07-20-2006, 11:57 PM
Many years ago, while still wishing I could afford my own boat to charter, I was asked to help skipper a 60â ketch from Islamorada (Florida Keys) to Port Howe at the south end of Cat Island (Bahamas). This old girl was in pretty good shape, recently repowered with a new diesel, but most everything else was aged, worn and hard to operate. The owner, Philip, found it difficult to work the boat while explaining how the equipment functioned to paid crew and this was a motivator to ask me to help command her on this short trip.
He had two paid hands, Jim and Mitchell. We needed two more and I was familiar the local crew looking for a ride. I talked a fellow who had crewed with me on another yacht, into coming along, but we still needed another to make watches even. Very heavily traveled waters in this part of the world, so maintaining a watch is very necessary or a 700â commercial vessel may run you down in the middle of the night, not knowing theyâd even hit anything.
Time was getting short and Iâd passed on this one person, because his reputation of not being a team player and troublemaker was well known. I talked it over with the owner, who said we didnât have much choice in 24 hours. Against my better judgment, he was invited to stow his gear. We cast off at first light, the following morning.
Beta shift was on deck, alpha relaxing and delta shift trying to rest up as best you can in the early morning. Unless things got ugly, weâd run 4 hours shifts. We didnât anticipate any bad patches, but we could do two hour shifts in any heavy air.
Mick quickly became the red headed stepchild of the boat his reputation was showing. Jim, one of the owners hands, had rode with him before and when alpha took the deck at noon I elected to switch my slot with his, partly to keep an eye on Mick, hopefully to smooth over the feather ruffling.
A stiff southwesterly had brought over the sea breeze from the gulf, which was colliding with the sea breeze from the east coast of Florida. Cumulous development was on the horizon and a thunderstorm was likely later in the day. Shortly after beta came on deck, the storm rolled in. Alpha lent a hand with two reefs and a headsail change, but it wasnât a big storm. Below, Mick was telling yarns of terrific gales heâd survived, each of us secretly wishing he hadnât.
Being an odd looking man, canvassed with tattoos and an interest in fighting, arguing and being a disagreeable sort, Mick was what many would think a true sailorâs sailor. He seemed the type that would have difficulty in whatever vocation he selected.
The evening and early morning saw light winds, we motored a bit. The diesel hummed nicely to midday when the winds freshened. A fat, long swell was running in from the Atlantic and this beam reach was some of the best sailing of the ride thus far. The wind began to clock around; we jibed the boat to keep the now southeasterly on our quarter and hovered over the radio for the next weather broadcast. Alpha shift changed the genoa down to the number 2 and dogged the outhauls tighter. The forecast was deteriorating, but force 4 and building isnât worth getting excited about. The front should move through by midnight and we probably be motoring at daybreak again.
The Bermudian high that usually dominates the weather pattern this time of year, decided to slide a little farther east then normal that evening, stalling the low pressure area a few hundred miles off our starboard rail. It was a wet night. Delta changed down to the working jib and tucked a reef in the main, but all was well. It would have to pass eventually. At first light the rain stopped, but the wind was still gusty, so the mizzen was handed.
We had crossed the banks and now were working our way around the south end of the Andros Islands, looking at a nasty beat for the last 50 plus miles to Cat Island. Philip and the new guy Rob, were looking a touch green, so at my suggestion we changed course to keep Great Exuima close to port. We could beam or close reach our way in, because the wind was still coming around to easterly. These are shoal waters, filled with uncharted coral heads, rocks, ledges, bars and wrecks. Iâd split these two islands before, so had Philip and Jim, keeping our concerns to ourselves.
Winds now required a second reef in the main, but things looked to be breaking up and the weather broadcast was promising. That night the winds backed to the south a touch, easing the battering the boat was providing its crew and the gusts were subsiding. Mitchell and I were taking the deck at 8 a.m. after Jim and Rob had shaken out the reefed main and hoisted the mizzen, when a sudden bump on the starboard side, shook the alpha crew from their bunks.
This bump wasnât loud, nor did it knock off much way. We were a little puzzled, talked about maybe a whale or other big fish hitting her belly. The boat was doing 7 knots and didnât drop below 5, before accelerating back to 7 again. Philip and Mick were now on deck and I let Jim have the helm while I check the sounder (1).
Sure, it was shallow, but about what it was suppose to be, 15 miles to leeward of Exuima. The chart showed nothing of real interest, we just hit something that was floating or swimming.
Two hours pass and the wind looses most of its breath. The 150 is barely staying full, so the engine is cranked up for lunchtime. This is when Mick notices water in the walkway along side the engine room heading to the aft cabin, which is the lowest point of the interior sole.
A leak that takes two hours to notice is cause for alarm, but no panic. The boat isnât going to sink, at least not right away. Mitchell and I start lifting floorboards to find the leak. No luck, just lots of water, where I discover this ketch has a pretty deep, built down hull shape, with over 3 feet of bilge before the top of the ballast. Damn, not good news, this means thereâs a lot more water aboard then we realize. I ask Philip what the boat speed is and itâs a knot slower then it should be.
Aboard were two hand pumps and two electric pumps, which Iâm now close enough to hear running continuously. Rob and Mick start the manual pumps, while Mitchell and I continue to look for the leak. I can hear water rushing in, but canât see it. Itâs under the oilskin locker. Philip inspects the source of the leaking sound and I use a fire ax to cut the grating from the floor of the locker. Weâve been holed.
A neatly bashed in plank end, directly on a butt block, what bad luck, making a 1 inch wide, 6 inch long gash in the bilge of this old gal. Jim reports the speed has dropped off another knot and has throttled up to full. A quickened pace develops around the cabin to find things to jam in the hole. Cushions, towels, PFDâs, a sack of dirty cloths, just about anything we had on hand. Itâs wedged in with a boat hook and two halves of a broken mizzen boom, braced against the engine room panel (2).
We havenât touched the water level in the boat yet and itâs now ankle deep in the main cabin. I send Jim and Mitchell to relieve the crew on the manual pumps, while I discuss options with Philip, just to hear Mick yelling about not leaving his pump. Great, itâs not the time to be a butthead, let him stroke the thing if he wants (3).
I decide to try the raw water intake, but draw water from the bilge directly, after Philip shows me the access plate right over top of the raw water intake thru hull, in the sole. Now weâre cooking with gas and moving some big hunks of water out of the boat. Mick and Mitchell take a break on the manual pumps. We all start to feel a little easier about the situation, as the water gets below the cabin sole for the first time in a few hours. Philip cooks up cans of soup and we relax around the singing diesel spewing the Caribbean Sea out of the bilge (4).
Just as order comes to the crew and bragging about how many more strokes per minute Mick was doing to Robâs effort, a distinct odor begins to fill the cabin, followed by smoke. Within minutes, lots of smoke is billowing out of every port, hatch and crevice, so much that itâs hard to stay below. I send everyone on deck to prepare survival gear (5) while Mick (who insists) and I look below. Its wood, we can smell a wood fire and it has to be from the engine room.
The access panel we used to brace the boat hook and mizzen bits against is on fire, likely against the engine manifold. We douse it with an extinguisher and run up on deck (6). Philip confirms the panel is on the manifold side of the engine. The smoke dies some, then comes back. Philip, Mick and I go below and the whole of the starboard side of the engine room wall is now burning. This is a problem, as we need that wall to hold our hull breach repair in place.
Philip mans the radio for some help (7) while Mick and I use up the remaining fire extinguishers. We get back to the aft cabin and open the butterfly hatch, which cause the fire to flare up the back wall of the engine room. Weâre in deep do do and Mick suggests we fight the fire with the raw water wash down. He rigs it up and takes the first swings at the fire, as Iâm up on deck catching my breath. Mitchell and Jim are back on the pumps, Philip is steering, Mick is making progress against the fire, which is running around the perimeter walls of the engine room for some reason. Rob, the brawn of the outfit when we left the Keys, has taken on a ghastly coat of white and is visibly shaking. I canât ask him to do anything except act as look out (8)
I try to relieve Mick at the hose and he will not give up the fight. Heâs burned his hands, neither of us has eye brows or arm hair any more and weâre having a very difficult time breathing. I have to wrestle him off the hose and get him on deck. Rob takes the helm and Philip and I fight the fire, which Mick has all but licked.
The fire lasted 20 minutes, consumed most of the starboard companionway bulkhead, forward, aft and port engine room walls and heavily damaged its starboard wall. The port pilot berth framing, cabinet and locker fell to it as well.
A half hour later, the ugliest, beat to death fishing boat, Iâve ever seen, pulled along side. We managed the remaining 20 miles to Port Howe under power, but shepherded by his little trawler.
What generally happens in these types of events is a cascade of errors, mistakes or problems. Alone these may not threaten the boat, but totaled, or in a specific sequence, youâre in a world of hurt.
(1) Always check the boat for damage in the event of a collision, even if it seems minor. I didnât.
(2) Make sure what you may do, doesnât cause other problems. Wedging the hull breach closed with the boat hook was a good idea, but we should have checked the panel to see if it would caused a problem.
(3) The person you think least likely to stand up in a difficult situation, may be just the one you truly need in the battle. No one wanted this guy, no one liked him, but he stayed at the pumps while others rested, thought of a way to fight the fire and stood in there until he was badly burned. I wouldnât take him out again as crew, but was very glad he was there that day.
(4) Donât pat yourself on the back until youâre ashore and safe. Itâs easy to get beaten by over confidence. If it can go wrong, it just might.
(5) Break out the survival gear right away, you can always put it back.
(6) A fire isnât out unless you can place your bare hand on whatever was burning comfortably.
(7) We had an emergency and didnât declare it, until it was just about too late to save the ship. Donât let pride get in the way of asking for assistance.
(8) Know the crew. People react differently to stress, especially if you ass is on the line or think it may be. Let them handle it their way, unless it becomes a new problem to deal with. Get everyone doing something. It keeps their minds active and focused on a task. Which is better then dwelling about meeting Davie Jones up close and personal.
He had two paid hands, Jim and Mitchell. We needed two more and I was familiar the local crew looking for a ride. I talked a fellow who had crewed with me on another yacht, into coming along, but we still needed another to make watches even. Very heavily traveled waters in this part of the world, so maintaining a watch is very necessary or a 700â commercial vessel may run you down in the middle of the night, not knowing theyâd even hit anything.
Time was getting short and Iâd passed on this one person, because his reputation of not being a team player and troublemaker was well known. I talked it over with the owner, who said we didnât have much choice in 24 hours. Against my better judgment, he was invited to stow his gear. We cast off at first light, the following morning.
Beta shift was on deck, alpha relaxing and delta shift trying to rest up as best you can in the early morning. Unless things got ugly, weâd run 4 hours shifts. We didnât anticipate any bad patches, but we could do two hour shifts in any heavy air.
Mick quickly became the red headed stepchild of the boat his reputation was showing. Jim, one of the owners hands, had rode with him before and when alpha took the deck at noon I elected to switch my slot with his, partly to keep an eye on Mick, hopefully to smooth over the feather ruffling.
A stiff southwesterly had brought over the sea breeze from the gulf, which was colliding with the sea breeze from the east coast of Florida. Cumulous development was on the horizon and a thunderstorm was likely later in the day. Shortly after beta came on deck, the storm rolled in. Alpha lent a hand with two reefs and a headsail change, but it wasnât a big storm. Below, Mick was telling yarns of terrific gales heâd survived, each of us secretly wishing he hadnât.
Being an odd looking man, canvassed with tattoos and an interest in fighting, arguing and being a disagreeable sort, Mick was what many would think a true sailorâs sailor. He seemed the type that would have difficulty in whatever vocation he selected.
The evening and early morning saw light winds, we motored a bit. The diesel hummed nicely to midday when the winds freshened. A fat, long swell was running in from the Atlantic and this beam reach was some of the best sailing of the ride thus far. The wind began to clock around; we jibed the boat to keep the now southeasterly on our quarter and hovered over the radio for the next weather broadcast. Alpha shift changed the genoa down to the number 2 and dogged the outhauls tighter. The forecast was deteriorating, but force 4 and building isnât worth getting excited about. The front should move through by midnight and we probably be motoring at daybreak again.
The Bermudian high that usually dominates the weather pattern this time of year, decided to slide a little farther east then normal that evening, stalling the low pressure area a few hundred miles off our starboard rail. It was a wet night. Delta changed down to the working jib and tucked a reef in the main, but all was well. It would have to pass eventually. At first light the rain stopped, but the wind was still gusty, so the mizzen was handed.
We had crossed the banks and now were working our way around the south end of the Andros Islands, looking at a nasty beat for the last 50 plus miles to Cat Island. Philip and the new guy Rob, were looking a touch green, so at my suggestion we changed course to keep Great Exuima close to port. We could beam or close reach our way in, because the wind was still coming around to easterly. These are shoal waters, filled with uncharted coral heads, rocks, ledges, bars and wrecks. Iâd split these two islands before, so had Philip and Jim, keeping our concerns to ourselves.
Winds now required a second reef in the main, but things looked to be breaking up and the weather broadcast was promising. That night the winds backed to the south a touch, easing the battering the boat was providing its crew and the gusts were subsiding. Mitchell and I were taking the deck at 8 a.m. after Jim and Rob had shaken out the reefed main and hoisted the mizzen, when a sudden bump on the starboard side, shook the alpha crew from their bunks.
This bump wasnât loud, nor did it knock off much way. We were a little puzzled, talked about maybe a whale or other big fish hitting her belly. The boat was doing 7 knots and didnât drop below 5, before accelerating back to 7 again. Philip and Mick were now on deck and I let Jim have the helm while I check the sounder (1).
Sure, it was shallow, but about what it was suppose to be, 15 miles to leeward of Exuima. The chart showed nothing of real interest, we just hit something that was floating or swimming.
Two hours pass and the wind looses most of its breath. The 150 is barely staying full, so the engine is cranked up for lunchtime. This is when Mick notices water in the walkway along side the engine room heading to the aft cabin, which is the lowest point of the interior sole.
A leak that takes two hours to notice is cause for alarm, but no panic. The boat isnât going to sink, at least not right away. Mitchell and I start lifting floorboards to find the leak. No luck, just lots of water, where I discover this ketch has a pretty deep, built down hull shape, with over 3 feet of bilge before the top of the ballast. Damn, not good news, this means thereâs a lot more water aboard then we realize. I ask Philip what the boat speed is and itâs a knot slower then it should be.
Aboard were two hand pumps and two electric pumps, which Iâm now close enough to hear running continuously. Rob and Mick start the manual pumps, while Mitchell and I continue to look for the leak. I can hear water rushing in, but canât see it. Itâs under the oilskin locker. Philip inspects the source of the leaking sound and I use a fire ax to cut the grating from the floor of the locker. Weâve been holed.
A neatly bashed in plank end, directly on a butt block, what bad luck, making a 1 inch wide, 6 inch long gash in the bilge of this old gal. Jim reports the speed has dropped off another knot and has throttled up to full. A quickened pace develops around the cabin to find things to jam in the hole. Cushions, towels, PFDâs, a sack of dirty cloths, just about anything we had on hand. Itâs wedged in with a boat hook and two halves of a broken mizzen boom, braced against the engine room panel (2).
We havenât touched the water level in the boat yet and itâs now ankle deep in the main cabin. I send Jim and Mitchell to relieve the crew on the manual pumps, while I discuss options with Philip, just to hear Mick yelling about not leaving his pump. Great, itâs not the time to be a butthead, let him stroke the thing if he wants (3).
I decide to try the raw water intake, but draw water from the bilge directly, after Philip shows me the access plate right over top of the raw water intake thru hull, in the sole. Now weâre cooking with gas and moving some big hunks of water out of the boat. Mick and Mitchell take a break on the manual pumps. We all start to feel a little easier about the situation, as the water gets below the cabin sole for the first time in a few hours. Philip cooks up cans of soup and we relax around the singing diesel spewing the Caribbean Sea out of the bilge (4).
Just as order comes to the crew and bragging about how many more strokes per minute Mick was doing to Robâs effort, a distinct odor begins to fill the cabin, followed by smoke. Within minutes, lots of smoke is billowing out of every port, hatch and crevice, so much that itâs hard to stay below. I send everyone on deck to prepare survival gear (5) while Mick (who insists) and I look below. Its wood, we can smell a wood fire and it has to be from the engine room.
The access panel we used to brace the boat hook and mizzen bits against is on fire, likely against the engine manifold. We douse it with an extinguisher and run up on deck (6). Philip confirms the panel is on the manifold side of the engine. The smoke dies some, then comes back. Philip, Mick and I go below and the whole of the starboard side of the engine room wall is now burning. This is a problem, as we need that wall to hold our hull breach repair in place.
Philip mans the radio for some help (7) while Mick and I use up the remaining fire extinguishers. We get back to the aft cabin and open the butterfly hatch, which cause the fire to flare up the back wall of the engine room. Weâre in deep do do and Mick suggests we fight the fire with the raw water wash down. He rigs it up and takes the first swings at the fire, as Iâm up on deck catching my breath. Mitchell and Jim are back on the pumps, Philip is steering, Mick is making progress against the fire, which is running around the perimeter walls of the engine room for some reason. Rob, the brawn of the outfit when we left the Keys, has taken on a ghastly coat of white and is visibly shaking. I canât ask him to do anything except act as look out (8)
I try to relieve Mick at the hose and he will not give up the fight. Heâs burned his hands, neither of us has eye brows or arm hair any more and weâre having a very difficult time breathing. I have to wrestle him off the hose and get him on deck. Rob takes the helm and Philip and I fight the fire, which Mick has all but licked.
The fire lasted 20 minutes, consumed most of the starboard companionway bulkhead, forward, aft and port engine room walls and heavily damaged its starboard wall. The port pilot berth framing, cabinet and locker fell to it as well.
A half hour later, the ugliest, beat to death fishing boat, Iâve ever seen, pulled along side. We managed the remaining 20 miles to Port Howe under power, but shepherded by his little trawler.
What generally happens in these types of events is a cascade of errors, mistakes or problems. Alone these may not threaten the boat, but totaled, or in a specific sequence, youâre in a world of hurt.
(1) Always check the boat for damage in the event of a collision, even if it seems minor. I didnât.
(2) Make sure what you may do, doesnât cause other problems. Wedging the hull breach closed with the boat hook was a good idea, but we should have checked the panel to see if it would caused a problem.
(3) The person you think least likely to stand up in a difficult situation, may be just the one you truly need in the battle. No one wanted this guy, no one liked him, but he stayed at the pumps while others rested, thought of a way to fight the fire and stood in there until he was badly burned. I wouldnât take him out again as crew, but was very glad he was there that day.
(4) Donât pat yourself on the back until youâre ashore and safe. Itâs easy to get beaten by over confidence. If it can go wrong, it just might.
(5) Break out the survival gear right away, you can always put it back.
(6) A fire isnât out unless you can place your bare hand on whatever was burning comfortably.
(7) We had an emergency and didnât declare it, until it was just about too late to save the ship. Donât let pride get in the way of asking for assistance.
(8) Know the crew. People react differently to stress, especially if you ass is on the line or think it may be. Let them handle it their way, unless it becomes a new problem to deal with. Get everyone doing something. It keeps their minds active and focused on a task. Which is better then dwelling about meeting Davie Jones up close and personal.