Before Heading Out

OK, that was fun.

The head (meaning "toilet," or the onboard bathroom as a whole) has been a bit odoriferous since we moved aboard, even though it hasn't been used since Fall 2009, when the previous owner last closed up the boat for the winter. We certainly haven't used it, since it needs seawater inflow and outflow for flushing, and we'd be flushing directly into the shed. Not recommended. Instead, we take advantage of either the port-o-potty in the yard or the shop bathroom (flush toilet! hot and cold running water!). We tried a few easy fixes for the smell: Sue scrubbed the mildew out of the undersink cabinet and hung an air freshener from a towel bar, but mildew wasn't really the problem, and the sweet-scented cardboard made things worse. Curtis changed one of the toilet hoses, but it was the intake one, carrying seawater only, no yucky stuff. (After this initial experience, he suggested we pay the boatyard to change the other hoses.) In the meantime, with Cilantro's launch date creeping ever closer, it was time for us to confront the smelly beast directly.

So, on Wednesday evening (June 28), we decided to clean, flush, and deodorize the holding tank, toilet, and lines, before driving to Rhode Island the next morning for a visit with Curtis's parents and sister and brother-in-law. “Stink up the place and leave?” Sue asked Curtis. “I guess so,” answered Curtis. In fairness, Mikey was the one who suggested we tackle this before the honey wagon (port-o-potty pumper) arrived on Friday.

The toilet and some of its parts: the blue-handled vertical lever (down next
to the seat) fills and flushes the bowl; the black-handled horizontal shaft
pumps out the holding tank. Valves under the sink open and close the
through-hulls. Another valve (hidden behind the toilet) switches the head
discharge between holding tank and overboard.

For those unfamiliar with a marine head, it is a rather complicated animal. It probably isn't more complicated than a household toilet, but it seems to require more operator care, knowledge, and maintenance, probably because of all the valves that have to be in the right combination of positions in order for your sewage to go where it's supposed to go. Briefly: seawater is manually pumped into the toilet bowl before use, then the toilet is used, and then the bowl is manually pumped out, either into a holding tank or out through the hull (if the boat is three or more miles from shore). The holding tank, which on our boat holds 16 gallons, can also be pumped overboard when offshore, or it can be emptied at a pump-out facility, where a big sucker hose attaches to a deck fitting and vacuums out as much as possible. According to Mikey, however, there's always a layer of solids left in the tank, no matter what you do. Lovely.

Many things can create head issues: incomplete pumping leaves waste in the lines, old hoses clog with paper and other "gifts," permeable hoses (used in older systems or because they are cheaper) let odors pass through, and holding tanks can stagnate. Our head is probably guilty on all counts. This became especially clear after we traced the six running feet of hose connecting toilet to through-hull. That's a lot of pumping to clear the system effectively. People who sail with small children (big paper users) or non-sailing guests (marine head neophytes) are often encouraged to install electric toilets, which can override human error. (Errors related to head operation, that is. Would that other errors were so easily fixed.)

So here's what we did: (1) Sue dragged a 55-gallon garbage can into the shed and positioned it vaguely below the through-hull where the toilet waste exits the boat; (2) Curtis found a 4-foot length of hose to jam into the through-hull and direct the flow into – or at least toward – the garbage can; (3) Curtis tied the hose to several wooden planks on top of the garbage can, to prevent it the free end from waving about like a wild sprinkler when the pumping started; (4) Sue carried a few buckets of water up the ladder and manually pumped them through the toilet into the holding tank, along with a bottle of blue toilet deodorizer provided by Mikey; (5) Sue changed places with Curtis and watched from a safe distance near the shed entrance while (6) Curtis opened the holding tank pump-out valve and manually pumped the holding tank down into the garbage can while (7) Mikey stood below, just close enough, and gave feedback (“Go ahead.” “Whoa, easy there, Curtis.” “It's all just gurry [liquid waste] now.”); (8) Sue dragged a garden hose across the yard and up the ladder to Curtis, who (9) refilled the holding tank with the garden hose, added more bottles of blue deodorizer, and pumped again; (10) repeat step 9; (11) ditto.

Curtis opens the valve to pump out the holding tank.

The first pump-out was rank. Stinko. Putrid. Mikey brought over a giant standing fan and set it in the shed doorway. His wife Charlotte came down from the over-the-shop apartment and asked, “What's that smell?” Charlotte's sister Paula walked by and asked politely, “Are you guys doing some cleaning?” The offending air wafted about like flatulence from an elephant.

The second pump-out was a teensy bit better, but still gag-worthy. People stopped asking questions. Charlotte left for town to run errands. Paula discreetly disappeared. Fortunately, it was past six o'clock, and most of the employees had clocked out and gone home. Fortunately, too, the odor began to dissipate.

The third and fourth pump-outs consisted of mostly water and blue toilet chemical. Mikey walked around spritzing the ground with Odor Go, which made things smell like baby powder. We liked that. By the time we went to bed, the air was clear (or maybe our olfactory senses had habituated?). The next morning, we glanced at the half-filled barrel, found a lid to cover our sins, and left for the weekend.

"Who Needs Yoga If You Have a Boat"

Sue is always trying to get Curtis to do more yoga. Curtis likes the idea, and admits he had few or no back and neck issues the year we faithfully attended a weekly 2-hour yoga class. But, left to his own devices, he's unlikely to commit to more than a few sun salutations and downward dogs a day. Sue isn't much better, and would rather just go for a long walk.

Twisting-insert-head-and-shoulder-inside-
narrow-cabinet-to-reach-seacock pose.

Enter: boat ownership. Move over, Yoga Vida and Yoga Oasis. We are currently discovering (inventing?) new poses daily. Hourly.

Downward dog, you say? We recommend downward-inspect-anchor-chain-locker. Tree pose? Now known as remove-shoes-at-top-of-ladder-while-carrying-bucket pose. Cow pose variation: crawl-into-quarterberth-to-spray-Moldex-around-perimeter. Half moon hand-vacuum-cleaner-over-side-rail-to-ladder-person pose. Standing forward bend-double-to-extract-adult-beverage-from-refrigerator-depths pose. Port-o-potty pose. Sacked-out (corpse) pose.

Side-stretch-across-stove-and-garbage-
to-install-washdown-pump pose.

Full-length-of-arm-inside-
water-tank pose.

Curtis is right.

Squid!

Sue was coming back from taking a shower in the boatyard shop building the other evening when she heard a loud squawk. She looked up to see a large gull (a great black-backed) hassling an osprey that was carrying food back to its nest. Great black-backeds, like many gulls, are incorrigible food stealers and will harass pelicans, other gulls, seabirds, and raptors into giving up their precious fish or gooey shellfish treats.

Common or Longfin Squid

Sure enough, this particular osprey let go its dinner, which dropped about fifty feet, bounced off a carport roof, and splatted down in the gravel yard. Sue wandered over, towel and toiletries in hand, curious to see what kind of fish might be found in these parts. Not a fish! In the gravel was a 10-inch purplish, translucent squid, with 2- to 3-inch arms and a pair of squat, triangular fins near the tail. A large silvery eye looked up at Sue. She called to Curtis to come see, and Mikey (the boatyard owner) came over too.

Mikey lifted the squid gently, and we all took a closer look (and feel). The underside of the tentacles felt sharply rough like a rasp. A small, dark-colored beak was hidden among them. One tentacle still flexed weakly, but the creature was missing an eye, and there were tatters of skin hanging from its body where the osprey's talons had pierced it. Purple ink dripped from its arms.

According to Wikipedia, squid have two true tentacles (bearing barbed suckers), along with eight other arms. They move by means of jet propulsion, drawing water in through a siphon and expelling it forcefully to "shoot" themselves in the opposite direction. Squid evolved from mollusks and at some point lost their protective shells, although a remnant of the shell persists in the form of the "pen," an internal piece of chitin that functions like a backbone. When threatened, squid release a cloud of dark ink to confuse predators. Their skin is covered with chromatophores that let them change color quickly to match their surroundings. Their eyes are very sophisticated and function similarly to those of humans, except that they move their lenses forward and backward to focus the image rather than reshaping the lenses as we do.

Longfin Squid (Loligo pealeii); photo by Roger Hanlon,
Marine Biological Laboratory, Woods Hole, MA

Mikey said a local fisherman told him that squid will glide like stealth torpedoes beneath a school of small fish and periodically -- and sometimes in formation -- explode upward with lightning speed, grab a fish, and then sink back down to devour it in the murky depths. He carried our damaged creature down to the shore at the launch ramp and tried to revive it, holding his fingertip against the beak and sliding the animal back and forth in the shallows, but it was too far gone. "Dinner for someone else," said Mikey as he pushed it gently toward deeper water.

Here! (Where?)

In Maine. At Bittersweet Landing Boatyard. In a plastic-tented shed. Up a 10-foot ladder. On Cilantro!

Sue did not expect that her first time staying on the boat would feel like living in a treehouse, but that's what climbing a 10-foot ladder many times a day will do to you. Sue: Where's my coffee cup? Rats! Down in the yard. Curtis: Have you seen the tape measure? Yup. Up in the cockpit. Sweatshirt? Rental car. Grocery list? Somewhere in the boat. Sigh.

These first few days have been filled with cleaning, shopping, list-making, and re-familiarizing ourselves with the boat. Curtis has tackled replacing older incandescent lamps with power-saving LED types. He has also been measuring for (and consternating over) where to mount solar panels. Sue has filled the galley cabinets with plastic bins and kitchen equipment. She has also masked off the portlights (windows, for you landlubbers) and cleaned and polished the bronze frames. We have been opening expensive packages and gazing at a new engine propeller, autopilot, and radar system. Do we know what to do with any of them?

Mikey and Charlotte, owners of Bittersweet, have been very kind and welcoming, including letting us use the shop shower after hours and the microwave for our Starbucks instant coffee. With luck, we may get to go sailing on another Pacific Seacraft this weekend, with our "shed neighbor" Bob Steneck. (His boat sits next to ours over the winter.) That would be a fantastic introduction to the Maine seacoast and Pacific Seacraft.

One thing we do not have much of in South Bristol is Internet access, so we haven't been able to upload photos to the blog from Sue's camera or laptop. Sue is typing this post by hunt-and-peck on the iPad, which has an intermittent 3G cellular signal.

But we are very glad to be here in beautiful Maine!

Leaving Arizona, with One Small Casualty

Lists and more lists

Check-in at the Tucson International Airport went smoothly, including handing over our four suitcases weighing in at 51.0, 51.5, 51.5, and 48.0 pounds. Apparently there is some tolerance built into the 50-pound weight limit, because we did not have to pay. This left us with a 35-pound rolling carry-on and 3 computer cases. No sweat! The carry-on was the final bag we had packed, and as such, it had become a repository for last-minute items, as well as binoculars and video camera, which we did not trust to the vagaries of baggage handling. Curtis had roamed the house collecting hand tools and hardware we might need on the boat, while Sue had updated her multiple lists and jigsaw-ed the new treasures into the carry-on's nooks and crannies. She forgot about the Transportation Security Administration rules.

Sue waits while the bag takes a third trip through X-ray

Going through security, this carry-on traveled back and forth through the X-ray machine as the TSA screener squinted at it. Eventually the bag was pulled for manual inspection, and Sue sat beside a metal table while a very nice man rummaged through the contents and "sniffed" the bag for traces of explosives. Binocular cases opened and checked. OK. Hard plastic swim mask. OK. Day-Glo orange ratchet tie down straps and hooks. Interesting but OK. Sewing kit. Sewing kit? Window putty spreader. Hmm. The screener held it against his official length-checker (Just at the limit), twanged the blade with his gloved hands, and waved it at his supervisor. Fine. Red plastic case full of drill bits. Uh-uh. Uh-oh.

Curtis groaned. All those sharp drill bits and chamfer bits. Why they were axed and the putty spreader sailed through was a bit of a mystery to us. The friendly TSA man offered us the three usual choices: check the bits as a fifth piece of luggage for 50 dollars (go through security again), FedEx them to ourselves (go through security again), or move on. We relinquished the bits. It was 5:45 a.m. Now boarding.

Non-Cruising Kitty

The one big change we made to our "family" before leaving was to find a new home for our cat, Little Dude. Sue worried for months that no one would take an 11-year-old cat, even one with a great temperament and no bad habits. Of course, cats can and do go cruising -- you can read about the adventures of Jezebel on Sarana (svsarana.com). The Dude has always been a patient sitter of mouse (and lizard) holes, so he could be a useful crew member on a boat with critters. And he was honing his navigation skills, as you can see. But alas, Curtis is allergic to the Dude, and sharing the close quarters of Cilantro would be a recipe for near-constant headaches.

Fortunately, Sue found a wonderful family to adopt Little Dude as their sole cat. He now has two responsible caregivers (ages 11 and 16), plus a veritable menagerie to keep track of. So, although we miss the little guy, we like to imagine him in his new "digs": warily eyeing the two (outdoor) dogs through the patio door, ignoring the slow-moving turtles and tortoise, glancing occasionally at the fish tank, and staring intently at the dwarf hamster cage, waiting for the tiny rodent to escape and start running.

Approaching Departure

As we batten down and pack up in preparation for flying to the East Coast on June 14th, lists and to-dos rattle around in our brains like beans in a rainstick. Forward mail. Unplug electronics. Turn off water. Take in hummingbird feeders. And urgent questions pop up quite randomly -- in the shower, or lying awake at two a.m. Will Sue remember to pack the camera charger and the navigation tools? Should we bring our passports in case we get a wild hair to sail to the Maritimes? Will Curtis tie up loose ends at work or will he bring multiple laptops on the plane? How will our new medical insurance work? Should we suspend our satellite TV and Internet services for the summer? Does Southwest Airlines truly let you check two 50-pound bags each, for free, plus the usual carry-ons?

The lists of what we need are long and messy and seem to be growing at both ends and in the middle: Sue suddenly remembers insect repellent, Curtis retrieves his lens cleaning supplies, Sue adds a pocket thermometer to the pile, Curtis suggests we take our pillows. We seem to need one (or two) of everything, minus the kitchen sink. (Cilantro has a very nice double sink.) Sue is uncomfortable traveling with all this stuff. After all, she thinks, this is supposed to be a few months of coastal cruising, not a circumnavigation. 

But “setting up house” on Cilantro requires many items we wouldn't normally include on a weekend kayak trip or visits to friends or family. Heavy, hardcover tomes such as The Annapolis Book of Seamanship and Boatowner's Mechanical and Electrical Manual. Yoga mats. Foul weather gear and fleeces (summer in Maine!). Equipment manuals and boat documentation. Rigging knives (Sue doesn't yet know what to do with hers -- fend off stingrays?). A copy of The Secret Life of Lobsters. LED headlamps. Lightweight tripod for video camera. Extra pairs of glasses and sunglasses. Galley tools and spices. A seafood cookbook. 

As packing proceeds, a small mountain of Cordura-on-wheels is growing in our hallway:

• large rolling suitcase
• medium rolling suitcase
• long rolling duffel
• 2nd long rolling duffel
• rolling carry-on
• 2nd rolling carry-on
• computer bags (two)

Add to that a big box to ship via US Mail. This all adds up to significantly more than we ever take when we travel. In fact, although we like to think of ourselves as minimalists – simple clothes, home-cooked food, mostly bare walls, an orderly garage, no self-storage – that might turn out to be a myth we have cultivated for too long. If we were driving cross-country instead of flying, Curtis admits we would probably stuff the car to the headliner and call ourselves “Family of Twenty-Six on Vacation.” Viva maximalism!