Dyneema, shop rent, destruction testing, possible anodizing, business licenses, postage, Kickstarter’s commission, etc. etc.

Jib Halyard Toggle Shackle

Ganymede’s first toggle: the start of it all.

So here it is, dear readers and followers: a chance to be part of it all. Go to Kickstarter to contribute, catch up on progress, or simply to share with anyone you think might be interested.  The pictures are a little rough; the pitch a bit unpolished.  It may seem that a simple aluminum toggle on a bit of line is barely a start to anything at all.  But the day of small beginnings is not to be despised, and who knows where this will all end up?