Here’s a quick lesson in diesel furnace(*) physics:
(*: or whatever, a wood-burning stove, anything with fire)
The flame in the burner heats up the air, which causes it to rise up the flue and out the chimney. This, combined with the wind passing over the chimney causing a suction effect on the flue, is called “draft”. The draft works in combination with a positive pressure in the cabin, created by a combination of vents, wind traps, and the expansion effect of warmer air vs. colder air. With a balance of positive pressure in the cabin and the draft, all smoke and carbon monoxide exits the cabin through the chimney.
The wind passing over the chimney, the suction effect mentioned above, is similar to blowing over the top of a glass bottle – the flute-like whistling that is made is the air oscillating inside the bottle, unable to equalize because there is no hole in the bottle for fresh air to fill the negative pressure created.
Interestingly, if you were to open, say, a hatch cover in a windstorm, it would be very possible to have this very same suction effect come into play. If that happened, you could easily create a negative pressure within the cabin.
Now – hypothetically speaking – if one were to create a strong negative pressure in the cabin, a few interesting things might happen. Firstly, we can probably assume that because the furnace was running, it must be cold outside – creating the suction effect would probably first suck all of the expanded, rising warm air out the cabin. Secondly, because a negative pressure must be balanced, air would flow in rapidly to fill that void – and as we assume in the first point, that air would probably be cold. Thirdly, that air would have to come from somewhere, and a convenient port of exit (and by definition entry) would be the flue, destroying the draft and creating a backdraft.
The dangerous part of a backdraft is that fuel from the furnace could potentially leave the furnace in an ignited state, and if the backdraft were strong enough, the influx of oxygen could cause an explosive fire. With a diesel furnace however, this is quite unlikely, and what would probably happen is that the flame would be immediately extinguished, leaving the backdraft to fill the cabin with smelly, sooty diesel smoke.
Of course, this hypothetical situation could be easily avoided by simply using the barometric equalizer on the flue, in combination with a draft adjuster below the furnace. One might not leave their warm, cozy bed in a heated cabin to peek outside, only to find oneself having to spend the next forty minutes with all the hatches open expelling smoke from the bedroom cabin and filling the cabin with cold November air. One might not spend the next hour with the foul taste of diesel soot in one’s mouth, or shiver their way back to sleep without the aid of a furnace.
Well, there you have it. A public service, by way of a basic lesson in physics.
Be glad you didn’t have to learn it at 3am in a windstorm.
I regularly get asked the question “So, how’s life on the boat?”, and I have a couple of stock answers ready. “Ridiculous.” is the usual one, which in my opinion sums up the whole thing pretty succinctly. Sometimes I’ll answer “it’s a constant running adventure!”, depending on the events of the previous week or so, or if it’s been particularly stressful I’ll say “up and down, but mostly up.”.
Well, today marks one of the more ‘down’ days; there were a bunch of factors, but it definitely started with my own stupidity. Technically it “started” yesterday but the turning point was at about 2am last night, at least three beers past the “pint of no return”, when I decided that my baby sister’s suggestion to return to her house with her and some friends for more beers sounded like an excellent plan. That plan involved riding my bike five kilometers in the light rain with a guitar on my back, drinking several more beers, singing songs and laughing for an hour or so and then riding five kilometers back home in the pouring rain, finally arriving back home at about 5:30am. I peeled off my soaking-wet clothes, flexed some blood back into my stiff, frozen fingers, and climbed into an icy bed.
At about 7:00am, I got an SMS message from work – something had broken in the webserver farm, and it needed my attention immediately. Of course, the laptop was in the other cabin, so I had to get out of my (finally) warm bed, get dressed, walk ten feet through the pouring rain to the other cabin where I had left my laptop, and then sit in the cold dealing with a server issue. Fortunately it was nothing terribly difficult and I was back in my bed in about an hour… just long enough for the bed to have gotten cold again. At some point during that hour the rain had stopped and the wind picked immensely, howling in the rigging, blowing the hatches closed and making my halyards slap against the mast with a rhythmic cowbell-like sound.
I had only been asleep for an hour or so more when my phone rang – it was my neighbor Shawn, calling from aboard ‘And-E’, his 26-foot cruising sailboat. “Hey,” he said, “Heads up, that powerboat has dragged his anchor again and just slammed into us, he’s headed your way now…”. I thanked him and got off the phone and started getting dressed, and just as I put on my boots I felt the shuddering *thud* of another boat hitting my hull.
It was *freezing* out! The strong westerly wind coming up the False Creek channel wicked any semblance of warmth out through the weave of my sweater, but I was still a bit too groggy – and quite possibly still a bit drunk – to remember to put on a windproof jacket. I put out a few fenders, pushed the boat off my bows and let out some more anchor rode. Fortunately it seemed that just as he hit me, his anchor found purchase in the ocean floor, and as I moved ten feet or so away, he swung back and forth in front of me but didn’t come any closer.
Now, that’s a really good thing – if you’ve been following along the past few weeks, you’ll know that my engine currently doesn’t start, which means that if I have to move the boat, I’m… well, in the interest of keeping this blog clean-ish, let’s just say it rhymes with “out of lucked”. I have faith in my anchor; the 35-pound Delta on 40 feet of heavy chain and 300 feet of strong one-inch polyester rope has held me in place through rougher conditions than this – but that’s not to say that there’s no stress in wondering if it’ll hold this time. The bottom of the ocean floor can change without warning, and False Creek is notorious for garbage and silt. Recently I helped another friend re-anchor after he dragged, and when we pulled his anchor up we found a one-foot length of steel I-beam lodged firmly in the blades; no wonder he hadn’t gotten a good hold!
I watched the powerboat warily for a few minutes – I’d spoken with it’s owner a few days prior about his constant anchor dragging, but he’d apologized and shown me his brand new 50-pound ‘Bruce’ anchor, which definitely should be more than enough to keep a little boat like his in place, so I was pretty sure that if he’d found purchase he probably wouldn’t be going anywhere. I figured he’d be coming back pretty shortly, and so with the powerboat swinging back and forth ten feet off my bow, I went back to sleep. At this point I realized that it was going to be “one of those days”, so I didn’t bother taking my clothes off; I just took off my boots and jacket and pulled a blanket over myself.
Well, I got a good solid 40 minutes or so of sleep before my phone rang again. This time it was Dale, the owner of the other (and nicer) Searunner trimaran in False Creek. “Drew,” he said, “I just got a call from the police, and they say my boat is up on the rocks – are you on your boat? Do you have a spare anchor…?”. I looked out my front window, and there was Dale’s boat, sitting up on the rocks near Monk’s. I do have a big spare anchor, and so it was back out of bed again and into boots and raingear. I put the heavy anchor into the rowboat and fought the howling winds rowing the 300 meters or so west, dropped the anchor into the water, rowed back to Dale’s boat and climbed aboard. I wrapped the anchor rode around one of the winches, intending to winch him off the rocks, and went to grab a winch handle… nope. No winch handles.
Fortunately at this point there was a small wave system building, and I was able to rock the boat off the rocks and pull her to safety with just my arms, lying on the foredeck with my legs braced on the stanchions, using the two anchor cleats to gain a mechanical advantage. You’d be surprised just how large a boat you can move with just a sustained pull!
Once Dale’s boat was safe, I rowed back to Tie Fighter to try to catch some more sleep – but of course, there were a few emails that needed my attention, so it was another half-hour before I could return to my bed, which was now once again cold. I kept the raingear and boots close and buried my head in the blankets – it took a while to drift off, due to the physical activity, but I was determined.
I had finally nodded off and had been asleep for a good solid forty minutes or so when I was awoken yet again by that now-unmistakable sickening *thud*. I jumped out of bed and threw on my boots, and headed out to find the powerboat crashed into my bows again – this time with a man aboard, doing his best to get his boat untangled from mine. He apologized profusely; apparently he’d come to retrieve his boat, and in doing so his engines had stalled just after he pulled up his anchor, and they were now refusing to start. His problem was cooling fluid, or more accurately a lack thereof. I had some to spare, so we rafted his boat up against my port side and tied him off, and he tackled the cooling problem. In a few minutes, he was up and running again, and we untied his boat. He set off with more apologies, sincere thanks and a promise of a delivery of beer sometime soon.
So that brings me to now, more or less. It’s barely 5pm on a Friday, which usually means the day is really only about to begin. I’m due at a very exclusive techno dance party tonight, but with five hours of sleep and very little physical endurance left I’m not sure how that will go. The wind has died down a lot, but it’s still quite windy out, and the temperature has dropped a few more degrees – thankfully my diesel furnaces are working very well, and the aft cabin is warm and toasty.
Some days are up, some days are down. I spoke once before about the amplitude of the good-day/bad-day sinewave, but I’m still maintaining that the good days outweigh the bad. This blog pretty much only reflects one portion of my life also, and suffice to say my romantic interests lately have been equally tumultuous – actually, way moreso. *sigh*.
I’m almost afraid to have a nap at this point, lest it anger whatever gods govern Friday the Thirteenth and something else comes up – but I think I’m going to give it one more shot.
Actually I quite like to participate in sports, though I have to admit that I prefer solo endeavors (cycling, sailing, windsurfing, snowboarding etc) over team sports. Still, I have a hard time understanding the draw that many people have towards watching other people play sports. And along those lines, I cannot for the life of me figure out why someone would want to wear a sporting jersey – for a sport they don’t even play, mind you – with another man’s name on the back!? The mind boggles.
Regardless, for the first time since WrestleMania VII, I find myself excited to watch an upcoming televised sporting event! Even further, it’s an event that I previously found really boring, so you can infer that they’ve basically stepped it up a notch.
And what a notch it is! This year’s America’s Cup will be raced with multihull sailboats for the first time… ever, as far as I know.
Rather than write about it ad nauseum, I’m just going to post a bunch of photos lifted from an email I received, the originator of which apparently took them directly from Sail-World‘s website.
"Team USA", the BMW/Oracle "BOR90" trimaran training off the coast of San Diego. The team wear helmets and are chased by powerboats carrying divers and paramedics. They've hit 50kn so far - about 100km/hour!
The old mast - about eighteen stories tall, and made of hollow carbon fiber - they can send a man up inside it!
The BOR90 is as long as she is wide - 90 feet square.
The defender of the Cup! The swiss team have entered a catamaran, named "Alinghi"
Alinghi flying a hull a day after her christening!
Quickly running out of space at 40kn on Lake Geneva...
What's that? A shackle is missing? Let me just go fix that...
Lake Geneva is too small, so it's an airlift to Genoa, Italy!
That's a Russian cargo helicopter that can lift 40 tonnes and has a crew of 16... Alinghy weighs a mere 8,000lbs.
Holy crap, I can’t wait to see this. These spacecraft sailing multihulls are up to three times as fast as the boats used in previous America’s Cup races, and as I’m sure you can understand, trimarans hold a special significance for me. I will definitely be attending some kind of America’s Cup party!
As I’ve mentioned here recently, my engine (“Maude”) is not currently starting. This is actually a bit of a hassle, as it means I’m pretty much stuck here in the middle of False Creek until I get her working again – not that I actually had anywhere I wanted to go, mind you. Still, the knowledge that you can’t go anywhere is like a pizza-cheese burn on the roof of your mouth; not really painful per se, but irritating and impossible to completely forget about.
Fortunately, this is also the week that I began my ‘Marine Diesel Engine Maintenance’ class with Cooper Boating over on Granville Island. I’ve been to one class so far, and I can already tell that the $399 spent on the class was a very, very good idea! Three more three-hour classroom sessions and one Saturday-afternoon shop session to go – but even after a single class I’ve gained more understanding of my engine than an entire summer of being around it, blindly trusting it to work when needed.
One interesting part of the class – and in the sailing ‘scene’ in general around Vancouver – is the age group. At thirty-three years old, I am no spring chicken – but I am the youngest person in the class by at least twenty years. I’ve also noticed this at anchorages and marinas; I have to admit it puzzles me a bit as so many people that I talk with express a longtime interest in sailing and the liveaboard lifestyle. Is it really the kind of dream that people put off until retirement, at which point you don’t have the energy or resilience to take long voyages? That makes no sense to me, but would explain why so many sailboats sit in the marina and never go anywhere.
Regardless, I cannot take any voyages while Maude is still not starting. At first I thought it was water in the fuel lines – that still may be the case, but now that I’ve drained the water from the fuel/water separator and opened the air-bleed bolts, I still am unable to feed diesel through the fuel lines using the fuel lift pump. I am beginning to think that perhaps the problem is actually in the fuel lift pump itself; these apparently have a diaphragm that wears out eventually, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if mine has worn out.
This weeks’ class was mostly about the importance of the lubrication system (ie, engine oil) and the workings of the cooling system (ie raw/fresh water or antifreeze), both of which will require my attention in short order – however, neither of those systems can be maintained without first repairing whatever is going on with my fuel delivery system. Fortunately next week’s class is about exactly that – so if I cannot figure out this problem on my own this week, I have a targeted class next Monday to help me.
Maude is the last major ‘mystery’ system on Tie Fighter, and I will be her master – or at least her capable attendant.
In the ‘step forward’ department, I’ve now got all of my lights installed and wired! This is a huge step; I’ve been bragging to friends and – well ok, anyone who’ll listen, really – that I can finally brush my teeth without the use of a flashlight. Not that light is really an absolute necessity when brushing one’s teeth, but it’s nice to be able to visually gauge the amount of toothpaste used, spit accurately into the basin, etc. You know, the little things.
I think I’ve written about the lighting here before, but I’ll recap anyway. The lights are custom 12v bulbs that I found at Lee’s Electronic Components on Main Street up around 29th Avenue. The owner (Lee?) assembles the bulbs by hand; each one contains three 1w LEDs (read: bright) fresh from China, each having the interesting property of throwing by far the warmest LED light that I have seen yet. The bulbs are around $20 each, though he dropped the price a buck or so each when I ordered eight of them at once.
more LEDs - Ikea ran out of white "Beryll"s
As for fixtures to put these bulbs in – I searched long and hard for appropriate mounting fixtures, and had actually resigned myself to hacking together manufacturing my own fixtures from dollar-store components. The fixtures I wanted would need to be articulated, so as to point the light where I want it, and they’d need to be made of a material that wouldn’t corrode in the marine environment, so stainless steel, brass or plastic. Ideally, they’d also have a switch mounted on the fixture so that I could turn the lights on or off individually. After searching for the ideal fixtures for a couple of months to no avail, I finally stumbled upon the Ikea ‘Beryll’ fixture, which met all of my specs, and weren’t crazy expensive at $24 each. Better yet, the Ikea fixtures actually used a 12v wall adapter, so the bulbs they came with were already 12V and the LED bulbs fit perfectly with no modifications at all!
So, pricewise – thirteen bulbs at $19/ea, thirteen fixtures at $24/ea – simple math says I’m into these lights for a grand total of $559, plus taxes. Let’s call that an even $600 and promptly forgot that we ever did that math – honestly, if you keep too close a track on how much you spend on a sailboat you’d very likely have a nervous breakdown. I placate myself with the knowledge that I’m saving about $1000 on rent, though who knows how long that’ll last. Nothing on a boat is cheap – but having to subject everything to the harsh marine environment certainly makes you aware of how much cheaply made, disposable stuff we use in our daily lives. I’m starting to notice a growing disdain for things that aren’t built to last – my upper lip curls a bit when I see, say, a door handle made from polished but not stainless steel. Why cheap out? That’ll rust in a matter of weeks if you leave it outside. Oh, you, uh, aren’t planning to ever leave your bathroom door outside? Well, I guess that’s ok then…
As for my second step forward, both of my furnaces are now working! The furnace in the forward cabin, aka the ‘bedroom and bathroom’ cabin, has been working for about two weeks, while the furnace/stove in the aft cabin shuddered to life this past weekend just in time for Halloween. I had planned to install a low-pressure fuel pump to supply diesel to the two furnaces, but after running the furnace in the forward cabin over the span of a few chilly nights, I realized that my little twenty-gallon main diesel tank might be better left to supply just the engine, and decided to reinstall the respective gravity-feed tanks instead.
the diesel stove poses with the propane burner
The diesel furnaces are equal parts fascinating feats of engineering and twitchy, sullen, temperamental old grouches. With no moving parts, they work by heating up a “superheater” element, which vaporizes incoming diesel fuel on contact. The vaporized fuel is then drawn upwards by the flue draft into a second chamber, where it is fed fresh oxygen from an intake port and burns clean and hot – these machines were clearly designed by someone who really paid attention in physics class! The twitchy part comes mostly from the nature of the task at hand; the ambient temperature, the ambient humidity, the viscosity of the diesel fuel (which can vary greatly from supplier to supplier), the amount of carbon buildup in the burners – hell, for all I know, the phase of the moon – can all affect the superheater performance. Using this equipment is an organic experience, with several knobs, levers and dials to adjust the burn.
Things I have learned since getting my main furnace/stove running again:
the cast-iron stovetop is lovely for cooking, but very slow. I’ll still be keeping my Coleman propane burner around.
cooking eggs and/or pancakes directly on the stovetop is AWESOME.
post-halloween blueberry and Twizzler™ buckwheat pancakes are AWESOME. maybe I’ll post the recipe soon.
just because you season a stovetop grill with lard one day doesn’t mean it’s still non-stick the next day.
the stovepipe may have been cool to the touch all summer, but now it’s VERY HOT. see the toonie-sized burn on my forearm for details.
Probably my favourite thing: the stove stays gloriously warm for an hour or so after I turn off the diesel burner. Gotta love cast iron!
As for the step backwards – apparently my engine is dead again. I’m not sure what’s wrong with her this time – I noticed a little drop in power the last time I had her out to get water, but hoped that it was just a momentary glitch. This, you may realize, is absolutely not the sort of thing one can afford to do when one lives aboard a boat, especially if one is noticing some fundamental change in one’s only method of locomotion. Realistically, it’s the boating equivalent of smelling a gas leak in your kitchen and hoping that it’s just a forgotten egg rotting under the counters or something.
Actually, I have a pretty good idea of what’s wrong – the main diesel tank is made of aluminum, and the temperature has been fluctuating quite drastically for the past month or so. Temperature changes and a not-quite-full metal tank mean condensation, which in turn means it’s very likely that there’s water in the fuel lines. This isn’t too difficult to deal with, but it does mean that I’m going to have to drain the fuel-water separator and bleed the fuel lines, which on my engine is an eleven-step process requiring three different sizes of wrench. I’ve watched a mechanic do it once – several months ago after having almost the exact same engine death happen to me – and with any luck I’ll be able to duplicate his work myself. I hope so anyway, because the last mechanic visit cost me $180 or so.
Maude, relaxing in her cubby
Of course, there’s no reason for me to have noticed such a problem while sitting at anchor in False Creek, as I don’t often run my engine – my house battery bank isn’t hooked up to the alternator, and I have a fantastic Honda EU2000i generator to charge the house bank up to handle my day-to-day work electrical needs. So of course it took a voyage for me to notice; I had been out of water in my potable water tanks for a day or so, and I needed to travel down to the underside of the Granville Bridge to dock and refill them from the public hose.
Normally when I go for a short trip like this, or head out for a daysail or something, I leave my anchor firmly attached to the bottom of the ocean floor and tie the anchor line off to my dinghy, leaving the dinghy to mark my “spot” in False Creek and saving me the hassle of re-anchoring upon my return. Re-anchoring can be a real hassle, as you don’t really know exactly how your boat is going to swing until you’ve gone through a tide change or two, and if you’ve screwed it up you might end up bumping into other boats. Scratching up your neighbor’s paint isn’t really a great way to maintain a nice neighborly friendship.
So without hesitation, I tied off my anchor line and set off for the Granville Bridge. I hadn’t even made it a hundred meters yet when my engine began to slow down, just a little at first, but then more and more and finally she came to a shuddering stop. I raced down below to restart her, and threw the gearshift into reverse to avoid drifting into a neighbor’s sailboat. The best plan of action at this point would clearly be to turn her around and get back to the anchor, so I could figure out the problem without the stress of drifting, powerless, through the busiest bay in the region! I managed to get her turned about somewhat, but the engine was having none of it, and while she would start she’d die again as soon as I gave her any throttle.
As an aside I have decided that, like my autopilot (“Steve”), the engine is a separate entity, in cahoots with but distinct from “Tie Fighter”, the sailing vessel under which she serves. As such, the engine deserves a separate and unique name; I believe that any machinery that is given great responsibility must have a name in order to have the pride needed to take on that responsibility. I have decided to name my engine “Maude”, a fine Teutonic name meaning “mighty in battle”. “Maude” is also my mother’s middle name.
So, drifting free in False Creek with Maude disabled and cranky, I felt justifiably stresssed – though without much reason as it turned out. The sun was shining, the temperature was lovely, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the incoming afternoon tide pushed me slowly eastwards in a straight line directly back towards my dinghy! When I came within reach I leaned out and grabbed the dinghy with my boat hook, tied off Tie Fighter to the anchor line and breathed a massive sigh of relief. I didn’t have to call the Coast Guard for a rescue!*
(*: well, technically, last time this happened I didn’t have to call them either – I broke down directly in front of their outpost, and they came out of their own accord…)
a rainbow at sunset - one example of why I'm still out here
Anyhow. I have now enrolled in a five-week marine diesel engine maintenance class with Cooper Boating on Granville Island, beginning next Monday evening. Maude is one of the last big ‘mystery’ systems on Tie Fighter, and if I’m planning to do any long-term cruising (more on that soon), I need to become both her master and her servant – or at least her family doctor. Maybe just her trusted friend. Regardless, we need to able to count on one another to perform adequately when needed, and the first step towards that is for me to learn a lot more about what to do to keep her happy.
Overall? The nights are getting colder, but the natural scenery is still stunning. My windows have proven to be mostly weatherproof, and the odd day of sun here and there has allowed me to patch up the remaining leaks as I find them. My list of needed boat “repairs” grows steadily shorter, though the list of needed/wanted “upgrades” stays pretty much the same length no matter how many I knock off. The diesel heat is warm, if a bit smelly, my pantry is full and my bed is dry. My internet works, I’m (mostly) keeping up on my bills, and for some reason I’ve been a lot more musically productive over the past few days.
