My creator and his destroyer

HMCS Haida, the last extant Tribal-class destroyer, leaving its berth next to National Yacht Club in 2002 and heading for Hamilton Harbour.

Some things are unlikely to be known with certainty, but I do know that my father's World War II service as a seaman on British Merchant Navy ships took him on the dreaded "Murmansk run" in order to to supply Russian allies with needed goods and war materiel, and that the Canadian destroyer HMCS Haida was on the same run. At the same time as my father's runs? I can't say, but for the sake of literary licence, I'll believe it.

A bridge not yet far enough up.

Now, having posited the not easily verifiable, but easily possible, conjunction, I'll move to the factual and note how it's funny how the Venn diagrams of personal history and History with a capital "H" cross. We sailed a couple of weeks ago to Hamilton, ON, a largish city I had never visited by sailboat, despite its proximity to our home port, or perhaps because of that. We were attending a very nice backyard party/jam session thrown by some transplanted-from-Toronto friends. It was also my birthday weekend, and, like a good co-captain, my wife gave me a new chart of Hamilton Harbour.

If yours is the only boat requiring passage under the bridge, the operators waste no time lowering back to the road level.

Hamilton has a large, protected and deep natural harbour; it's no surprise that it became a centre of heavy industry. The protected aspect comes from the harbour being almost completely bounded by artificial moles under elevated highways and roads, the whole pierced by a short but turbulent ship canal spanned by a large lift bridge.

Now, aside from a stellar and much-appreciated chance to steer downwind both there and back (we set a new SOG record of 9.2 knots (!) surfing on the return leg), we got to see a few Hamilton sights of note, such as Brewers Marine Supply, a rather old-school chandlery where I left my PLB for battery replacement,  and we walked from the very pleasant Royal Hamilton Yacht Club to visit HMCS Haida, now a museum ship and the last extant Tribal-class destroyer from World War II.

As said above, my connection to this particular ship is tenuous, but real, or at least plausible. My late father, of whom I've spoken in this blog before, participated in World War II as a teenaged British merchant navy sailor; he was just 20 in 1945, and so had what can only be described as a highly eventful youth. Despite the fact that many of his comrades and friends met unpleasant ends thanks to U-boats and horrible weather, while serving on rapidly and perhaps insufficiently built ships, and the real possibility of death-by-torpedo, he generally had a fairly happy war, centered, as he often said, on the absence of food rationing aboard Merchant Navy ships.

Still in the top 10 list of "unpleasant yet essential" as far as I can tell

One thing he did not enjoy recalling, however, was the exceedingly dangerous convoy duty he served making the so-called "Murmansk run". With the USSR as an ally during World War II, Britain, Canada and the U.S. strove mightily to supply the Russians with food, fuel and the precious war materiel needed to beat the vast German land forces on the Eastern front. This meant reaching Russia's most northerly port, one acceptably distant from the front lines, and yet one also ice-free and served by rail.

A colourized example of the sort of constant effort to remove the heavy frozen ice from the ship's decks.

The attrition in men and ships was appalling on this particular frosty convoy route. German long-range spotter aircraft were easily able to patrol the route based as they were out of Norway, and weather bad enough to ground them was also liable to sink the freighters in convoy due to heavy ice accumulation and the resultant sudden, devastating capsize. My father commented he was rarely more motivated to labour aboard than when he and the rest of the crew had to knock...with hammers and axes...frozen sea water off the decks and superstructure of his ship in order to avoid a fatal top-heaviness.

The right side matches the description of what I heard from my father.

Enter HMCS Haida. Built to a British design, this jack-of-all-trades destroyer class served in various navies, including the Royal Navy, the Royal Canadian Navy and the Australian Navy. They proved to be tough (Haida was particularly bellicose in her service) and reliable, and provided some measure of protection to the merchant shipping under their care.

HMCS Haida in 2002 being towed from next door to our club to its currrent berth in Hamilton, Ontario. I recall seeing this.

Although I do not have current access to my father's MN paybook to confirm this, it is very likely that he would have been in one of those ships protected by Haida and its sister-ship, Huron. Thus, my father's survival to breed me, some 16 years after the end of World War II, made a visit to see Haida more personal than most touristic days out.

As HMCS Haida would have appeared during World War II.

The strange thing is that Haida was berthed for most of my life (she was decommissioned in the early '60s) not only in Toronto, but opposite our present boat club. She sat immobile, tied up and quietly rusting and barely avoiding the scrapyard, a short walk away, and neither I nor my father saw fit to visit her. Towed to become a permanent museum ship to Hamilton some 10 years ago, I deemed it a "must-see", and a very interesting visit it proved to be.

Mrs. Alchemy and Cabin Boy Extraordinaire, shown to scale

Without spoiling it for those readers inclined to visit (which we would suggest is a very good idea), it does bring home how large and complex a vintage destroyer can be, and at the same time how basic were the wartime facilities aboard.

I'm guessing that the low steel wall here is to divert breaking seas and to keep snapped anchor chain from taking off the legs of crew further aft.

Haida is not entirely at present as she would have appeared if my father had viewed her from a convoy ship's bridge un 1943. She served well into the Cold War, and still sports radar and guns from that time. But enough of her is pure World War II to get a sense of how life aboard her must have been.

Your correspondent's toes contemplating the sheer at the bow.

My hairy little son seemed to get into the spirit of the thing, shouting various warlike invective in his unbroken voice.

I'm not sure destroyers ever called for "RAMMING SPEED" from the aft bridgedeck. Perhaps.

"Captain requests shellfire to be deposited just over there."

ICOM Model 1 VHF, circa 1956

Some mortal coils.

The Captain's quarters were Spartan at best, although I liked the look of the instruments.

Acceptably firm, as per regulation. No lee boards seen.

What? No Zulu time?

The highlight for me, being of a mechanical bent, if one acquired late in life, was a visit below. Yes, I should have used more flash.

This is how the analog world worked, kid.

One of the volunteers in the engine room was a woman who believed herself to be the first female stoker in the Canadian navy. She was exceptionally well-versed on the equipment, and when I enquired whether the steam turbines were the Parsons type, she got quite animated and allowed me to peer into...and touch...the enormous blades of the turbines.

I can only imagine this woman's backstory. She knew every inch of this vast and complex space.

The idea of any of the surrounding piping or engine parts, filled with high-pressure, superhot steam, bursting during wartime, was sobering indeed. 

Note the cotter pins on the mounting stud nuts. Cheap insurance!

I enjoyed the visit to Haida very much, as did the family, and even if you lack a tenuous connection to its history, who wouldn't want to sit on a deactivated torpedo?

Well, they said it was deactivated.

Getting stuffed: a guide

Knut had 99 problems, but a stuffing box wasn't one of them

Unless your name is Pardey, or perhaps you are a Viking longboat re-enactor, if you are a sailor, you will eventually encounter the problem facing most boats: their hulls are full of holes.

The Platonic ideal of getting stuffed.

Valved holes in the hull are called thru-hulls, and the valves themselves are usually called seacocks. They can be merely barbed fittings, but usually feature some way to shut off the hole in order to keep the water out, generally  seen as desirable by the crew, or to replace hoses or for reasons of servicing. Some modern boats, with air conditioning units and widely spaced heads, have many thru-hulls and seacock combinations, all of which are potential sites of failure and water ingress and some of which, in my view, are both unnecessary and poorly situated to access from the inside of the boat. Even with a perfectly sound installation of one's thru-hulls and seacocks, there is the simple law of averages: fewer seacocks means fewer seacocks to go wrong.


There are right ways to address this necessary, if counter-intuitive, state of affairs. Standpipes, for instance, are centralized inlets from which the various water needs (head flushing, engine cooling, seawater for washing, etc.) are "teed-off". If something clogs the inlet, crack open the top of the standpipe, which is above the waterline, and plunge with vigour. Packless or dripless shaft seals keep the water necessary for cooling a turning prop shaft inside the shaft log...and outside of the boat's interior.

Photo copyright S/V Sarah: You can imagine accessing this rudder post stuffing box on a wild night offshore if you found water pouring in back here.

Other, similar types of stuffing boxes are found in rudder posts. Thanks to the craze for aft cabins, this can be a hard place to even find, never mind effectively service. You need to swing a wrench or two.

Rain ingress from Alchemy's companionway, not (I suspect) from the dripless stuffing box

There are no perfect solutions, and some solutions actually require some imperfection. Such is the still-ubiquitous stuffing box, which keeps water not entirely out.

A fairly typical "conventional" stuffing box, which is designed to cool via dripping, which is why engine compartment bilges slosh around small amounts of oily water and look filthy. Photo (c) alberg30.org

After launching Valiente this year, I noticed a fair amount of water in the shallow aft bilges and in the eight-inch deep forward bilge, meant to sequester the rainwater that inevitably trickles down the keel-stepped mast. Given the amount of rain we've had of late, I didn't think much of it, but having a hard-wired, unswitched (as of yet) Whale bilge pump in the aft bilge clearly lulled me into dullness. When I heard that pump cycling on while at dock on a sunny day...and after I had already hand-pumped a couple of buckets of water out, I knew I had a water ingress issue. A quick check of all the other seacocks and thru-hulls aboard (including running a paper towel on the hoses to check for moisture from a pinhole leak) confirmed that the only water was from a trickle in the stuffing box.

Fairly representative diagram of the heart of the matter: Alchemy's former stuffing box was set up like this.

Tightening Valiente's stuffing box did nothing except express some grey thready goop out the front face of the stuffing box (actually a sort of hollowed out nut). Clearly, the increased use of the motor, or a sub-par installation the last time (about four years ago, on the hard) had worn out the packing.

Packing rings on a very clean stuffing box. Photo (c) Compass Marine How-to

As it turns out, a close examination revealed both wear and the incorrect installation of the wrong-sized packing, alas, by your humble correspondent.

Convenient, if not cheap

In order to fix this issue, which I could not in good conscience leave to haulout, should the trickle decide to go straight to flood status, I had to haul out in the slings. The closest YC with a travel lift was Island Yacht Club, who were most accomodating. Cost: $200 for about 90 minutes out of the water. Being a weekday, there was no waiting and no one wanting to launch. I had more trouble with their semi-busted POS (an apt acronym in more ways than one) card readers than I did with the job.

Our youngest crew takes the drying-out opportunity to de-weed the shaft and prop.

I had a vague memory that the packing already present was 1/4". Packing is woven flax or synthetic, squared-off rope-like material. It is either impregnated with Teflon-like slippy goo, or one can apply slippy goo oneself. Slippy goo helps the "packed" packing to slide on the prop shaft, reducing the heat of friction, and thereby requiring less water drops for cooling.

Looks like a Scout project, doesn't it?

Consultation with my local chandlery suggested that the proper size for my make and model of old-school, bronze stuffing box (it's not a big field, really) was 3/16", or one size down. Exercising prudence, and realizing once I was out of the water that I was committed to a full fix, I bought packing in 1/4", 3/16" and even 5/16" little coils. At six dollars each, they were a lot cheaper than the Travel Lift ride.

Not thrilled with the VC-17 performance this year. Son, however, has improved.

After the necessary stretching, poking and picking, I freed the expired and indeed 1/4" old packing, and found that the two miserable rings were hugely compressed...no wonder they were leaking. I also found that the guy from the shop was correct: I could get four rings of 3/16" in the same space, which allowed not only a certain flexibility in the tightening process (too tight and you get no drips and burnt packing; too loose and you get a water feature under the engine), but also the opportunity to rotate the "cuts" in the rings of packing 90 degrees to each other, making a better seal with more even wear prospects. The quarter-inch stuffing was too big for the stuffing box and consequently aged prematurely; 3/16th seems to be a better choice for my situation.

Stuffing boxes are really about finding the sweet spot between dripping and cooling. Some experts apparently like to screw the stuffing box nut tightly, because the compressed and lubed packing needs to "settle in" or compress to its final shape. The "settling in" part is correct, but not without adequate water flow. The customary process is to leave the box loose enough (and yet secured with the locking nut, of course) to have some arbitrary number of water drops per minute coursing through the packing.

Then you run the engine in gear. You feel or use a temperature gauge to determine that the water flow is adequate to cool the stuffing box.

Only then do you tighten down the box incrementally, until the flow is low enough to keep you happy about your bilges, but high enough so that the box never gets warmer than you can touch.

It's tricky and it's individual based on the water flow inside the log, the engine speed, the type of packing and lube and even the water temperature. The goal is (usually) about one or two drips per minute, maybe a few more under power. No drips or "too warm to touch" is burning up your packing and even damaging your shaft.

Nice day for lighting up the back of the engine compartment, crap day for actual sailing...no wind

Our results, so far, are good, meaning dry with sprinkles. Below is the bilge after five days at dock. That small amount of water is not enough to have set off the bilge pump even once. In fact, it may be insufficient to properly cook a running shaft. But the portents are good, meaning I can touch the stuffing box after a motor run and it's not warmer than the surrounding areas.

Needs a scrub, yes, but no longer a bucket.

I have no recollection why I used 1/4" packing the last time. Maybe, as it was the impregnated stuff, it slipped in easier than did the new 3/16" packing, which I anointed with a special lube. Live and learn...and check more than once a season (at launch, usually) going forward.

Reboarder patrol

Drastic steps were required.

Apparently, I have readers who worry when the pace of my blog posting slackens somewhat. Often, that's either because I have little to say, or it isn't particularly interesting (or is even less interesting than the usual not-very-interesting boat blagging), or I have to down boat tools and apply myself to money-making for the boat habit. Such has been the case recently.

It's also been the hottest part of the summer, making the interior of the steel beast intolerable even for those, like me, used to panting in its torrid, insufficiently ventilated bowels. Now, if that description hasn't been off-putting enough, I'll recount a recent repair gig on the old plastic fantastic, Valiente.

A boarding ladder bought last year to replace a previously busted ladder itself improvidentally folded the wrong way while I was descending for a swim. I'm considerably lighter than I was this time last year, so I blame shoddy construction. Irrespective of that, getting back aboard was a trial and I bear the bruises and cuts to prove it. So I determined to do better, meaning sturdier and stronger.

In our part of the world, ladders are required for the purposes of rescues, for which having at least one aboard is a mandatory safety equipment item, like flares, and of course for swimming and reboarding a boat at anchor. There are many ways to mount and deploy the many types of boarding ladder, which range from simple rope ladders...

Uh, no.

...to heavy duty welded jobs that would suit the stern of Alchemy...

Note: Not the stern of Alchemy.

There are plenty of boarding ladder options, most of which are spendy. There are folding, telescoping, single leg and even fairly novel ideas:

Novel is also expensive, although I think firemen use something like this.

All of which got filed for when the time comes to address this on Alchemy, probably at the same time I address the conceptually linked issue of "what mast step can possibly fit my giant feet". In the meantime, Valiente needed a new, unbusted and stronger ladder for the preferred amidships location (the stern is too narrow in my view and too hard to access for backing plates to bolt a ladder there).
Due to a chance perusal at the chandlery where my wife works, I picked up a ladder not only of a type I had yet to see: a gunwale-mounted aluminum ladder that was light, of a good width and which folded vertically.

Nice and long, too, meaning a couple of steps are below WL

This ladder, the maker of which is not on the label, was the right price by virtue of looking pretty industrial and having hung, neglected, on the wall of more stainless, hot 'n' happening models. Maybe it's for a dock. I am indifferent. I want its functional length and its stowage compactness.

Ignore the general grubbiness. This was prior to a Big Summer Scrub/Debirding

Looks like a real house ladder, doesn't it? For me, this is a Good Thing, given how lame and plasticky swim/boarding ladders have seemed to me.

See previous repairs and former mount points. Also 40-year-old chrome on bronze. Sigh.

Installation was straightforward, if longish, as I decided on a proper "drill 'n' fill" process of oversizing the mounting holes, isolating the balsa core with thickened epoxy (West System) and then drilling the proper-sized bolt holes (3/8") through the resultant "hard core".

Slightly blurry...or was that the epoxy kicking?

The mounting plates were sealed around their edges with 4200, as were the bolts themselves. As the bolts are snugged down, the "bead" of sealant climbs up the threads, making a further gasket of sorts under the bolt head and in the drilled hole itself, without mucking up the part the nuts and washers go on. This greatly lessens, for the years I've been doing it, the chances of rain or seawater migrating below, which can really ruin your Little Library of Boat Repair, in my unfortunate and pre-smartening-up experience.

Evidence of my previous labours

After letting the epoxy fill cure, the holes were drilled and "backing plates" in the form of largish fender washers were installed; my son held the bolts still while I used a 1/4" ratchet driver to dog down the nuts to an acceptable degree (Note to self: must get a "clicky torque wrench" in order to quantify "acceptable degrees"). The line of larger bolts running aft is the port genoa track, fixed after it tore straight out of the deck at 28 knots. Has not budged since the recore and remounting!

Might have to consider repainting the interior at some point as this is getting old.

A closer look: The tape was there to keep the epoxy from dripping, but leaving this piece in place is a tell-tale. As it is paper painters' tape, if it feels damp, you've got a leak and a sealing job ahead. Not damp so far after several drenchings of mid-summer intensity.

Will swim shortly, applying the ultimate field (stream?) test

The finished project looks good to me and packs down even better into the starboard cockpit locker than did its crappy forebear. I saw on a sailing forum an idea to get the ladder more vertical vis-a-vis the turn (in) of the hull by lashing crosswise a foam pad or a small fender under the ladder. This sounds like a smart (and cheap!) idea I will employ.

Cleverness courtesy of Cruisers' Forum's "David Old Jersey"

Once again, needful work on Valiente leads to applicable solutions (or at least, bad ideas probably avoided) on Alchemy.

Après le déluge

Oops, looks like I missed a zinc priming spot on the trailing edge of the thrust-bearing yoke.

Just a small, quietly pleased post about water-tightness, a subject of enduring interest to the metal boat owner.

Above is a picture of Alchemy's main bilge a couple of days ago. Note the tablespoon of water aft. This is the first water I've found in this spot, the lowest in the boat, since launch. I suspect it's seepage from under the companionway dropboard (just a piece of Lexan, really), down the stairs and through the ungasketed engine bay hatch. I do not believe it's ingress from the PSS Shaft Seal. My son reports no other damp spots indicative of outside water getting in.

Not a dismasted Alchemy, but a bus trying to head upriver to spawn little cripple carts.

In light of recent events, this is somewhat of a big deal.

Last Monday evening, Toronto received a downpour of record-breaking intensity. For those readers of a certain vintage, the tally in rain (if not wind) exceeded that of Hurricane Hazel, the previous anecdotal benchmark for bad weather, by half a centimetre. That's a lot of rain. Unlike in the '50s, thankfully, no one died, although certain aspects of the event were a touch biblical.

Little snakes on a flooded train

The ground, already sodden from previous recent rainstorms, basically gave up and refused to absorb any more sky juice. Despite my own efforts to divert water from the eavestroughs away from the house, we had my basement office flooded, if only to a minor degree, by water coming up through the floor, indicating that even seven feet below grade, the dirt itself was essentially, if only partly, liquid. Other people, including on the other side of our semi-detached, had it worse, i.e. deeper, and Cap'n Matt in Mississauga designated his basement a fuel dock, now with carpeting. After the upwelling came extensive unplanned (and afterwards planned) electrical blackouts; as I had the trusty Honda 2000 at home (on a shelf above the wet garage floor), I ran it to power the fridge and a small, venerable chest freezer until the power returned Tuesday evening. Cost (excluding initial purchase, of course): about 0.75 l of gasoline.

Our fridge was not, therefore, a coffin of toxic death.

My steaks are important to me, not to mention my ice cubes. See the worried look on the person above? Her fridge was off long enough in Stockphotoville to start her food rotting. No wonder I'm aiming for a big house bank.