Last of the Toronto Boat Shows? We certainly hope so!

Well, I might as well wipe my feet on something nautical.

I've spent the last two weekends (and Mrs. Alchemy eight of the last 10 days) working at the Toronto International Boat Show at the Genco Marine booth. The missus worked there when they had a harbourside store for a few years when our son was but a nipper instead of the hairy young man he is today, and she has come back to help (wo)man the till for the January event.

This year, I was asked to work weekends as a human filter for Mitch Kitz, who has an encyclopaedic knowledge of marine electronics and can be considered the Ken Jennings of Salty Jeopardy. Which doesn't exist, but if it did, rum would be involved.

I've been attending this boat show since 2000, right after we bought our first boat Valiente on August 31, 1999. Due to the possible fudging of press credentials, volunteer work at my boat club's booth, and now getting in as an "employee" of the most transitory type, I count with pride the fact that I have never paid to shop at the boat show.

All that pink fluid is plumber's antifreeze for the winterization of various water feeds. The strut is being removed and replaced with stronger models for that "ssssh" effect I enjoy.

I have, however, shopped. Search this blog for "boat show" and examples abound of engine and prop purchases, lights and tank bargains, and the inevitable "consumables" of boat hooks and fenders, of which the missus says we have too many and too much. And plenty of sarcasm about dodgy sailboat designs...I didn't even bother with the few examples of dock jewellery present this year. I did get a nice LED 10 watt-equivalent light, however, which is one of two now brightening the engine bay at a "cost" of just 0.0833 amps, times two.

Not the best, no, but I consider them sacrificial in the locks we will soon transit.

The boat show, alas, is not what it used to be, not that it ever was this far from the ocean. Most of the boats and most of the visitors, of whom I spoke with dozens and dozens in my "may I help you" role, are orientated toward power boats of various kinds and it was nice, if fleetingly so, to chat about sailboats. None of the sailboaters appeared to be below 50, a grim little factoid about the demographics of those who prefer wind to fuel.

There were several of these and they proved popular. Apparently, the PR disaster has passed.

But any boat requires an anchor, and so I was deemed "the anchor guy", despite a relative paucity of, you know, anchoring much yet on Alchemy, though we did drop the hook a fair bit on the previous boat. I was a little disturbed at the general poverty of knowledge of ground tackle and how to use it, but this is partially due to nearly half of the visitors to Genco's anchor corner stating "I just bought the boat and it's got a rusty Danforth and no windlass...let's talk." The generational transition proceeds apace and new people are learning that boats remain cheap: it's the fitting out with better gear that costs money.

Man, people love grilling on boats.

A lot of barbeques were sold, and I did get a little cross-eyed relating in excruciating detail the attributes of what is essentially a propane mantle in a steel box. But the focus around here is on the beer, the cottage and combining the two with meat on or beside a lake. The ocean is far away and probably cold.

Last seen in the "salmon mousse" scene.

Which is why I bought this otherwise impractical item. It's a Gul neoprene zip-up 'rigging jacket', thick and a little heavy, like a bondage blazer. It looks like I would have heat stroke in it in any other place than where we are going, which is the North Atlantic via the St. Lawrence in 10 or so weeks. Ice, snow, sleet and wind may be factors, and this I deem the watchstanding jacket to do it in. Besides, it's discontinued and was very cheap.

The biggest purchase was that of two Honda eu2200i portable gensets, which can be linked together to produce 4000-odd watts, or 30 amps, which is suitable for light welding or running our whole boat in most situations. Our existing 12-year-old Honda 2000, the predecessor model, will be pickled and stored in Trenton as it is not done yet by a long shot, but it can't be hooked together with a "companion" model like the newer, somewhat more powerful models as they weren't CSA-approved when I first bought it. The  new ones are. I saved about $300 and the sales guy will deliver them to Alchemy.

Bonus use: as bicycle helmets for retrieving supplies in port. We are bringing at least one bike to Halifax.

Lastly, in terms of notable purchases (aside from upping our total of Spinlock Deckvests to four) were the trio of Gul helmets suitable for sailing, kayaking, getting a glancing blow from a boom, surviving a short fall down the mast, or smacking a hard part of the boat falling over. They were also a good price, about half that of MEC, and I remain persuaded that a helmet in a good blow is a good idea.

The boat show, however, is but a shadow of its former self and I am having trouble reconciling words like "Australia is on fire" and "carbon tax" and "impeding doom" with the massive powercruisers, wave riders and pontoon boats with giant outboards I saw casting wicked spells on middle-aged men and bored-looking spouses. Nonetheless, working on the retail side was interesting and I have yet to manifest the 'flu. And Ben Gartside, the man from B.C.who sells me my Beta Marine spares, gave me that rather fetching door (deck?) mat at the top of the page. I will both treasure it and wear it out.

Stand by your pipe

A magnet, some line and a boathook hauled this out of the lake after six months. Cleaned up nicely, no?

As the departure date approaches, and, as the last post suggested, the paying work has more or less ceased, boat work has taken on a near-daily rhythm. I say "near" because there are still calls on my time for peripheral concerns, like our out-of-town rental property.

My brother-in-law tacking down the flashing on the roof vent on the last day of March. It's been a fairly harsh spring.

The day before our new tenants were to move in, the next-door neighbours contacted us and said "I think the flashing coming off your roof and is maybe letting snow and rain in."

Talk about motivation.

Myself and my brother-in-law skedaddled eastward, drill sets and fasteners in hand. As it turns out, the flashing was actually aluminum soffit lengths under a wooden, full-length "cap" over a roof vent. Water couldn't actually get in, but we repaired it nonetheless as I wanted to make things right for the new tenants, who are now settling in.

They look heavy, and weigh more.

Meanwhile, back on the still-cradled boat (circa the start of April), I had to remove the six L-16 batteries in order to access the standpipe, which brings water from the outside of the hull to, respectively, the raw-water cooling side of the engine, the head, the air-conditioning/heat pump circuit, and, in the near-future, the watermaker we hope to install in Halifax.

Note the relatively short threads on the nipples.

I discussed after haulout last fall with Andrew Barlow, pal and fabricator/welder extraordinaire, the possibility of replicating the original standpipe of Alchemy in favour of something a) in stainless steel and b) threaded in NPS to take Marelon or equivalent ball valves, as we did with the galley and head sink drains.

Creative carving was required in order to access the various sides of the standpipe. This is inside the galley cabinetry.

Andrew indicated he was up for the job, despite the tricksy time he had in the past getting the NPS threaded nipples cut on a lathe. Despite the fact that NPS, which needs pipe dope or Teflon tape (or both) to be sealed as it is not sealed via a tapering thread, is quite common, apparently you need to know some kind of handshake to have a set of NPS dies.

Four really expensive valves, one pipe. Behold the logic of "fewer holes in boat, happier skipper".

The two leading manufacturers of plastic-type (as opposed to metal) ball valves are U.S.-based Forespar and New Zealand-made TruDesign, the latter being the newer entry in this rather rarefied field of yacht plumbing. The rationale is that plastic valves neither corrode nor are subject to galvanic corrosion, evidence of which I found in the replaced drain nipples and in the old standpipe. Both had bronze ball valves on mild steel nipples.

The dry fitting is a good way to see if you're going to have problems. The Tru-Designs went on precisely.

I opted for TruDesign because last year's Marelon ball valves leaked slightly and spun on with some reluctance. We were able to get them to work, but the 3/4" I.D. ball valves I obtained from Defender Marine seemed to bind in the NPS threads. A phone call to Forespar confirmed that they used "only NPS", which was the whole reason I had to go that route in the first place. Nonetheless, I did not feel confident about such a mission-critical component (all the water-inlet nipples are well below the waterline, of course) making me anxious, so I got four TruDesign ball valves.

Occasionally, I plot my next moves on the foredeck when hauled out. Visionary requires visions.

 I now have spares. That's OK. With water tankage and a water maker to come, I'll use them.

Sparky!

Having cleared the space, cut the needed access, and assured sufficient power, I watched as Andrew wielded his grinder in the tight quarter. Apparently, yoga keeps him flexible.

Further inspection of the old standpipe suggested replacement to avoid failure was a "sooner rather than later" situation.

The hole left down in the hull was interesting because it's the smallest possible amount of wood I could remove to allow Andrew room sufficient to weld the new standpipe in place. Those black hoses are fuel lines from the forward and aft keel tanks. This whole area is usually beneath the batteries and (of late) companionway stairs.

The abyss.

 The sight of Andrew welding a structural "doubler" on the outside of the hull was...interesting.

Not seen: A fire extinguisher at the ready

Of note is the positive shut-off. When working on the batteries, I typically turn off the charger at the panel, the main switch and both the positive and negative disconnects.

That area, once completed, was painted by Mrs. Alchemy

 The welding went well, I thought. By "well", I mean "we didn't sink when launched".

It's warm work down there.

I had to cut a little notch for the lowest nipple (the engine raw-water inlet). No biggie: I have a useful Fein Multimaster knock-off I've brutalized for years. Still works and cost me $99! 

Note the depth of the threads. I wanted maximum contact.

The picture shows the nipple covered in Teflon tape. I also used pipe dope, aka "joint compound" or "pipe paste". I use it sparingly and it coats the threads both on the valve and the nipple. Absent the sort of gasket a garden hose possesses (probably the most common object the average person would encounter an NPS thread), the combo seems to do the trick.

I had to orient the handles in different directions and mountings to allow them to work in this proximity.

Spoiler alert: Not a drop. 

Smooth operation. When we haul in Halifax, I'll have it ground down smoother.

This was a big and backbreaking project, but I'm happy we did it. No amount of softwood bungs would do the trick if a pipe nipple crumbled at sea.

Getting the lead in, Part 3: Powering up

Everything's equally long and or short. This makes sense if you wish resistance to be futile.

When last we met, I was gushing over my nice crimping and cable-cutting for the six L-16 525Ah deep cycle batteries.

Ooh, yeah.

Charging had commenced, although nothing from the charger or the batteries was actually hooked into the boat.

Absorption is the second stage of three-stage charging.

Now, all this cabling in an exposed state is fine at dock, but real boats in the real ocean move nearly constantly. "Battery box tie-downs" are needed to keep the boxes from moving and they must hold the batteries just short of snugly (because batteries can swell at times) and there has to be room for the electrolyte to go if there's an accident.

White oak planks hold down the boxes tied into the floor plates with eight threaded rods.

I will make a lid for the aft-most pair of batteries when I rebuild the saloon stairs that will cover this battery bank, I have further leads to run and cabling to properly secure yet.

Mind the gap: there's room for a 3/4" "wall" to keep galley and batteries apart.

Mrs. Alchemy came down to remove painting supplies from the head, which would be a nonsensical sentence for anyone not refitting a boat. I was busy driving the club workboat for mooring inspections when she phoned to tell me her labours were interrupted by the discovery of raccoon poop aboard as well as the excavation of a galley cabinet and the scattering of some fossilized corn nuts. Such is the sailor's life. She was then bitten on her shoe by Mr. Sleeping It Off Raccoon. Stern measures were taken, as was necessary as the little bastard fled to the aft cabin.

Luckily, Mrs. Alchemy is a wildlife rehabber, meaning she is skilled at trapping recalcitrant raccoons. After a mere 90 minutes of pointless interruption, "Rocky" was boxed and on his way via the water taxi to parts unknown, or Ontario Place.

10 kilos, easy. Foul-tempered, too.

He won't grasp this, but he's very lucky my wife found him.

Headed for whatever passes for the treeline in a defunct amusement park that used to be futuristic.

Now there's a stretch of water, an active cycling path and a dog park between the boat and Mr. Rocky. Let's keep it that way, and I'll keep the portlights dogged.

Torquey Makita and orbital chuck sounds like a punk band from the future.

The next step was to put in a breaker panel that would allow the AC side to have either shore power or inverter power in a logical and fuse-protected manner. Much crimping ensued.

Heat-shrinking ring terminals are in fashion this year. And yes, if needed, we can actually sail and even motor.

I made up a set of "patch cords" for the new panel, which had to co-ordinate the 30 amp service, the inverter and the follow-on rest of the AC circuits. This was more labour than it looked: I had to, for safety reasons, undo the positive side of the charger/inverter (there's an impressive capacitor inside for what I assume are "surges" of AC the inverter can produce to start pumps, etc.) and it's quite easy to get a mild shock with a cut three-conductor wire, so I did not fool around and undid the shore power. The power tools, and there were several, were run off a 15-amp extension cord. This left, however, insufficient juice to run a fan. Did I mention it gets to the high 30s Celsius in the pilothouse? Well, it does.

Yes, there are two inlets for shore power. I can take 60 amps. I just have never bothered.

The wiring was pretty straightforward, and the running of the AC cabling less so. Everything took too long. Or too hot. And why is it called "hot and neutral" in some applications, and "line and neutral" in others? You'd think there's be some common ground.

Nice bit of kit I got at 40% off.

I had to fab up a fused line for the panel backlighting for some obscure reason. As it was 1 amp over 18 ga. wire, I just piggybacked it to the VHF breaker on the DC panel, as it's almost always left on. If it trips, I'll relocate the wires for the LED backlight nearby to something with amperage to spare.

Gray wire was on sale!

Figuring there was no point tidying up until I confirmed continuity, I carefully restored the shore power, tested the multimeter on the line and neutral wires for circa 120 VAC on both circuits, and lit up the board. Yay, no reverse polarity!

I could have cut that new hole better, but it was ridiculously tight and I had to remove the helm seat to even get in there.

After a slightly sparky reattachment of the battery leads, which involved the removal of the tie-downs...perhaps I should leave them off until I'm fully finished...rhe charger was engaged, the inverter was enabled, switches were thrown and boom, the fan was working (expensively in terms of energy efficiency as the process of inversion, which is tranformation of direct current (batteries) to alternating (house) current is quite lossy). Still, not attached to shore and...running fan. Kind of cool, literally, and no hint of magic smoke.

Of course, I could have run the air conditioning, but it currently drips into the bilge and I dislike that.

 I even lit up my worklight in honour of this new phase of pure (sine wave) power.

And you, you light up my life.

ENABLED, baby. Funny thing is after all these labours is that it'll probably just run the microwave at anchor.

So far, nothing's broken and no fuses were shorted making this production. The next step is to put in new busses for the more diversified DC draws, to hook the new batteries into the Big Switch to power the boat's DC side, to put in the swanky Pentametric battery and systems monitor and...finally...to connect up the Echo Charger so that my bereft starter battery can once again charge, rather than discharge. Think I'll water the lot, too.

Floating my boat's battery bank. Construction ahead.

There's still holes to drill and the mysterious split flanged bearings to acquire, but it's been a good bit of advancement of late. May it continue, as long as I remain hydrated.

In praise of older hydrography

Somehow you'd think the scale would be better.

Thank the Canadian Economic Action Plan, I suppose, for the low-res graphic above. For those sailors and casual readers who may wonder if they need to up their kale intake, it's the cover of the latest "Chart 1", the Canadian Hydrographic Service's glossary of terms and graphics that is the key to understanding and decoding (at least until it become second nature to do so) the paper charts mariners, including recreational sailors, are legally required to carry aboard under the Carriage of Charts provisions of the Canada Shipping Act, and which are available at the better sort of nautically minded shop. In some cases (but not all), electronic representations of these charts will suffice, but you need to have Chart 1 at hand as a navigational Rosetta Stone to read the hieroglyphs chart makers customarily use. Contrary to popular belief, the closer one sails to shore, the more crowded the water gets from the view of the nav table (another rapidly outmoding term) or the helm plotter.

The U.S. cover is also a litttle hard to read, almost as if it's trickling down.

Of the several countries' waters in which I've sailed (Canada, the U.S., Antigua, the USVIs, the U.K., France and Portugal), most seem to follow similar conventions regarding their nautical charts, and, as world shipping grew, this was reinforced in the last century by adherence to the standards of the International Maritime Organization (IMO). Looking back, the science of hydrography as a practice evolved in Europe during the Age of Exploration, although the Arabs and Chinese certainly made excellent maps and navigational tools. While the actual charts of coasts and little sugar-producing islands were guarded with the same strategically prompted ferocity as are nuclear missile blueprints are today, the conventions of hydrographical measurement tended to standardize on the British, and, to a lesser extent, the French, model. This was particularly true after the fixing of longitude became accurate and mechanically aided, and with the introduction of superior cartographic techniques. Yes, the books linked are strongly recommended for those sailors capable of prising themselves away from the latest romantic peregrinations of The Bachelorette.

The result is that, with any relatively modern country's equivalent of Chart 1, the sailor can use their local hydrographic services and charts. Bias does play a role here, however, as a few countries have charted most of the world for their own national reasons: the U.K.'s Admiralty charts are generally considered the most thorough, whereas the U.S. NOAA charts are both free in electronic form and are in easy-to-download formats amenable to printing. My own choice would be dependent on destination (former British possessions tend to be better charted by the British) and (this is critical) the last update of the chart in question. If the surveyor was Captain Cook, admirable, innovative and careful as that particular hydrographer/explorer was, take the observation as, at best, provisional, and charts based on inaccurate information, irrespective of the media of paper or pixels, is why you keep a watch. Even the chart printed yesterday unrolled aboard still whiffing of ink (or the plastic and brass of an SD card) is only a snapshot in time of what is really in front of one's bow.

One of these things is not like the other.

As such, the debate between which is better, paper or pixels, is, I find, rather sterile. As this brief but excellent paper examines, it is the evolving human tendency to "trust" machines that is causing to fall into abeyance the simple acts of direct observation that would keep electronically navigated vessels safer by simply looking out and around in order to provide a real-world context for what the Playstation Plotter is insisting is real. Any trip to a restaurant in the last five to 10 year will reveal several beautiful couples facing each other with their eyes locked on their smartphones, which, contrary to the name, do not make you smart. And yet I am far from a Luddite; along with Ben Ellison of Panbo.com, I believe the fault is not in our plotters, but in ourselves.

Get the picture, sailor?

This longing for mitigated and interpolated reality is curious to me in the same manner as gazing at a hammer before pounding a nail is. On the other hand, I started sailing in 1999, and, perhaps more importantly, started navigating in 1999 via formal instruction...and I have yet to stop. While plotters existed in somewhat more basic forms in 1999 and were even acknowledged as the coming thing, I was trained to use paper charts in order to grasp the essentials of navigation, such as taking bearings off land marks, the difference between magnetic and true compass readings, and using every bit of information available to me, such as "running the depth contour" to give me a greater confidence that me and my boat were where we should be...or to suggest and confirm that we were not, a situation that can evidently affect even the most well-equipped vessels. Plotters are great and are inarguably convenient, naturally, but I am starting to conclude that they only make you a better navigator if you were a pretty good navigator to begin with. If you are not, on what basis are you going to find errors that could kill you? Faith-based navigation works about as well as anything else faith-based: while there are aphoristically no atheists in foxholes, there are no fundamentalists wielding dividers.

The British example of eyestrain.

For those who suspect that their plotters, if not actively leading them astray, are not teaching them the situational awareness critical to safe and thorough navigation, there's hope in the form of formal instruction, or even in the purchase of dead-simple flash cards and books with which the sensible sailor can grasp the related fields of chart mastery, buoyage, pilotage and who exactly gives way to whom in a crowded (or not) seaway.

Don't leave dock without them.

While British (and while you have to grasp the IALA buoyage system differences), these are of enormous help in relating what the charts says to what you are rapidly approaching and what that might mean to earning a sundowner.

Particularly helpful, and thanks to John C. for the review.

Clearly, if one wishes to spend enough money, there are electronic plotter setups,  particularly the newer (and priced accordingly) ones that provide a 3D view, that can allow easy navigation, especially at night or in fog when, short of creeping right up to a numbered buoy (which I have done more than once) to confirm one's location, you have little other options short of stopping, heaving to, or anchoring, if possible.

Bay Lake, as Canadian as "Avenue Road".

A compromise, rather than the multiplicity of proprietary formats of the various plotter manufacturers is to use a means to rendr paper charts in electronic form, as is the case with the free OpenCPN and other raster-based displays. For some, the familiarity of the paper chart (which have the advantage of the standardized symbols as well as the typically faster updating of a national hydrographical authority) makes the use of raster or vector (know the difference!) charts in electronic form easy, and in some cases, intuitive.

Warning: May not be intuitive.

So if you have paper charts, as is still required, you might as well use them, or at least be able to read them. Gleaning through your local charts with the relevant pages of Chart 1, perhaps with a suitable beverage, is still a good place to start. I daresay that you'll get more out of the fleeting squiggles on your nav app-equipped iPad if you choose to use one. I opt for a mix because sailing for me is more engaging when I have puzzles of trim, helm and, yes, navigation to solve. I have a GPS, several in fact, but I like to take bearings and make little cocked hats and whip out the sextant and even to swing the lead to determine that it's right. It nearly always is, of course. It's the electronic chart that may be wrong: Paper charts, too, can be, or at least you can be the first poor bugger to confirm that by means other than mere charts.