Short Story
Your dinghy is the only way off the boat short of swimming. Do not skimp.
Long Story
Our first opportunity to prove ourselves and our dinghy mojo came in San Simeon as we travelled down the West Coast. We failed miserably. It wasn't just embarrassing. We made a costly mistake, lost some valuable gear, and nearly decapitated our youngest. It was not a good time had by all. However, dumping our dinghy in the surf early in our Pacific career taught us a very valuable lesson in caution and the value of appropriate equipment for the dinghy. Before you consider cutting corners, remember this important relationship: car is to house as dinghy is to boat. Unless you want to remain housebound throughout your entire cruising life, I strongly encourage thoughtful and copious investment in a quality launch.
Size Matters -- As with an anchor, invest in a dinghy at least one size larger than the directions on the package call for. Don Quixote carries a rigid inflatable which is rated for eight people. We have five. That's about right. We discuss whether or not we'd want a smaller dinghy were it just the two of us, and frankly, neither of us is convinced. A ten foot dinghy for a couple is essentially like owning a minivan or an SUV as a couple. You don't really need it all the time, but when you need to haul something around, it's very nice to have.
Power Up -- It probably goes without saying that a bigger dinghy needs a bigger motor. This is another place you do not want to skimp on either size or quality. When you consider a motor, put it on your dinghy, load up your entire crew plus two bags of groceries, laundry or garbage. If you can plane, the motor is big enough. If you can not, keep looking. Have a mechanic look it over from top to bottom to make sure there are no hidden gotchas. Outboards are pretty easy to maintain, but you want to start with one in very good shape. If you are cruising down to Mexico, I recommend Yamaha motors only because they are absolutely everywhere so finding parts and a mechanic are very easy.
It's Nice to Stay Dry -- Some landings and traverses are going to be drier than others. Equip your dinghy with at least one dry bag. We also recommend a Pelican Case for transporting your computer.
Keep It Together -- When you flip your dinghy -- and you will someday, some place, in some swell -- everything is going to want to escape into the depths. Create a simple clipping system to tie down your dry bag(s) and cases. It doesn't hurt to also have a quick and easy way to nail your shoes into the boat though the ubiquitous presence of Crocs down here pretty much assures your footwear will float. You might have to go swimming, but you'll recover your goods.
Night Lights -- We've seen a few dinghies with really nice navigation lights, usually mounted on the motor. While I like these, you don't have to get that fancy. You do, however, want to have at least a flash light or head lamp for after dark passages. Don't tell me you won't have your dink out at night. We all lose track of the time over sundowners and suddenly realize that the sun is actually down, we're more than a bit snookered, and our boat home is over there in a westerly direction… I think. Use the light to keep other launches from smacking into you as well as a tool to find your own boat. For ideas on how to make your boat uniquely visible at night with a flashlight, see my article on anchor lights.
Tie It Down -- Do not underestimate the power of your dinghy to spontaneously launch itself off a cleat and wander around the anchorage. We use both a strong primary painter which we monitor assiduously for chafe as well as a secondary chunk of line. Double tying the dinghy at night has a secondary advantage in that it makes it a wee bit harder to steal.
Security System -- It's not as dangerous out here as folks might lead you to believe, but of all the types of crime you might be exposed to while traveling, the most probable is "dinghy ransom." You wake up one morning to find your dinghy has miraculously come out of its two ties and moved upwind and across a bar into the care of a very friendly local who will charge you a 300 peso tip to give it back. I've seen several ways to discourage this type of blackmail. Some cruisers actually lift their dinghy on davits or with their main halyard up the side of the boat at night. Others like ourselves cable the dinghy to the boat and the motor to the dinghy. Another creative way to prevent theft is to paint your motor entertainingly obnoxious colors and mark up your dinghy so that it's resale value is minimal.
Wheels Rock -- Retractable dinghy wheels are a hugely valuable addition to your dinghy. They enable a single adult to relatively easily move a large heavy dinghy and motor from the surf up the beach and out of the tide line. A secondary benefit is that as you move into the shallow water, dinghy wheels can partially protect your prop since by the time it's shallow enough to eat your prop, your wheels are hitting the bottom. Without reservation, I recommend getting your dinghy wheels from DaNard Wheels. In addition to an awesome product, he provides unparalleled customer support. The guy is fantastic.
Hoisting System -- In the northwest, folks often just drag their dinghy around. You don't really see that as much once you head out. The distances you travel are long enough that the loss of efficiency is a big problem, and it's simply dangerous to drag a dink in big wave or swell. So you'll need a simple and highly functional method to move your boat from its secure "passage position" into the water with its motor. An infrequently mentioned yet obvious advantage to catamarans is that you can easily put davits on the back of the boat and haul the dinghy up between the hulls. We've seen similar systems on monohulls with wide afts, and there isn't really any question that davits are the easiest solution. However, I've seen many clever methods to use halyards and lines to quickly move the dinghy from deck to water and back again. Ideally as a safety measure, you'll be able to do this procedure single-handed. I like our boom extender for moving the motor, however it requires two people. Our "next boat" will have a method for me to splash or haul the dink and motor without aid.
* * *
Our dinghy system isn't perfect, but it has served us well for nearly two years. Frankly, our only real problem with Rocinante is our eldest daughter. Watching her zoom around the anchorage makes me dread the looming challenge of teaching her how to operate a car. Ugh. Teenage drivers.
Showing posts with label safety. Show all posts
Showing posts with label safety. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
TechTip: Night Lights
Short Answer: Supplement your LED masthead anchor light with reflective tape and sidewalk lights.
Long Story: When you live on a boat, you start to count every amp and erg and become quite resentful of energy hogging devices. In this category, the masthead anchor light is a surprising pig. By law and necessity, these lamps are very bright – at least 60 lumens for the average sail boat. An incandescent bulb will draw .8 to 2 amps per hour while an expensive LED variety will pull roughly .1 to .5 amps per hour. Translated, you'll burn through 8 to 20 amp hours a day with an incandescent anchor light or 1 to 5 with an LED. To put that into context, your average solar panel set up is only going to yield 8 to 13 amps an hour during the hottest part of the day. So the first and most obvious tip regarding the masthead anchor light is to switch to LED the next time you fly the mast. As a side note, this will probably take two trips: the first to figure out precisely what kind and size bulb you have, the second to install the new one.
But there are additional considerations when contemplating lighting your boat at night. First, can you find your boat by starlight amongst all the other similar white hulls? Second, will your lights go on automatically when it gets dark? Third, it is useful to know that pangueras do not look up. If your boat isn't lit at the water line, there's a good chance a panga will hit it.
We address all three concerns using very cheap, light-sensitive, solar-powered sidewalk lights. DrC installed mounts made of PVC and zipties on all four corners of the boat. As soon as we drop anchor, the girls drop the lights into their mounts. Our distinctive four orange points make Don Quixote easy to find and to see at night. They are so lightweight, we make a point of removing them while underway. They also do double duty as amber night lights on night passages as we stick them head down around the salon and heads.*
Another trick used by many Mexican cruisers including ourselves is to hang a high-powered LED light from the mid-boom. The law in many anchorages south of the border is not quite as strict regarding the use of an anchor light. Low power, high lumen lights closer to the deck replace high power mast lights on many boats. A little extra money and you can find solar-powered, light-sensitive models. Just don't forget to take these boom lights down before you put up the sail. And remember, you can't use them exclusively as anchor lights in the States or some highly trafficked international ports.
A final suggestion from the Don Quixote files is reflective tape. DrC placed highly reflective, silver tape strips just below the toe rails, on the transom steps, and at intervals up the mast. You can't really see the strips against the white hull and aluminum mast during the day. However, at night you need only sweep a small head lamp or flashlight in our direction and the shape of the whole boat lights up. We've repeated the treatment with our dinghy on the notion that you can never be too visible at night to passing traffic.
Note: It appears that West Marine now has a little solar sidewalk light complete with rail mount for which you will pay $49.99/each. Don't do it. Just get out your saw blade, some zip ties, and a length of PVC, and go to town.
Friday, July 24, 2009
I Told You So
Remember when I wrote recently about how we cruisers have nothing to fear except fear itself... and perhaps swimming pools? You have no idea how prescient that article feels in retrospect.
It all started with a simple idea. Let's take the van for a trial camping run down to El Burro to meet up with other cruisers to celebrate the July 4 holiday. For many years, cruising boats have rallied in El Burro to share food, friendship, and fireworks on that most American of holidays. The trip would enable us to test our gear, work on adapting kitty to van life, and provide a nice relief to the monotony of dock life in Santa Rosalia.
Our first life threatening experience came on the trip down. We bought a van in La Paz, and DrC spent a few days during his last week with us shlepping down there on a bus and driving it back. He warned me that sometimes, “When you're at idle at a stop sign, the engine dies.” He didn't seem to feel it was a big problem, and neither of us thought too much about it. You can always just start the engine again when the light changes. Right?
Wrong. What if you're not at a stop light when the light changes? What if you're coasting down a very narrow, twisty mountain road with a 200 foot drop to the beach below and a large, gas freight truck behind you? What if when the engine dies, you discover that the reason they call it Power steering and Power brakes is that you need Power to make these crucial features work? Standing on the brake pedal and wrenching the wheel over a half inch, I was able to drift out of the way of the truck and onto a very thin shoulder on the opposite side of the road. The girls prairie dogged up from their books to ask me what was wrong as I hyperventilated by the side of the road, wondering if 42 was too young for a brain aneurysm triggered by a grand mal heart attack. “Nothing girls, no worries.” The van just tried to kill us. It's okay. Nothing to see here.
For the remaining 10 miles to El Burro, I slowed at the top of every hill, popped the van into neutral, and revved the engine all the way down while braking with my left foot. My heart rate was approximately 120 bbm for the duration, and I arrived in El Burro looking and feeling very much as though I'd seen back to back showings of Aliens and the Blair Witch project, every hair standing on end, covered in cold sweat, and knees liquid. But El Burro represented safety and cruiser brotherhood. I knew that somewhere in that fleet I would find succor in the form of tools, knowledge, and testosterone. And true enough, the next day Bob of s/v Panterra used some engine conditioner and a little elbow grease to get us functional.
Now when it comes to indicting land life, I don't it's fair to include the many mayo and egg based salads and pastas served at room temperature with artery inducing hot dogs at the party. I mean, that doesn't really count, right? That's just the standard American diet on July 4, and we can't hold that against the land world. Similarly, I will disqualify the heat – over 100 for two days with no air conditioner, fan, or pool. However, I think we can peg Land with the failed cooler, the dog pack, and the mosquitoes. Land also must take responsibility for the sand in my panties, the splinters in Aeron's feet, and the complete lack of potty facilities. However, it was the fireworks display that provided proof positive that Land is dangerous.
When you watch fireworks on a boat, they go off over there. Over the water over there. Not here, in other words. The fireworks in El Burro went off here. In fact, the firework-setter-offer-people reprised a classic Wily Coyote cartoon complete with an initially unimpressive few pops and whistles and bursts followed by a spectacular Acme-worthy display of lights, color and sound as a spark dropped into the fireworks box. There were rockets going off in every direction, igniting palapas, whizzing past peoples' legs and under chairs, shooting under the gas tanks of cars, and blasting into the crowd. People were running and screaming, dogs were howling, my cat disappeared. Miraculously, no one was hurt. Oddly, there were drunk cruisers asking, “Where's the rest of the fireworks?” after the mayhem was brought under control.
The drive back was comparatively uneventful. We dodged a bull found unexpectedly in the middle of the highway, stalled the car on the way through Mulege, and almost lost our rear view mirror to a Tecate truck above Santispac. The cat alternated between meowing in my ear and climbing on to the steering wheel and sticking her butt in my face. To prevent further stall outs, we left the air conditioning off, and it was a mere 102 on our arrival back at the boat.
In over a year, I've felt our lifestyle put us harm's way only once. In 48 hours on land I felt like my life and those of my cat and children were in serious, life threatening peril three times. We were consistently uncomfortable and always on edge. So please do not talk to me about how dangerous the cruising life is. No more stories about lost yachts, pirates, attacks on tourists, rolling waves of viral badness, or shark attacks.
My boat is safe. Land is dangerous. In fact, Land Sucks.
It all started with a simple idea. Let's take the van for a trial camping run down to El Burro to meet up with other cruisers to celebrate the July 4 holiday. For many years, cruising boats have rallied in El Burro to share food, friendship, and fireworks on that most American of holidays. The trip would enable us to test our gear, work on adapting kitty to van life, and provide a nice relief to the monotony of dock life in Santa Rosalia.
Our first life threatening experience came on the trip down. We bought a van in La Paz, and DrC spent a few days during his last week with us shlepping down there on a bus and driving it back. He warned me that sometimes, “When you're at idle at a stop sign, the engine dies.” He didn't seem to feel it was a big problem, and neither of us thought too much about it. You can always just start the engine again when the light changes. Right?
Wrong. What if you're not at a stop light when the light changes? What if you're coasting down a very narrow, twisty mountain road with a 200 foot drop to the beach below and a large, gas freight truck behind you? What if when the engine dies, you discover that the reason they call it Power steering and Power brakes is that you need Power to make these crucial features work? Standing on the brake pedal and wrenching the wheel over a half inch, I was able to drift out of the way of the truck and onto a very thin shoulder on the opposite side of the road. The girls prairie dogged up from their books to ask me what was wrong as I hyperventilated by the side of the road, wondering if 42 was too young for a brain aneurysm triggered by a grand mal heart attack. “Nothing girls, no worries.” The van just tried to kill us. It's okay. Nothing to see here.
For the remaining 10 miles to El Burro, I slowed at the top of every hill, popped the van into neutral, and revved the engine all the way down while braking with my left foot. My heart rate was approximately 120 bbm for the duration, and I arrived in El Burro looking and feeling very much as though I'd seen back to back showings of Aliens and the Blair Witch project, every hair standing on end, covered in cold sweat, and knees liquid. But El Burro represented safety and cruiser brotherhood. I knew that somewhere in that fleet I would find succor in the form of tools, knowledge, and testosterone. And true enough, the next day Bob of s/v Panterra used some engine conditioner and a little elbow grease to get us functional.
Now when it comes to indicting land life, I don't it's fair to include the many mayo and egg based salads and pastas served at room temperature with artery inducing hot dogs at the party. I mean, that doesn't really count, right? That's just the standard American diet on July 4, and we can't hold that against the land world. Similarly, I will disqualify the heat – over 100 for two days with no air conditioner, fan, or pool. However, I think we can peg Land with the failed cooler, the dog pack, and the mosquitoes. Land also must take responsibility for the sand in my panties, the splinters in Aeron's feet, and the complete lack of potty facilities. However, it was the fireworks display that provided proof positive that Land is dangerous.
When you watch fireworks on a boat, they go off over there. Over the water over there. Not here, in other words. The fireworks in El Burro went off here. In fact, the firework-setter-offer-people reprised a classic Wily Coyote cartoon complete with an initially unimpressive few pops and whistles and bursts followed by a spectacular Acme-worthy display of lights, color and sound as a spark dropped into the fireworks box. There were rockets going off in every direction, igniting palapas, whizzing past peoples' legs and under chairs, shooting under the gas tanks of cars, and blasting into the crowd. People were running and screaming, dogs were howling, my cat disappeared. Miraculously, no one was hurt. Oddly, there were drunk cruisers asking, “Where's the rest of the fireworks?” after the mayhem was brought under control.
The drive back was comparatively uneventful. We dodged a bull found unexpectedly in the middle of the highway, stalled the car on the way through Mulege, and almost lost our rear view mirror to a Tecate truck above Santispac. The cat alternated between meowing in my ear and climbing on to the steering wheel and sticking her butt in my face. To prevent further stall outs, we left the air conditioning off, and it was a mere 102 on our arrival back at the boat.
In over a year, I've felt our lifestyle put us harm's way only once. In 48 hours on land I felt like my life and those of my cat and children were in serious, life threatening peril three times. We were consistently uncomfortable and always on edge. So please do not talk to me about how dangerous the cruising life is. No more stories about lost yachts, pirates, attacks on tourists, rolling waves of viral badness, or shark attacks.
My boat is safe. Land is dangerous. In fact, Land Sucks.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
TechTip - It’s All In Your Hands
Short Answer
Get walkie talkies.
Long Version
Let me tell you two True Stories, both which recently took place on Don Quixote on the same memorable night in Squirrel Cove, Desolation Sound. We’ll change the names of the fellow boat as a courtesy.
Story One - Hank of s/v Beautiful Sloop brought his friend Steve on a three week tour of Desolation. Both are very experienced sailors, familiar with these waters. The night was stunningly clear with a light warm breeze. So at twilight Steve got in the tender and went for an evening row. Unbeknownst to the captain, Steve strayed a little too close to a reversing rapid at the head of the cove and was swept inexorably into a salt water lagoon. With no way to get out of the lagoon, Steve settled in to take a brief nap until the tide turned and sent the water rushing back out.
Meanwhile, three hours pass and Hank started to get seriously concerned about his friend. While Steve is in his late 40’s, experienced and in good health, it was pitch dark, a slight breeze was coming up, the temperature was dropping. Steve wasn’t responding to Hank’s increasingly concerned yells. At about midnight, Hank pulled anchor and started around the anchorage seeking assistance from fellow boaters in finding his friend.
Story Two - This is where Don Quixote entered the picture. Hank swung by our boat to ask for help. We rafted up s/v Beautiful Sloop to ready our tender and take Hank on a search into the shallower areas of the cove. In the meantime, a third tender arrived to help Hank. We loaded Hank into the third tender and handed him a walkie talkie. They headed towards the lagoon on the whim of yours truly who guessed that a tender wandering around towards the end of a flood in Squirrel Cove is going to get swept into the lagoon. “Didn’t you read the cruising guide? This happens to people all the time.” Off they went. A second walkie talkie was loaded into our tender along with a medicine kit and a doctor on the chance these would be required. The third handheld stayed on the boat with me where I could use the VHF if necessary to call for additional help.
A few minutes later, Steve hailed Don Quixote. The changing tide had released Steve from the lagoon. He then rowed back to his anchorage only to find his mothership gone. Now he was wandering around looking for s/v Beautiful Sloop. Fortunately, I had her tied to our port and could let Steve know he’d found home. I then got on the walkie talkie to recall our search teams before one of them strayed into a low hanging branch.
Moral of the Story - Buy handhelds. We have a trio of Motorola Talkabout T5000s we picked up at Costco for about $50 a year ago. Until this incident, I had thought of these devices as essentially an electronic leash for children and spouses. The girls take them everywhere. This enables them to go ashore without us, shop in different stores in harbor, head off on errands or to a playground when docked. For this purpose alone, I would recommend them for cruisers. Inevitably, someone will be in the liquor store and another in the laundry mat or grocery store when the question of “What do you want for dinner?” comes up.
However, our experience in Squirrel Cove demonstrates their use as a safety device. Steve and Hank’s inability to communicate did more than cause an uproar in an otherwise quiet anchorage. It resulted in multiple boats wandering around in the dark of night dark looking for someone. Any time a bunch of boats are moving in a small area full of shallow inlets, big rocks, and steep shores in the inky black, you dramatically increase overall negative nautical karma.
Contrariwise, our ability to communicate with our search parties enabled us to prevent a steady, Laurel and Hardy style parade of dinghies going into the lagoon to get the last lost souls who went in there to look for the previous set. Instead, we could call them up and tell them to get their bottom hulls back to us since all was well. Also if Bad Juju had taken place, we could have easily communicated the need for additional gear or a call to the Coast Guard for more troops.
Handhelds are not a substitute for any other form of nautically sanctioned communication device. You still need a VHF, an SSB, and a handheld VHF for your ditch bag. The walkie talkies, however, give you an easy, cheap, and painless way to keep track of all your errant crew in the best of times and the worst of times.
Friday, June 06, 2008
I'm Having a Really Bad Day
My cruising life does not feel it is getting off to a great start if today is an indicator species. Today... well today sucked.
We can start with the Big F*up which is that I hit a rock. Hard. We were on our way into Nanaimo Harbor, DrC called me up to take the helm while he dropped sail, and I promptly ran into a known hazard. In my defense, he’d pointed us at it. To my shame, it took me too long to figure out where the hell we were going before we hit.
We hit hard. Not hard enough to cause a leak, hard enough to hear scraping sounds that could well require a haul out to fix. The rudders are fine, and nothing appears broken. It’s probably a gel coat nightmare and an expensive, ugly few days on the hard. The question is whether or not we’ll have to do it now or if it’s cosmetic enough to do later. Given the rest of our luck lately, I’d guess for whichever option is more expensive.
Moving on to a lesser issue, we parked in the wrong spot. Apparently, we dropped anchor in the middle of a flight path. This isn’t surprising when you take in the whole rock issue. We were all in a flipping uproar, and I for one was shaking so bad I could barely draw breath. While it has all the same aspects of stupidity as the rock (e.g. we shouldn’t have done it, we should have known better), it was more understandably a by-product of post-smack-into-underwater-obstacleness than a true verbal flip of the finger at port authority. In this case, it was only moderately well marked and, as I said, we were not in the best frame of mind.
Let’s see... moving back from there we had a tense moment going through Dodd Narrows at mid-flood. That’s a wild ride, let me tell you. Up here they have currents that rival any river for speed and trickiness. At one point, we were swept along at plus 8 knots. Weeee!!! Of course, to create that current, the pass narrows to about 50 feet. Threading our 21 foot beam through that was like trying to get my ass into a pair of my high school jeans.
Again, moving back in time we get to this morning’s absurdity. We motored over from Telegraph Harbor to Chamainish to see the sights and found no place to park. Little microdot of a public dock and we couldn’t stop. I’m sorry we didn’t get to see the famed murals of that small town. On the other hand, it was kind of sweet just moving our tennis court into the middle of Stuart Channel, turning everything off, throwing up the main mostly so that power boats would be required to go around us, and drifting through school and morning chores.
And if we really want to push ourselves backwards, we can even talk about two nights ago in Maple Bay when we broke anchor and started drifting out of the harbor. Jaime caught us.
In fact, there is my light at the end of the tunnel, my raison d’etre, my cause celebre, my entire reason for doing this trip. Because Jaime has been magnificent through the past 48 hours. Jaime was the first to spot us break anchor in Maple Bay. Jaime was the first to volunteer for anchor watch last night when the wind was blowing like snot, and we all felt some one should be at the helm paying attention. Jaime was the smart crew who called off the watch at one in the morning when it became clear the wind was dying and the weather report called for it to stay down till tonight. She leaped to help with the sheets while we sailed, stood on the bow and took pictures through the Narrows, and dove into the port bilge to check for leaks after we hit the rock.
I always said I thought this trip would benefit her spirit the most. Because I am typically a blow-hard, it is probable that in my innermost, icky self, I didn’t really believe that but just said it. Now, I am a believer. My daughter is shining even while I collapse in the cockpit this evening with a Stormy Sunset*, completely shot nerves, and a strong desire to crawl home with my tail between my legs.
I should have said this before. Let me say it now. My eldest daughter is something very special.
We can start with the Big F*up which is that I hit a rock. Hard. We were on our way into Nanaimo Harbor, DrC called me up to take the helm while he dropped sail, and I promptly ran into a known hazard. In my defense, he’d pointed us at it. To my shame, it took me too long to figure out where the hell we were going before we hit.
We hit hard. Not hard enough to cause a leak, hard enough to hear scraping sounds that could well require a haul out to fix. The rudders are fine, and nothing appears broken. It’s probably a gel coat nightmare and an expensive, ugly few days on the hard. The question is whether or not we’ll have to do it now or if it’s cosmetic enough to do later. Given the rest of our luck lately, I’d guess for whichever option is more expensive.
Moving on to a lesser issue, we parked in the wrong spot. Apparently, we dropped anchor in the middle of a flight path. This isn’t surprising when you take in the whole rock issue. We were all in a flipping uproar, and I for one was shaking so bad I could barely draw breath. While it has all the same aspects of stupidity as the rock (e.g. we shouldn’t have done it, we should have known better), it was more understandably a by-product of post-smack-into-underwater-obstacleness than a true verbal flip of the finger at port authority. In this case, it was only moderately well marked and, as I said, we were not in the best frame of mind.
Let’s see... moving back from there we had a tense moment going through Dodd Narrows at mid-flood. That’s a wild ride, let me tell you. Up here they have currents that rival any river for speed and trickiness. At one point, we were swept along at plus 8 knots. Weeee!!! Of course, to create that current, the pass narrows to about 50 feet. Threading our 21 foot beam through that was like trying to get my ass into a pair of my high school jeans.
Again, moving back in time we get to this morning’s absurdity. We motored over from Telegraph Harbor to Chamainish to see the sights and found no place to park. Little microdot of a public dock and we couldn’t stop. I’m sorry we didn’t get to see the famed murals of that small town. On the other hand, it was kind of sweet just moving our tennis court into the middle of Stuart Channel, turning everything off, throwing up the main mostly so that power boats would be required to go around us, and drifting through school and morning chores.
And if we really want to push ourselves backwards, we can even talk about two nights ago in Maple Bay when we broke anchor and started drifting out of the harbor. Jaime caught us.
In fact, there is my light at the end of the tunnel, my raison d’etre, my cause celebre, my entire reason for doing this trip. Because Jaime has been magnificent through the past 48 hours. Jaime was the first to spot us break anchor in Maple Bay. Jaime was the first to volunteer for anchor watch last night when the wind was blowing like snot, and we all felt some one should be at the helm paying attention. Jaime was the smart crew who called off the watch at one in the morning when it became clear the wind was dying and the weather report called for it to stay down till tonight. She leaped to help with the sheets while we sailed, stood on the bow and took pictures through the Narrows, and dove into the port bilge to check for leaks after we hit the rock.
I always said I thought this trip would benefit her spirit the most. Because I am typically a blow-hard, it is probable that in my innermost, icky self, I didn’t really believe that but just said it. Now, I am a believer. My daughter is shining even while I collapse in the cockpit this evening with a Stormy Sunset*, completely shot nerves, and a strong desire to crawl home with my tail between my legs.
I should have said this before. Let me say it now. My eldest daughter is something very special.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Where's the Shovel?
A scream of pain rose from the starboard hull. Children have many screams. The smart Darwinian money is on those parents capable of quickly distinguishing between the “cry wolf” style screams and the Real Thing. This was the Real Thing, no question. Based on volume, pitch, and sincerity, this one involved physical injury to my youngest.
Mama Bear sprung into action. I levitated out of the bunk and up the companionway. Then I dashed across the salon, grabbing a blue cloth en route. I never go anywhere without a clean blue cloth. I threw myself into the children's hull and rammed my way into the girls' cabin, from experience simply leaping over the pile of detritus that litters their cabin floor.
Aeron, still mid-scream, was holding up a rather bloody paw. The story revealed much later is that a lose, metal catch on her art box had finally given way, and she had gashed out a good chunk of her left palm. Unfortunately, I couldn't get to her. She was huddled on the back wall and twitx me and thee were a veritable herd of stuff animals, pillows and blankies.
In full Mega Mom Mode, I started brutaly tossing precious dolls on to the cabin floor. A confetti of beanie babies, throw pillows, and Build a Bear sweater and pants sets flew into the air as I forced my way towards my baby. Getting close, I reached out, grabbing Aeron by her uninjured arm, and lifted her out of cacoon of bedding and into my lap. I slapped the blue cloth onto the wound, put pressure on it, and then held up her hand to slow the bleeding. Aeron is a trooper. Things were definitely in hand now, literally, so her screaming subsided to a choked, indignant snuffling as I craddled her and explained to her that everything would be okay. We would put some stingy stuff on, wrap it all up carefully, and she'd be back in business in no time. We just needed to get the first aid kit and Daddy.
I shifted her to start making our way back to the salon when I recognized my serious mistake. The cabin floor was literally hip deep in bedding and toys pressed firmly against the door. Jaime was pushing against the outside, asking if we needed help, but she could barely move it. Like a landslide on a major interstate, it would take a crew of hundreds and some heavy equipment to shift the load out of the way of traffic.
Aeron and I simultaneously came to the same conclusion and looked up. The only way out of there was through the ceiling hatch. Still gripping Aeron's hand to staunch the blood, we each reached our free arms up to undog the hatch. I went up first, then helped her out just as Dr C boarded the boat. There are times when he earns his sobriquet as Dr and this was one of them. He immediately grasped the situtation, scooped up a now giggling Aeron, and whisked her off to do his professional medicine man dance to heal her hand. Ever the diligent sailor, I redogged the hatch and went to wash my hands and pour a glass of wine.
At some point, I'm going to have to face the challenge of getting back into that cabin. I might write it off as a dead loss of space, given over to a herd of rampaging giraffalopes and cackling furbies, but I can't. I think we left Mera in there.
Mama Bear sprung into action. I levitated out of the bunk and up the companionway. Then I dashed across the salon, grabbing a blue cloth en route. I never go anywhere without a clean blue cloth. I threw myself into the children's hull and rammed my way into the girls' cabin, from experience simply leaping over the pile of detritus that litters their cabin floor.
Aeron, still mid-scream, was holding up a rather bloody paw. The story revealed much later is that a lose, metal catch on her art box had finally given way, and she had gashed out a good chunk of her left palm. Unfortunately, I couldn't get to her. She was huddled on the back wall and twitx me and thee were a veritable herd of stuff animals, pillows and blankies.
In full Mega Mom Mode, I started brutaly tossing precious dolls on to the cabin floor. A confetti of beanie babies, throw pillows, and Build a Bear sweater and pants sets flew into the air as I forced my way towards my baby. Getting close, I reached out, grabbing Aeron by her uninjured arm, and lifted her out of cacoon of bedding and into my lap. I slapped the blue cloth onto the wound, put pressure on it, and then held up her hand to slow the bleeding. Aeron is a trooper. Things were definitely in hand now, literally, so her screaming subsided to a choked, indignant snuffling as I craddled her and explained to her that everything would be okay. We would put some stingy stuff on, wrap it all up carefully, and she'd be back in business in no time. We just needed to get the first aid kit and Daddy.
I shifted her to start making our way back to the salon when I recognized my serious mistake. The cabin floor was literally hip deep in bedding and toys pressed firmly against the door. Jaime was pushing against the outside, asking if we needed help, but she could barely move it. Like a landslide on a major interstate, it would take a crew of hundreds and some heavy equipment to shift the load out of the way of traffic.
Aeron and I simultaneously came to the same conclusion and looked up. The only way out of there was through the ceiling hatch. Still gripping Aeron's hand to staunch the blood, we each reached our free arms up to undog the hatch. I went up first, then helped her out just as Dr C boarded the boat. There are times when he earns his sobriquet as Dr and this was one of them. He immediately grasped the situtation, scooped up a now giggling Aeron, and whisked her off to do his professional medicine man dance to heal her hand. Ever the diligent sailor, I redogged the hatch and went to wash my hands and pour a glass of wine.
At some point, I'm going to have to face the challenge of getting back into that cabin. I might write it off as a dead loss of space, given over to a herd of rampaging giraffalopes and cackling furbies, but I can't. I think we left Mera in there.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Rounding Up This Round of Safety Talks
“The most dangerous thing aboard this boat is your mother,” Dr C informs our children after one particularly trying evening. We had been cruising in the South Puget Sound for nearly ten days without stop. This was early in our cruising life so ten days was an interminable amount of time filled with disastrous mishaps, poor hygiene and uncomfortable beds.
However, in spite of a great deal more sailing experience, I am not sure anything has really changed. For all the dangers presented on your average sailing vessel in the form of things that go boom, endless volumes of water to drown in, and exotic tropical diseases, it still strikes me that parents are the most dangerous part of the cruising experience.
First, remember that a parent on a cruiser is forced to take on so many more roles than the parent of a land-based household. Parents are also teacher, principal and gym coach. We are lifeguard, librarian, and fireman. Cop, mechanic, bus driver, and troop leader. We collaborate on projects, participate in drama, music, and art activities, and go on all the field trips. We are the 4th in Monopoly and the opposition in chess. We are the friend you go to when all your other friends won’t play with you, and we are the enemy you try to avoid when all your friends are firmly in your camp.
And the closeness is wonderful, the one thing I absolutely cannot conceive is how I will relinquish this with our return to land-based lives. Yet there is no question that all that closeness can be too much of a good thing. We all need a little privacy, a little variety in our relationships, and more physical SPACE to simply move around in.
Many years ago, my mother-in-law gave me permission that I desperately needed. It was during potty training for my eldest daughter. We were on vacation in Bend, Oregon, staying at a cabin in a large family group. My eldest daughter, Jaime, was at the stage of using a mini-potty, but she did not want to use it in this strange vacation place. I, on the other hand, was not about to spend my vacation wiping shit off her ass and insisted that she use it. In retaliation for my obduracy, my daughter braced her hands on the back of the seat and -- lifting and rotating her pelvis -- proceeded to spray urine over every square inch of the bathroom floor. I completely lost it. I slapped her, yelled something to this day I cannot -- nor do I wish to -- remember, and stomped down the stairs.
At which point, I broke into hysterical tears. I’d never hit my child before and to do so now, in front of family, seemed like a catastrophic failure. Yet my mother-in-law just looked at me mildly and informed me that, “Your children need to know there is a point beyond which you are dangerous.”
And we are, we parents of boat kids. We are bigger and we control everything. We have so much more power than parents on land. We control the means of transportation, production, and communication. At times we are the only other living souls around. Even our stupidity is more dangerous to their health, welfare, and mental wellbeing. The responsibility is enormous.
On the other hand, we give our children so much more power than we do on land. Our older children literally hold our lives in their hands, taking watch on long passages, managing communications with other boats, and helping maintain boat systems. The kids gather food and set up social events with other families on boats or on land. The companionship cuts both ways, so if we want to play bridge, the kids are the 3rd and 4th hands. If we want to play a piece of chamber music, the girls take half the parts.
Jaime and I survived potty training. We also survived learning how to read, her first attempt to cut her own hair, and our early discussions about the birds and the bees. She tells me that the most important quote on this subject is from the uncle of good old Spider Man: “With great power comes great responsibility.” To be a boating family, we must learn to moderate our anger, our passion, and our temper. We must walk away even when there is nowhere to walk and take many deep breaths before taking precipitous action.
You get only this one family and this one chance to do it right. Dying in battles on hills that don’t matter can cause you to lose the entire campaign.
However, in spite of a great deal more sailing experience, I am not sure anything has really changed. For all the dangers presented on your average sailing vessel in the form of things that go boom, endless volumes of water to drown in, and exotic tropical diseases, it still strikes me that parents are the most dangerous part of the cruising experience.
First, remember that a parent on a cruiser is forced to take on so many more roles than the parent of a land-based household. Parents are also teacher, principal and gym coach. We are lifeguard, librarian, and fireman. Cop, mechanic, bus driver, and troop leader. We collaborate on projects, participate in drama, music, and art activities, and go on all the field trips. We are the 4th in Monopoly and the opposition in chess. We are the friend you go to when all your other friends won’t play with you, and we are the enemy you try to avoid when all your friends are firmly in your camp.
And the closeness is wonderful, the one thing I absolutely cannot conceive is how I will relinquish this with our return to land-based lives. Yet there is no question that all that closeness can be too much of a good thing. We all need a little privacy, a little variety in our relationships, and more physical SPACE to simply move around in.
Many years ago, my mother-in-law gave me permission that I desperately needed. It was during potty training for my eldest daughter. We were on vacation in Bend, Oregon, staying at a cabin in a large family group. My eldest daughter, Jaime, was at the stage of using a mini-potty, but she did not want to use it in this strange vacation place. I, on the other hand, was not about to spend my vacation wiping shit off her ass and insisted that she use it. In retaliation for my obduracy, my daughter braced her hands on the back of the seat and -- lifting and rotating her pelvis -- proceeded to spray urine over every square inch of the bathroom floor. I completely lost it. I slapped her, yelled something to this day I cannot -- nor do I wish to -- remember, and stomped down the stairs.
At which point, I broke into hysterical tears. I’d never hit my child before and to do so now, in front of family, seemed like a catastrophic failure. Yet my mother-in-law just looked at me mildly and informed me that, “Your children need to know there is a point beyond which you are dangerous.”
And we are, we parents of boat kids. We are bigger and we control everything. We have so much more power than parents on land. We control the means of transportation, production, and communication. At times we are the only other living souls around. Even our stupidity is more dangerous to their health, welfare, and mental wellbeing. The responsibility is enormous.
On the other hand, we give our children so much more power than we do on land. Our older children literally hold our lives in their hands, taking watch on long passages, managing communications with other boats, and helping maintain boat systems. The kids gather food and set up social events with other families on boats or on land. The companionship cuts both ways, so if we want to play bridge, the kids are the 3rd and 4th hands. If we want to play a piece of chamber music, the girls take half the parts.
Jaime and I survived potty training. We also survived learning how to read, her first attempt to cut her own hair, and our early discussions about the birds and the bees. She tells me that the most important quote on this subject is from the uncle of good old Spider Man: “With great power comes great responsibility.” To be a boating family, we must learn to moderate our anger, our passion, and our temper. We must walk away even when there is nowhere to walk and take many deep breaths before taking precipitous action.
You get only this one family and this one chance to do it right. Dying in battles on hills that don’t matter can cause you to lose the entire campaign.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Things That Go Boom in the Night
There are three major categories of boom on a boat: combustible fluids, electricity, and large swinging objects. All three things are destructive. All three things can and do kill people. All three things horrify any right-thinking adult who contemplates a child on board a boat.
While I can largely dismiss the hazards of surrounding children in billions of gallons of water, it is far more difficult for me to dismiss the dangers inherent in surrounding children in things that go boom at the slightest provocation. It strikes me as particularly insane to put 900 amps of battery power, 100 gallons of diesel fuel, and a fire extinguisher in the same room as an 8-year-old and her 6-year-old sister.
You are a boat owner with children or grand children aboard. What do you do? What DO you do?
I cannot tell you what to do. I can only tell you what we are doing which is essentially nothing. All right, it is closer to absolutely nothing than to essentially nothing but saying “essentially” gives me sufficient wiggle room in any legal action. The good news is that children are essentially indestructible. The bad news is that all protestations to the contrary, essentially is a really lousy word.
Now one thing I have long since learned about children – or at least my children – is that seeing is believing. Another way to state this, danger is only dangerous if it has actually bitten you on the ass. Okay, even simpler: your children won’t believe you. You can repeat, “Matches BURN!” until you are blue in the face and unless a child manages to set her cabin on fire, she will not believe you.
My suggestion is that the way you protect your children from the things that go boom on your boat is to let them hurt themselves -- in a controlled, structured, and well monitored environment replete with soothing words and a suitcase of medical supplies. Fortunately, live aboard cruising offers abundant opportunities to teach your children about the dangers of live aboard cruising. It is hard to imagine a life style more replete with wondrous moments for applied lessons in self-preservation.
Take for example the category of things that go boom that involves combustible fluids. Most boats carry at least three – and sometimes four – separate flavors of fuel: diesel, propane, gasoline, and kerosene. Each boat beverage is packaged with its own unique combination of disastrous potentialities. What you need to do is identify those that are most likely to entice junior into blowing up your home.
On our boat, we quickly learned that the girls couldn’t care less about diesel. Diesel was daddy’s problem. They weren’t much more impressed by gasoline. That was mommy’s problem. Kerosene, however, meant heat and light in the salon. Candles and matches meant warmth, light and coziness in the cabins. And propane! Wow. Propane is the source of all heated edibles.
The priority became clear. The girls received a crash course in how to use matches in combination with the propane stove. At every possible opportunity, we used them to open the valves, turn on the solenoid, and start the stove burners or oven. Matches matches matches! Tea candles are the ideal testing ground for good match manners. Scatter them around the salon and you not only learn how to avoid burning bitty fingers, but you also create a charming atmosphere for yourselves and all distant observers watching your boat bob at anchor lit up like an old fashioned Christmas tree.
Electricity follows the same pattern. Though, frankly, the real problem with electricity and children is not the high voltage lines running everywhere, the exposed plugs in every room, or the enormous batteries in the foot of their bed. The real problem is that they never turn out the damn lights. I’m far more concerned with teaching the little twits to conserve energy then I am about them electrocuting themselves.
Nevertheless, I advise getting the children involved in electrical production and maintenance as soon as feasible. They can quickly learn how to handle the electrical panel, hook up to shore power, and manage the battery switches. Teach them how to monitor the battery capacity, and you’ll never need to worry about forgetting to check again.
The real bummer boomer, though, is momentum. I find that where children are particularly prone to disaster is when they take on the basic laws of physics. In other words, chemistry and electricity are too complicated to hurt boat kids. It’s the physical physics that get them every time. Leverage, inertia, mass times acceleration, and good old gravity work wonders for moving your boat through the water and anchoring it to the ground, but against the soft tender skin of young human beings these forces are swift and evil.
I caution parents to spend far less time worrying about drowning and blowing up your offspring and concentrate more on toes crushed in an anchor rode, heads bashed by a swinging boom, or fingers stripped of skin by a line on a bucket dropped into the water at seven knots. Teach your kids basic physics, people, or your boat will do it for you.
While I can largely dismiss the hazards of surrounding children in billions of gallons of water, it is far more difficult for me to dismiss the dangers inherent in surrounding children in things that go boom at the slightest provocation. It strikes me as particularly insane to put 900 amps of battery power, 100 gallons of diesel fuel, and a fire extinguisher in the same room as an 8-year-old and her 6-year-old sister.
You are a boat owner with children or grand children aboard. What do you do? What DO you do?
I cannot tell you what to do. I can only tell you what we are doing which is essentially nothing. All right, it is closer to absolutely nothing than to essentially nothing but saying “essentially” gives me sufficient wiggle room in any legal action. The good news is that children are essentially indestructible. The bad news is that all protestations to the contrary, essentially is a really lousy word.
Now one thing I have long since learned about children – or at least my children – is that seeing is believing. Another way to state this, danger is only dangerous if it has actually bitten you on the ass. Okay, even simpler: your children won’t believe you. You can repeat, “Matches BURN!” until you are blue in the face and unless a child manages to set her cabin on fire, she will not believe you.
My suggestion is that the way you protect your children from the things that go boom on your boat is to let them hurt themselves -- in a controlled, structured, and well monitored environment replete with soothing words and a suitcase of medical supplies. Fortunately, live aboard cruising offers abundant opportunities to teach your children about the dangers of live aboard cruising. It is hard to imagine a life style more replete with wondrous moments for applied lessons in self-preservation.
Take for example the category of things that go boom that involves combustible fluids. Most boats carry at least three – and sometimes four – separate flavors of fuel: diesel, propane, gasoline, and kerosene. Each boat beverage is packaged with its own unique combination of disastrous potentialities. What you need to do is identify those that are most likely to entice junior into blowing up your home.
On our boat, we quickly learned that the girls couldn’t care less about diesel. Diesel was daddy’s problem. They weren’t much more impressed by gasoline. That was mommy’s problem. Kerosene, however, meant heat and light in the salon. Candles and matches meant warmth, light and coziness in the cabins. And propane! Wow. Propane is the source of all heated edibles.
The priority became clear. The girls received a crash course in how to use matches in combination with the propane stove. At every possible opportunity, we used them to open the valves, turn on the solenoid, and start the stove burners or oven. Matches matches matches! Tea candles are the ideal testing ground for good match manners. Scatter them around the salon and you not only learn how to avoid burning bitty fingers, but you also create a charming atmosphere for yourselves and all distant observers watching your boat bob at anchor lit up like an old fashioned Christmas tree.
Electricity follows the same pattern. Though, frankly, the real problem with electricity and children is not the high voltage lines running everywhere, the exposed plugs in every room, or the enormous batteries in the foot of their bed. The real problem is that they never turn out the damn lights. I’m far more concerned with teaching the little twits to conserve energy then I am about them electrocuting themselves.
Nevertheless, I advise getting the children involved in electrical production and maintenance as soon as feasible. They can quickly learn how to handle the electrical panel, hook up to shore power, and manage the battery switches. Teach them how to monitor the battery capacity, and you’ll never need to worry about forgetting to check again.
The real bummer boomer, though, is momentum. I find that where children are particularly prone to disaster is when they take on the basic laws of physics. In other words, chemistry and electricity are too complicated to hurt boat kids. It’s the physical physics that get them every time. Leverage, inertia, mass times acceleration, and good old gravity work wonders for moving your boat through the water and anchoring it to the ground, but against the soft tender skin of young human beings these forces are swift and evil.
I caution parents to spend far less time worrying about drowning and blowing up your offspring and concentrate more on toes crushed in an anchor rode, heads bashed by a swinging boom, or fingers stripped of skin by a line on a bucket dropped into the water at seven knots. Teach your kids basic physics, people, or your boat will do it for you.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
(Wo)man Overboard
It happened today. It was inevitable, particularly after my rather smug treatise on water safety and children. Today, a crew member of the sailing vessel Don Quixote went ass over tea kettle and kerplopped into the frigid waters of the Puget Sound. This event highlighted several safety concerns and preparations that I may have forgotten to elucidate in my earlier entry:
Number 1: If you warn the children that the deck is slippery, icy, and dangerous, and caution is required, it strongly behooves you to exercise caution when you step out on to the deck.
Number 2: If you are going to insist that your children wear a life jacket before they go to the shore side to use the head because the hoar frost on the dock is turning the entire marina into an ice skating rink, you should probably slip your own life jacket around your neck… or at least sling it over one arm.
Number 3: When you spend a good deal of time drumming into your children’s resistant pea brains that they should set down heavy packages, disembark, and then grab their possessions off the deck before proceeding down the dock, it is an absolute imperative that you set down the heavy box of groceries BEFORE you step on to the aforementioned slippery, icy and very dangerous transom.
The good news is that the girls were magnificent. More on that bit follows as I can’t restrain my maternal instinct to brag. The bad news is that on my rapid decent down the seven feet of transom to the 42-degree water, I managed to wrench my body every which way and hit the swim ladder, producing bruises every where – including a particularly memorable one that looks like the Horsehead Nebula just below my left butt cheek.
But in the interest of offering substantive advice for my fellow boaters, let me tell you what worked and worked well during this experience:
Man overboard drills work – Last summer we spent a few memorable long-distance sailing and motoring treks with nothing to do but watch the coastline. Just to stir things up a bit, I’d randomly toss a fender overboard and then start screaming, “Man overboard!!” at the top of my lungs. This is a fun game which your children will delight in even while it drives every other boat on the water completely mad. Please note that if you let the kids take ownership of this process, you’ll do nothing but spin around in place retrieving fenders and screaming at your spouse to “go left… no your other left!”
Assigned roles in emergencies – A corollary to the drills is to make sure every member of your crew has a clear notion of her (and his) responsibility. Discuss which role each will take, assuming that one member of the team is missing. Make sure you include the scenario in which you and your spouse are making smoochies on the tramp and, in an excessively enthusiastic display of your marital prerogatives, simply roll off the front of the boat.
Clarify priorities – What is important to save in an emergency? Your sister or your favorite doll? The answer to this question is not as obvious to children as you might suppose. In fact, I rather suspect that this question is not as obvious to many adults as you might suppose.
Equip your boat with the proper safety gear – There is what the US Coast Guard requires, there are the recommendations from salty cruisers, and then there is what your mama would say. All I’m going to say is you should never underestimate how much smarter your parents get as you age.
So let’s go back to the rather memorable moment this morning when we tested the Emergency Don Quixote Swimming System. It’s 8:30am, Dr C has already left for work, the docks are deserted on a 34-degree, clear January morning, leaving the ambient temperature in the water roughly between “holy crap this is cold” and “get me the hell out of here my toes are about to freeze off!” After properly advising, warning, and chiding my children, I do everything I told them not to and step on to the icy, slick transom with a box full of heavy groceries. I immediately slip off and drop with a thump, bump, whomp, >splash< into the water.
Instantly – arguably before I hit the water – a peal of “Man overboard!” goes up from three well trained throats. My youngest at six braces herself like a general on the deck and points her arm directly at me, floundering not four feet away between the dock and the stern. Her job, obviously, is to maintain visual contact with the victim. The eight year old starts a fast march up to the marina office. Her job? When possible, get another adult.
My eldest looks first for the life sling which had, unfortunately, already been stowed. In its absence and seeing by this time that I had already half levitated out of the water and back on to the boat in sheer horror at the temperature, she comes down the transom. Her job is, of course, to aid the victim in getting out of the water by use of life sling, swim ladder and just grabbing the victim by the scruff and yanking. All three, seeing me back aboard, move to their second jobs. One and three get me stripped and into dry clothing faster than costume change for a Vegas showgirl. Two begins salvage operations.
Granted, it was not one of my finest moments as a sailor. I do, however, consider it one of my finer moments as a mother, generously allowing my children to shine in the face of adversity.
Number 1: If you warn the children that the deck is slippery, icy, and dangerous, and caution is required, it strongly behooves you to exercise caution when you step out on to the deck.
Number 2: If you are going to insist that your children wear a life jacket before they go to the shore side to use the head because the hoar frost on the dock is turning the entire marina into an ice skating rink, you should probably slip your own life jacket around your neck… or at least sling it over one arm.
Number 3: When you spend a good deal of time drumming into your children’s resistant pea brains that they should set down heavy packages, disembark, and then grab their possessions off the deck before proceeding down the dock, it is an absolute imperative that you set down the heavy box of groceries BEFORE you step on to the aforementioned slippery, icy and very dangerous transom.
The good news is that the girls were magnificent. More on that bit follows as I can’t restrain my maternal instinct to brag. The bad news is that on my rapid decent down the seven feet of transom to the 42-degree water, I managed to wrench my body every which way and hit the swim ladder, producing bruises every where – including a particularly memorable one that looks like the Horsehead Nebula just below my left butt cheek.
But in the interest of offering substantive advice for my fellow boaters, let me tell you what worked and worked well during this experience:
Man overboard drills work – Last summer we spent a few memorable long-distance sailing and motoring treks with nothing to do but watch the coastline. Just to stir things up a bit, I’d randomly toss a fender overboard and then start screaming, “Man overboard!!” at the top of my lungs. This is a fun game which your children will delight in even while it drives every other boat on the water completely mad. Please note that if you let the kids take ownership of this process, you’ll do nothing but spin around in place retrieving fenders and screaming at your spouse to “go left… no your other left!”
Assigned roles in emergencies – A corollary to the drills is to make sure every member of your crew has a clear notion of her (and his) responsibility. Discuss which role each will take, assuming that one member of the team is missing. Make sure you include the scenario in which you and your spouse are making smoochies on the tramp and, in an excessively enthusiastic display of your marital prerogatives, simply roll off the front of the boat.
Clarify priorities – What is important to save in an emergency? Your sister or your favorite doll? The answer to this question is not as obvious to children as you might suppose. In fact, I rather suspect that this question is not as obvious to many adults as you might suppose.
Equip your boat with the proper safety gear – There is what the US Coast Guard requires, there are the recommendations from salty cruisers, and then there is what your mama would say. All I’m going to say is you should never underestimate how much smarter your parents get as you age.
So let’s go back to the rather memorable moment this morning when we tested the Emergency Don Quixote Swimming System. It’s 8:30am, Dr C has already left for work, the docks are deserted on a 34-degree, clear January morning, leaving the ambient temperature in the water roughly between “holy crap this is cold” and “get me the hell out of here my toes are about to freeze off!” After properly advising, warning, and chiding my children, I do everything I told them not to and step on to the icy, slick transom with a box full of heavy groceries. I immediately slip off and drop with a thump, bump, whomp, >splash< into the water.
Instantly – arguably before I hit the water – a peal of “Man overboard!” goes up from three well trained throats. My youngest at six braces herself like a general on the deck and points her arm directly at me, floundering not four feet away between the dock and the stern. Her job, obviously, is to maintain visual contact with the victim. The eight year old starts a fast march up to the marina office. Her job? When possible, get another adult.
My eldest looks first for the life sling which had, unfortunately, already been stowed. In its absence and seeing by this time that I had already half levitated out of the water and back on to the boat in sheer horror at the temperature, she comes down the transom. Her job is, of course, to aid the victim in getting out of the water by use of life sling, swim ladder and just grabbing the victim by the scruff and yanking. All three, seeing me back aboard, move to their second jobs. One and three get me stripped and into dry clothing faster than costume change for a Vegas showgirl. Two begins salvage operations.
Granted, it was not one of my finest moments as a sailor. I do, however, consider it one of my finer moments as a mother, generously allowing my children to shine in the face of adversity.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
There is No Door Knob Cover for a Boat
A common reaction of parents on learning that my husband and I live on a boat with our three kids is a look of unabashed horror. “Is that safe?” My instinct is to scoff, “Of course not, you moron.” What idiot would think you could child-proof a boat? Clearly you face insurmountable obstacles. For example, the boat is surrounded by a many–bazillion-gallon swimming pool for which there is no cover. And even if you could find a cover large enough, you'd get in a lot of trouble if you carefully locked it down with a padlock when not in use.
A boat is full of sharp corners, accessible electrical connections, and poisonous liquids. It combines all the dangers of gallons of flammable fluids and megawatt deep cycle batteries with combustion engines, open flames, and cupboards that absolutely cannot be locked. Boats are no place for the faint of heart, children under the age of 60, or small pets. There is no question that any Child Protective Service agent worth her weight in salt would declare your boat hopelessly unsafe for children.
The good news is that there are no CPS agents on the open seas. You can simply float away and snicker, because the solution to child-proofing your boat is actually boat-proofing your child. You see, it is my opinion that a boat is in a lot more danger from your children than your children are from the boat. Boats are expensive, finicky, high performance machines on which every single object costs five times more than a reasonable person would expect.
Your boat is afraid of your children, and your pocketbook is afraid of your boat's frequent encounters with their creativity. Having said that, I do have a few practical tips to achieve a mutually assured destruction detentes between your children and your boat.
Throw Them Overboard – It's not a matter of if your child falls overboard, but when. All children who spend any time living on a boat fall overboard. Sometimes they do this on purpose. Sometimes it just happens. We know a child who fell overboard twice in one day. You might think this happens only to very young children. He was seven. Some children just can't grasp the basic concept that a boat moves, and it is not possible to travel in a straight line for any serious length of time without running out of boat.
It turns out that children fall off of docks, too. Maybe it's just easier to assume that children fall. Out of trees, off ramps, over the end of the pier, through hatches, down shore side cliffs, out of the rigging, and over the side of the dinghy. Gravity is stronger for children.
The solution is to teach them how to land. This is similar to the drop techniques taught special force troops in boot camp. If you know how to fall and spring back up again, falling becomes a strategy, rather than a mistake. We routinely throw our children off the side of the boat. When they go swimming, we encourage them to jump off the bow, slide down the transom, and slip off the side. It's a long way down from the deck of our catamaran. In a pinch, you don't want to be surprised by how long it takes you to hit the water.
Try to Drown Them – A corollary to throwing them off the boat is to make sure they can swim. Now most reasonable writers attempting to get published in the sailing trades will talk about life jackets. Whenever we visit with our Seattle Yacht Club friends, we spend a lot of time getting the kids in and out of life jackets to simply enable them to walk from the slip to the shore head.
But realistically, life jackets are horribly uncomfortable. They are worse for children, I think, because you can't buy them in the conveniently thin, self-inflatable tubes available for adults. Instead, you encase your children in a yellow and red straight jackets complete with hoodie. This makes them drift around the dock looking like brightly colored beach balls. As a result, you can scream, preach, bitch and yell all you want, but some day your child is going to slip outside the cockpit without her jacket. Like a cold war spy, she'll wait until you are distracted -- changing oil in the engine room or buried elbow deep in the head fixing the crapper -- and then she'll pop out on to the deck “for just a minute.”
Combine lesson one above (gravity is stronger for children) with Murphy's Law (anything that can go wrong, will...) and add MacGillicuddy's Corollary (...at the most inopportune time), and it is inevitable that your darling baby will end up in the drink. Without a life jacket. By herself.
Your best bet in this situation is a child who assumes that you as a parent are a strong proponent of
Lest you think I'm cruel, remember that it's not likely you will even know your child is in the water. They don't slip out without their life jackets when you are watching them from the helm. They do this only when they know you are preoccupied. So it's best if they know precisely how to fend for themselves.
- Your children can swim without touching bottom -- preferably with clothes on and for as a long as possible. By ten years of age, test them for a half hour with shorts and t-shirt on, no life jacket. Remember, if darling is somehow magically ejected from the boat without a life jacket while you’re underway, it's going to take you time to get back to him. If you don't have the patience or talent to teach your children yourself, enroll in classes at your local YMCA. Those folks are brilliant, and they never give up.
- Your children must be able to swim all the way around the boat. Don't assume a child will fall off conveniently near the swim ladder. No, if they are going to fall like Real Children, they will do so as far from easy egress from the water as possible.
- Whenever possible, drop your swim ladder. Keep it in the water at anchor and in the marina. Then put a very large sign next to the ignition switch that reads, “Raise the swim ladder!”
- Consider investing in marine dog ramps. If you haven't already visited PupGear at http://www.doggydocks.com/, now is the time. Let's be honest. The difference between children and dogs is a subtle one.
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