(Originally published in 2012)
We were enjoying a few moments of elation. The first leg of many on our way down the ICW to Miami was drawing to a conclusion. Here we were finally at the very bottom of the Bay, bidding our fond adieus to the Chesapeake – crabs, gunkholing, “creeks” that dwarfed most of the rivers we had seen up north – our first real cruising ground other than the challenge of cruising and anchoring in the Great Lakes. As we crossed the wide-open waters known as Hampton Roads we had found ourselves face to face with assault rifles and deck-mounted machine guns as a large inflatable navy patrol boat suddenly appeared out of nowhere escorting an incoming submarine. Welcome to the world of post-9-11. That was one for the memory banks. We were booking our way – as much as our 26,000-pound hulk of a boat could possibly book – across that broad stretch of water with the engine roaring. The boat felt good, the engine sounding really solid. I can still see and hear myself leaning over to Annie and smugly boasting, “This is the kind of workout a diesel engine loves!” as if I actually knew what I was talking about.
We were motoring our way up the Elizabeth River, approaching mile marker zero of the ICW – in the heart of Norfolk’s inner harbor. A cruise ship was tied up along the wall on the Norfolk side of the river, not far from the retired battleship U.S.S. Wisconsin. A paddlewheel style riverboat, the Carrie B, was approaching ahead. Other boats were passing helter-skelter all around us, fortunately nothing very close. A sudden change in the pitch of our engine caught my ear. The pitch change lasted only a few seconds before the roar of the engine suddenly stopped completely and we were engulfed by sudden silence. I thought briefly and, in retrospect pretty optimistically, that maybe we had wrapped something around our prop but the engine had stopped really suddenly for it to be that simple. There had been no choking effect – just sudden death. Dead in the water, I hustled up to the bowroller and dropped an anchor – we didn’t need an out-of-control accident in the middle of a busy harbor – before I ran back to the cockpit and made a “securite, securite” call on the VHF:
“Securite, securite, securite. This is the sailboat Fidelis. We are the green and white sailboat dropping anchor in the middle of the channel off Hospital Point in Norfolk harbor. We have lost power and will be attempting to sail our way into the Hospital Point anchorage. Please watch for us and give us room. We have limited control….” or something to that effect.
It was Sunday afternoon and the river was alive with activity. There was a festival of some sort going on over on the Norfolk side of the river with a zillion people out enjoying an absolutely spectacular autumn day. Fortunately most of those people had no idea that we were putting on our own show out in the middle of the river. We had enough breeze moving that I was hopeful we might actually move our big old tub of a boat against whatever current might be present across a few hundred yards of open water back up the river and over to the anchorage area. Apparently our luck wasn’t all bad, as there was a large marina there with a commercial Caterpillarsign above what appeared to be an on-the-water garage of sorts. I could hear it calling our name. The lump in the pit of my stomach was heavy, but I was hopeful that we might find a quick fix to our problem.
Before we set about trying our little sailing exercise I decided to take a quick peak into the engine compartment. I had an ongoing love-hate relationship with our engine compartment. On a CSY 37 the entire cockpit floor is literally a hatch, opening up to make a stand-in engine compartment that measures about four feet square. You can squat down in the engine compartment and literally put your arms around the engine, so engine access is great. This generous access is a less positive factor when there is significant water ingress into the cockpit and you can’t stop it from draining into the engine compartment and from there into the bilge. In this instance, my heart just about stopped, as I couldn’t help but see the writing on the wall. My brief little bubble of optimism was instantly obliterated by stark reality. The engine sump was at least an inch deep in motor oil, and it didn’t take a certified diesel mechanic to see where it came from. Back when we brought Fidelis up to Michigan from the Chesapeake after Annie delivered it from Tortola, we undertook our version of a pretty complete refit. Included in that undertaking was an engine overhaul done by a local diesel shop in Bay City, Michigan on the ancient Perkins 4-108. I thought they had probably done a pretty good job, but, until now, I had never given any thought to the fact that they had installed a plastic capillary tube type oil gauge on the engine – suddenly in retrospect an absolutely silly choice on an engine that would inevitably be subjected to the rigors of life at sea. I could now see the broken end of the plastic tube dangling into the engine sump like a stretched and severed blood vessel, taunting me, where it had been spilling the engine’s lifeblood into the sump, probably at the same time that I had earlier been raving about how much the engine was enjoying our boisterous little romp into the river mouth. Obviously a boisterous romp and a chafing plastic capillary oil tube do not make for a good mix. So, enough of that. Back to business; cry later.
We had the sort of breeze blowing that I hoped would allow us to work our way back up to the anchorage without any major tacking. I unfurled our jib enough to get a feel for what was likely to happen and felt encouraged, so I hauled the anchor aboard and we started our slow slog over toward the far bank and up the river. I made another call on the VHF advising traffic of what I was up to and didn’t hear any derisive responses about some kind of incompetent Sunday sailor, or anything of that sort. Probably nobody paying any attention. Surprisingly, we made pretty good progress under our half a Yankee jib, until we found ourselves out of the mainstream and actually in the anchorage area. We came head-up into the breeze and I let the jib luff as I dropped the hook. Sighs of relief – here we are, Hospital Point, mile marker 0 on the ICW. Big frickin’ deal! So now what?
Welcome to the ICW!
The marina looked pretty dead. Here we were in a strange town, engine shot, unable to continue our trip, unsure of what to do or where to go. We loaded ourselves into the dinghy and went ashore. In spite of it all, there was still an upside. We were literally in the middle of two sizable cities with all of the amenities, the easy access, everything within walking distance, or dinghy distance. Much better than the middle of nowhere. Our distress call had gotten more attention than we thought. As we came ashore we were approached by a couple of people, not just people, but more appropriately, angels. Introductions were made. Wayne and Millie were aspiring Caribbean cruisers and had been aboard their sailboat upriver at a nearby marina when they heard our “securite” call on the VHF and drove their car over to see if they could help out. They stood on shore and watched our little show and were pretty impressed with how we had handled our flirtation with disaster, and how we sailed ourselves over to the safety and protection of the anchorage. And, more than that, understanding the seriousness of our plight, they wanted us to know that whatever we needed, they would be standing by to help us in our hour of need. When disaster strikes, whether major or minor, and it was too soon for me to admit that this wasn’t thatmajor (We didn’t drown or otherwise die and the boat didn’t sink or catch fire, but then we might have just killed our dream… Our heads were still spinning.), what more can you ask for? They invited us to their nearby home for dinner. They offered us the service of their vehicle, no small favor in view of the likelihood that we would probably be needing a new engine. And they offered us their friendship.
When Monday rolled around we had the marina tow us in, and they took us directly into the shop. We met their diesel mechanic. I had a hard time with the fact that he looked like he might not yet be out of high school. Okay, maybe that’s a little harsh, but he was very obviously not the seasoned mechanic I had hoped for. The initial exam however didn’t require a lifetime of diagnostic experience. One little crank attempt on the power take-off shaft with a gigantic screwdriver and the crankshaft wouldn’t turn. Quick answer: dead engine, seized up. Hope dies suddenly – and so do dreams. Now we had some serious thinking to do. A ballpark estimate for repowering took us far up into the five digits range – easily a couple years of our cruising budget. We had a Yanmar in our last boat and loved that quiet, little diesel, but changing power plants involved a lot of other (costly) changes so we quickly ruled that out. I went online looking for another Perkins 4-108. Since the engine was extinct, there was no hope for finding anything new, but would we find anything at all? Another small miracle. Only fifty miles away in White Marsh, right here in northern Virginia, was a company, TransAtlantic Diesels, where they had a whole host of rebuilt Perkins engines. The price for a rebuilt short block was as much as I was expecting to pay for a new engine. Those Brits – Jaguars, Triumphs, Austin Healy’s, MG’s, Rovers – they all cost a mint to own and maintain. I guess a marine Perkins falls into the same category. A day or so later Wayne drove me up U.S.-17 to White Marsh where I paid cash and they loaded the short block into the back of his pickup truck. So much for the easy part…
Annie and I debated over whether we should install the engine ourselves and save several thousand dollars, or should we let Little Timmy (yes, you caught me; sorry if I still sound bitter…) do it. The shop/marina manager admitted to us that his mechanic had never done a complete engine refit. I was concerned. Annie and I had both taken a two-day diesel short course several years prior, but knowing how to change out a fuel injector or fuel filter is a far cry from installing a new engine. On the other hand, how much better job will a rookie mechanic do who has never done it before? Is his lack of experience more qualified than my lack of experience? We checked around for other possible shops. The additional cost of towing and the big question mark regarding their unknown level of expertise versus staying where we already were, left us completely in the dark. We decided to cast our lot with Little Timmy. Ah, but, as the Michael Smith song says “If Only I Knew Then What I Know Now.”
I proceeded to dismantle as many of the engine attachments as I could – gearshift and throttle cables, alternator, motor mounts, etc. and the removal went without a hitch. I still had reservations about our mechanic’s skills compared to my own. My lack of expertise was at least tempered by some common sense and the wisdom of middle age. I began to get concerned when at one point during the installation Little Timmy muttered some words of concern, “I can’t believe how much I’m having to raise these motormounts,” as he was lining up the propeller shaft coupling. I’m sure he had read the book and checked out the step-by-step instructions for aligning a prop shaft, “Get out the feeler gauge and make certain that the gap between transmission coupling and propeller shaft coupling is equal all the way around…” (or in our case, the “V-drive” coupling. Our engine, because it sits in the stern under the cockpit sole, was installed backward. Otherwise we would have had a Perkins 4-108 sitting in the middle of our salon. To accomplish the backward installation, CSY used a “V-drive” which is a transmission or directional torque converter of sorts that is mounted to the transmission at the back of the engine and changes the direction of the thrust. A very short drive shaft attaches the engine transmission to the V-drive, and then the propeller shaft attaches to the V-drive beneath the drive shaft.) I was concerned because the engine mounts had not been disturbed. Nobody had adjusted or changed them. The new engine was supposed to be an exact duplicate of the old one. Common sense told me the motor mounts should not need anything more than just a simple tweak. But I bit my tongue. I shouldn’t have but I did. It was his show, I’d had my chance, and I had passed the torch. When he finished the install, we took Fidelis out for a little jaunt around the inner harbor and it seemed okay. I couldn’t tell much and I certainly had no idea what to look or feel for. Was there more vibration than usual? Maybe. Or maybe it was just my imagination. We had spent a couple weeks and were eager to get along on our way. Thanksgiving was approaching and we were now running so far behind our intended schedule that we just wanted to get further south before we ended up getting snowed in somewhere. It was time to get moving….but, there was more to come – so much more…
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