Clamp sister

The past couple of years have been strange for all of us. I don't think in my lifetime I had anticipated the way things would develop. The decline of liberal democracy, the normalisation of subjective truth, the rise of populist fascism, pestilence floods and war. 

Oh and the existential crisis of climate change. Not to mention a whole range of normal personal and family calamities. 

So what to do, hey - ho, lets just go sailing. 

After a false start last year we finally set off from the UK back to Marmaris where Summertime had been sitting in the yard relatively immune to the major world events, being made of plastic, but subject to a significant lack of routine care and attention. 

My return to Marmaris was therefore with a degree of trepidation as to what awaited. What spite could a boat deliver following 18 months of emotional neglect. 

I had booked flights for the middle weekend of April. This was the first error. Being a-religious I had failed to clock that this was Easter weekend. Not only was it Easter weekend, but it was the first viable public holiday since the official (if not actual) end of the Coronavirus pandemic. 

All the children were on holiday, the borders were open and there was even a forecast of good weather in the UK. What a nightmare. The transport agency was predicting the busiest travel weekend since records began. Add to this that P&O ferries were kaput due to their spat with the government over their right to sack their entire workforce and hire in cheap crew, the main air carriers were in crisis due to lack of staff, the railways were planning their biggest maintenance party for decades shutting all lines North and West of London. The M20 in Kent was a forty mile long lorry park, without toilets, and Man City were to lose to Liverpool at Wembley meaning an exodus South to London on a Biblical scale! 

So I did a bit of emergency re-gigging. We planned to travel 24 hours earlier and booked into the Premier Inn at Gatwick. The long stay valet parking at Gatwick (great value, less than £100 for 80 days) was adjusted, and off we set. We have done this trip several times now. 

One of the problems is that during a winter of nothing much to do, I have a tendency to plan things for the boat. You know, minor engineering and electronics projects, things that have to be done for safety and enjoyment.

 Lists develop, items accrue, and before you know it there is a large bag weighing 23.7kg of items essential to meeting the dream of sailing nirvana. 

And this has happened several times now. How much stuff can a boat absorb. Perhaps we were about to find out.

 What I have now realised that most of this is nonsense, and is derived from a deep psychological anxiety about the risks of sailing, and a need to mitigate the loneliness of command. 

 In the end, the roads were fine, the airport somewhat quieter than I remember from pre-pandemic levels of business and all was pretty straightforward. I think there is a bit of hype being generated by government through the media to try to get economic activity going again. The actuality is that people have been quite deeply scarred and hurt by the pandemic, and the new normal has yet to be defined.

 However, enough of general matters and more of our journey and purpose. We arrived at Dalaman airport and were met by our driver for the two hour trip to the Marina. We arrived there about an hour and a quarter later at 03.00 hrs. He was quick! 

I was aware that the boat would have been moved several times since we last saw it so I had enquired as to where it might be found. 

The instructions were somewhat opaque, being “on the canteen side number 48.” 

None of which meant anything to me. But I was re-assured that the security guy would assist. This confidence evaporated when the security guy asked us where our boat was and he met our ignorance with a bored shrug. 

By the time were were deposited in the middle of the yard, we had been in transit for 48hours, the wind was howling, the halyards rattling on masts were in cacophony, the waves were crashing on the breakwater and we were in the middle of about a square mile of boats...thousands. Marmaris has become a major centre for super-yachts and many of them were ashore in our yard. Which means that from ground level they obstruct the sky.

 Wandering about in these circumstances was really disorientating and a huge sensory experience. And there are a million things to trip over and put your leg down in a boat yard on a night as dark as Hades.

 Finally after an hour of searching, and just at the point where I was going to give up, I found Summertime. Nestling in the furthermost corner of the yard, it was quite emotional. 

 So I hiked back to M. We managed to cart our kit the mile or so to where Summertime lay. I then had to find a ladder, steel and weighing 25kg and cart it half a mile away. 

The keys were where expected, and in we went. A quick slug of duty free and off to bed. 

 Sleep was a bit disturbed due to the 3 hr time difference, the howling wind and crashing waves. 

Eventually I nodded off, only to be awoken by the sound of large tractor and some shouts in baritone Turkish. Our boat was to be moved as it was in the way of others that were to be launched. 

We were gently conveyed to a much more central part of the yard right next to water and electricity - boat yard bliss. However it was then that we noticed fluid in the bilge. Summertime has always been an exceptionally dry boat, but this was not water, it was an amalgam of water and diesel. 

The diesel tank had been closed but I had been a bit worried about a tiny drip from the primary fuel filter and had placed an appropriate receptacle under it. On exploration the yogurt pot had migrated from its placement, presumably due to being shoogled in transit. That would explain it. 

I did an external inspection. 

There should not really be any liquid staining the keel around the joint with the hull, and especially not fluid that smelled like diesel! All the alarm bells went of simultaneously, the doors to damnation opened and I stumbled in headlong. This was serious doodoo. 

My imagination ran through all the possibilities, cracks in the hull, de lamination, stringer bonding failure, keel falling off, all crew lost. And who would the Maritime and Coast Guard Agency blame, who would the Turkish Courts find guilty? We have all seen Midnight Express. 

After a cup of tea I felt a little calmer. Now it so happened that a good friend of a good friend, who I had not yet met, was in the Marina on his boat and about to depart the next day. 

This new acquaintance also happened to be Turkish, and Scottish and an accomplished sailor and boat owner. A fine set of attributes in any event and particularly in this current circumstance. 

So I wandered across the marina to have my first meeting with Umit on his boat. 

After preliminary introductions and with an Effes in hand I recounted our sorry tale. Umit was on his phone immediately and put me in touch with his friend, an engineer with who he was about to have a farewell dinner that evening before returning to the UK. 

 By this time it was clear that despite our attempts to suck out and mop up the diesel, more was appearing.

 Eventually I emptied out the rear cabin to access the whole of the diesel tank. A quick inspection of the front where all the pipes that might leak were placed had been negative. However as soon as I got to the back of the tank, I found the culprit. 

The tank is hard plastic that should last for as long as the planet so should not spontaneously leak. There is a moulded fitting at the aft end, attached to a rubber hose that vents to the outside of the hull. 

A spurt of diesel emerged from this area as soon as I leant on the tank.

 Ahaa! It felt a bit like the old days of finding a bleeding point in an artery! I reverted to professional mode, completed the transection of the vessel, controlled the exsanguination by digital pressure and called for M to find the wooden bungs to occlude the ends, a bit like “Clamp Sister”.

 Fortunately I had a bit of rubber hose exactly the right internal diameter to complete the repair and the patient’s life was saved. Hurrah! 

But what to do next. The next day Umit turned up with his friend Hasan. Hasan’s view was that things were probably OK. He suggested some diesel had slowly percolated down some keel bolt tracks, dissolving the rust and bedding material as it went and slowly leaked out over a long period of time. 

I accepted this view gratefully and we continued to make our preparations to launch the following day.

 I got a further opinion from the boss of the boat yard firm we have used in the past in the Marina. His view was the same  that it was not a major issue and that diesel can find gaps that would not allow water to leak, and probably all was well. 

 By this time I was on a fixing stuff roll. Outboard serviced, broken stop switch repaired and started first pull.

 You are amazing Mr Honda, an outboard that will start after 18 months of neglect!.

Broken clam cleat repaired with new side panels, dinghy cleaned and re inflated and taken aboard.

 Anchor chain marked in 10m lengths with white paint, engine impeller replaced, diesel filter replaced and engine started first turn, Mr Perkins/Volvo you are also amazing. 

Having sat near the shore for 18 months unattended, in general everything looked OK if a bit dusty, but the reality is that everything corrodes, every electrical contact needs sharpened. 

The solar panel I had left topping up the batteries had failed. On exploration the connector at the panel itself had completely rusted through. 

 The next day we carried on gentle cleaning duties, as much as you can when not afloat

Late afternoon our carriage arrived to transport us to the sea. The boat had been somewhat stern down and heeled to starboard in its cradle. As the transporter lifted up the cradle and proceeded to the launching pool I walked alongside. 

To my horror I could see the stains on the keel enlarging before my eyes and new streaks appeared. 

This was no slow seepage over many months but a significant leak! 

After a quick confab with the engineering company boss we aborted the launch.

 In the evening I recounted the sad tale to my insurance company and we will wait to see their response. At the moment it looks like mast down and keel off to explore the problem.

Spiteful boat indeed. Hell hath no fury like a boat scorned.

 Ho Hum. This is something beer cannot fix.