Special delivery: Sign up for the free Cruising World email newsletter. Subscribe to Cruising World magazine for $29 for 1 year and receive 3 bonus digital issues.

In 2011, I began searching for a specific type of ketch. I flew from Florida to Mexico, to Seattle and the British Virgin Islands, all to inspect boats. My budget was around $180,000, but I was unable to find a vessel to my liking—unless it was a project boat that would require a lot of repair and TLC.

I’m far from alone. No matter what the ideal boat is in any sailor’s mind, it’s always a quick descent from the dream back to reality, which usually includes asking yourself whether you should buy a less-expensive ­fixer-upper or a more-expensive (and allegedly) turnkey edition. Experienced boat owners tell first-time buyers to take a hard look at their own skill levels and personal circumstances when trying to decide. Many first-time buyers fail to listen, at which point the descent continues from reality into nightmare. 

Part of the problem, I think, is that a laundry list of factors comes into play when deciding which type of boat to buy. Precious few buyers ever think about them all. You need to consider your aptitude for and attitude toward do-it-yourself projects, your available tools, your age and health, and the age and condition of the vessel—not to mention your expectations and personal circumstances. 

With all of that in mind, here are smart ways to think about the possibilities and ­pitfalls that might confront you, whether you go the fixer-upper or turnkey route.

Major Considerations

If your budget is limited, then a project boat—a neglected vessel that needs a lot of work—might be the best way to acquire a particular model. For a person who is capable of doing the work, the project boat can become a nice boat that is more valuable. 

Be aware that newcomers often look at project boats through rose-colored glasses. They inaccurately assess the costs of a restoration. A good rule is to estimate at least double for costs and time. Those who ignore that rule often end up selling the boat before finishing the repairs. The vessel then transfers to another enthusiastic buyer. (By comparison, a skilled project-boat restorer can flip a boat and even make a profit.) 

Project boats come in all shapes and sizes, and they’re not necessarily older boats. Some models hold their value; some older designs were built stronger than some newer vessels. Sometimes, their owners had financial problems, or became ill or elderly. And, once that owner decided to sell the boat, maintenance probably declined, leading to deterioration. Boats like these can be found in marinas everywhere. They’re like abandoned puppies, begging for a new owner to take care of them. 

The age of a boat, along with the age of the buyer, can also matter. A younger buyer might have plenty of time to restore a project boat, while an older person might opt for a ready-to-go boat that can be enjoyed immediately. In some cases, older buyers who are retired have more time to work on boat projects. The project-boat option can be particularly appealing if the boat can be used during the restoration so that some pleasure can be had as work progresses.

A warning: A project boat can become a white elephant if the cost of restoration ends up exceeding the cost of a ­ready-to-go boat. 

On the other side of the coin, a ready-to-go boat might be ideal for a buyer with the right budget and a desire to get out on the water immediately. A ready-to-go boat is also smart for a buyer who lacks the skills and/or time for repairs. It’s true that a ready-to-go boat will likely have faults, but it’s usually to a lesser degree than with a project boat. 

And then, there are your personal circumstances. Spouses want input. They notice big expenditures. A single person might not have any constraints, but a married buyer with children could have many—and should ­probably consider a ­ready-to-go boat that the family can enjoy straightaway, even if it ­stretches the initial budget.

An inspection by a ­professional marine surveyor is a sound investment for any buyer of a used boat, and is normally required for insurance purposes anyway. A good surveyor can estimate the cost of restoration—either DIY or at a boatyard—and can help a buyer learn more about the boat’s true condition. After receiving the survey, you can honestly assess your abilities and limitations in terms of time and finances. And remember: Surveyors are far from infallible. There will probably be things they miss too.

Elbow Grease

First-time boat buyers ­often overestimate their DIY abilities. For a project boat, the necessary skills might include ­repairing or replacing complicated electrical equipment, plumbing, carpentry, hydraulics, sails and lines, and the ­many branches of these ­top-level skills. Sure, you can learn from books and the ­internet, but even with the knowledge of how to do something, you need skill to actually do it.

Especially taxing on an old project boat can be electrical repairs because there might not be any wiring diagrams, and the wires will likely be brittle, with insulation cracked or chafed. The complete wiring system might need replacing, a task that is tedious and expensive. Even an experienced person sometimes has to call in a specialist, especially if certain instruments or gauges are needed, such as in air-conditioning-systems diagnosis. And it can be hard to know where to buy materials at the right price for some projects.

Repairs also typically require lots of tools, especially for carpentry work. I recently repaired a damaged toe rail on my schooner. The job required shaping and splicing in a 6-foot-long teak plank that was 7 inches wide and an inch thick. I needed a bench circular saw, an electric hand sander, a bench sander, a jig saw, an oscillating sander, a bench, a hand router, a power planer, a power drill, four clamps and four chisels, not to mention numerous screws, glues, caulk and varnish. If you must buy or rent some or all of these tools, your costs will go up. Fast.  

Forging Ahead

In my own boat search, I got a professional survey and bought a project boat for less than a quarter of my budget. As I began working on the boat, I discovered things that even the surveyor had overlooked. For the first two years, most of my time was spent repairing or replacing broken items.

I’ve messed about with boats for more than 50 years, and I have above-average restoration skills, along with lots of tools. I was also newly retired at the time, so I could work on the boat using leftover funds from my budget. And I have a wife who enjoys sailing and varnishing. I was an ideal ­candidate to buy a project boat.

Some of the alterations I made could stymie many a boat buyer. I changed the rig to a schooner by moving the masts and standing rigging. I installed a square sail on the foremast, then converted all the sails to roller furling, operated from the safety of the cockpit. All three staterooms were remodeled, and a full-size bath was installed in the owner’s head. The galley was modernized to include a deep freezer, a washer/dryer and a microwave. I installed two electric toilets with waste-treatment systems. I ­fitted two air-conditioning units, and upgraded all the plumbing and instrumentation. These alterations, along with many more innovations, are detailed on Britannia’s website, schooner-britannia.com.

The cost over the years has been nearly $100,000, but even after adding that to the initial purchase price, I’ve still paid less than my original budget. And I have a boat exactly to my liking.

Of course, my labor has been free, but I’ve mainly enjoyed the project, along with ­extensively sailing the boat along the way. I suppose you could say that a buyer like me can also factor in the cost of the enjoyment. 

Hailing from New Bern, North Carolina, Roger Hughes has been a professional captain, charterer, restorer, sailing instructor and imbiber. He recently completed a full restoration and extensive modification of a well-aged 50-foot ketch. Read more at schooner-britannia.com.

The post Is a Project Boat Worth the Investment? appeared first on Cruising World.

Special delivery: Sign up for the free Cruising World email newsletter. Subscribe to Cruising World magazine for $29 for 1 year and receive 3 bonus digital issues.

Not long ago, I saw a boater write online: “My vessel has no bonding system, and everything seems to be fine. Do I need one?”  

It’s a great question. Like so many things electrical, you can’t actually see what’s happening—or not happening—with a bonding system, making it tempting to draw conclusions that are often incorrect.

Let’s begin with terminology. The words “bonding” and “grounding” are often used interchangeably. For the purposes of this column, we’ll look at bonding systems specifically.  

Cathodic protection refers to the utilization of a system that relies on a sacrificial metal, the anode, to protect underwater metals, or cathodes.

Anode refers to a sacrificial metal, often zinc, although it can be aluminum or ­magnesium. Zinc is suited for ­seawater applications; aluminum is appropriate for ­seawater, brackish water or fresh water; and magnesium can be used only in fresh water.  

The primary goal of a bonding system is to electrically connect disparate, submerged metals, usually via wire (American Boat and Yacht Council standards call for a minimum of 8-gauge tinned cable). An anode is then connected to the bonding system, providing cathodic protection to those same interconnected metals. As long as the anode is maintained, and the resistance between the anode and any connected metal is kept below 1 ohm, then galvanic (­dissimilar metal) corrosion can be avoided. 

While galvanic corrosion is a slow process, occurring over months or years, stray-current corrosion can lay waste to underwater metals in a matter of days. In severe cases, it can lead to flooding and sinking.  

Stray-current corrosion occurs when DC battery current leaks into bilge water or the water around the vessel, usually via a damaged wire or other exposed connection in the bilge. While it’s not guaranteed, a bonding system can help stem the effects of stray-current corrosion. It provides a more direct, ­lower-­resistance path back to the source—the vessel’s battery
—rather than through the water. With that low-resistance return path, the likelihood increases of a fuse blowing or circuit breaker tripping. That’s good because it stops the harmful current flow.  

When current flows through water, some metal will almost surely come to grief. In their benevolent form, sacrificial anodes are consumed via the cathodic-protection process. These anodes should be replaced when they are no more than 50 percent depleted. Through-hulls, struts and other underwater metals may fall victim to stray-current corrosion. (Anodes, by the way, can stave off only galvanic corrosion; they are no match for stray-current corrosion, which will consume them in short order.)

Bonding systems protect submerged metals, seacocks, shaft logs, rudders and the like. Other metal objects inside the vessel, including the engine and generator, even if bonded, will be afforded no protection from corrosion because they are not immersed in the same body of water as the hull anode. (Engines should be bonded only if they utilize isolated ground starters and alternators.) In order for cathodic protection to work, the protected metal and the anode must reside in the same water, and the interconnection between them must be of very low resistance. Engines and generators must rely on either their own anodes or, in some cases, alloys that manufacturers believe do not require cathodic protection.  

Shafts and props—because they are often only tenuously connected to the bonding system via the marine gear, which is oil-filled—cannot rely on hull-mounted anodes for cathodic protection. They must utilize their own anodes. The average, inexpensive shaft brush is incapable of meeting the 1-ohm resistance standard. 

Steve D’Antonio offers services for boat owners and buyers through Steve D’Antonio Marine Consulting.

The post Monthly Maintenance: The Value of Marine Bonding Systems appeared first on Cruising World.

Special delivery: Sign up for the free Cruising World email newsletter. Subscribe to Cruising World magazine for $29 for 1 year and receive 3 bonus digital issues.

“Nighty-night. Hope the bugs don’t bite.” 

My parents used this rhyme to tuck me into bed each night. I used it with my own children. It is particularly pertinent on a boat, because there’s nothing more annoying than a mosquito buzzing around in a dark cabin, and the moment you switch on a light in the hope of squashing it, it vanishes into some small cranny—until you switch off the light again. It’s also not really ideal to spray a small cabin with insect repellent because you might be the one who gets repelled. 

The answer is to have bug screens covering all openings, particularly portlights and hatches, which you might want to open all night for ventilation. 

Most portlight manufacturers make mesh screens that fit their portholes. On my 50-foot schooner, Britannia, we also have custom-made hatch screens that clip into place under the hatches. One fits completely around the main companionway doors, but it makes it awkward to get in and out, so we don’t use that very often.

Portlight screens need to be outside the hinged window glass and within the frame of the port so that when the window opens inward, they remain in place. As a consequence, they are subject to rain, sea spray and ultraviolet light, even when the port is closed. The thin mesh screens slowly deteriorate. 

Nearly all of the 12 opening-port screens on Britannia had arrived at this deterioration stage, with some actually torn and needing replacement. 

My portlights were made by Beckson, in Connecticut, with the newer-type overcenter cams to lock the port. The fine mesh screen is glued on one side of an oval frame that fits into a groove in the gasket, forming the seal between the port body and the hinged window. Beckson sells replacement screens for $32.90 each, but with 12 to restore, I decided to look into repairing them myself.

I bought an 8-by-4-foot roll of fine mesh bug screen (used for repairing swimming pool enclosures) from my local hardware store, along with some contact glue and a quarter-inch art brush.

To remove the screen frame, it was first necessary to pull the sealing gasket completely out of its groove in the body of the port. Everything ­needed cleaning in soapy water anyway, so while I repaired the screens, my wife cleaned the hinged windows. We soon had ports looking like new. (It’s best to undertake this project on a day when no rain is forecast because once the sealing gasket is removed from the body, the window is no longer waterproof, even if it’s locked.)

Using an X-Acto craft knife with a new, sharp blade, it was a simple matter to trim the old mesh out from the frame. Then, I brushed a thin bead of contact glue all around the rim of the frame and placed it glue-side down on top of my mesh, pressing them firmly together. (It would have been a good idea to first place a sheet of grease-proof paper under the mesh so that any excess glue would not stick to the table, requiring xylene-based solvent to remove it.)

After a few minutes, I cut loosely around the outside of the frame with scissors, and then moved on to the next screen. Replacing all 12 screens in this way took me just one hour. I then left them all overnight so that the glue could thoroughly dry. 

After that, it was a simple matter of trimming the outside mesh flush with the frame, and I had nice new screens for all my ports. 

A squirt of washing-up liquid helped to ease the new screens into the grooves in the gaskets, and press the gaskets back into the groove in the portlight. I could tell if the gasket was back in place properly because the window would close like before. 

We now know that no bugs can come in through the open ports. If we also fit the hatch screens and keep the cabin door shut, it is a fair bet that the cabin will be completely free of any nasty flying bugs. Ahh, sweet dreams. 

The screens cost $32.90 each from Beckson, plus shipping and tax; that would be a total of about $450 for 12 ports. My screen material cost only $10. A quart tin of contact glue cost $7, and the art brush was $2. Total cost: $19. It’s a no-brainer for a couple of hours’ work. 

Hailing from New Bern, North Carolina, Roger Hughes has been messing about on boats for half a century as a professional captain, charterer, restorer, sailing instructor and happy imbiber. He recently completed a full restoration and extensive modification of a well-aged 50-foot ketch. Read more of his work at ­schooner-britannia.com.

The post Hands-on Sailor: DIY Portlight Screen Replacement appeared first on Cruising World.

Special delivery: Sign up for the free Cruising World email newsletter. Subscribe to Cruising World magazine for $29 for 1 year and receive 3 bonus digital issues.

After spending back-to-back intervals of a couple of years with us living aboard between haulouts, the white hull of our 1978 Sabre 34 began to look a bit worse for wear. Oxidation on the gelcoat gave the boat a drab finish and, to make matters worse, try as we might to keep after it with scratch pads and detergents, a dull yellowish-­orange stain clung to the area just above and below the boot stripe. 

In the winters, we kept the boat at a marina in Newport, Rhode Island, where we had ready access to fresh water and electricity, but come spring, work and weather often conspired to keep exterior maintenance to a minimum. Sure, we made feeble attempts to wash, wax, and use an electric buffer to polish up the hull, but working from the dock or from an inflatable just didn’t seem to set things right. And then, soon as you knew it, mid-May arrived, and we had to be off the dock and out on a mooring for the summer. It’s tough to run an electric buffer at a mooring. 

In the end, we decided that we had two choices if we ­wanted our boat to look shipshape again: Paint the topsides or do a proper haulout to restore luster to the gelcoat.

In recent years, a number of good coatings have made a do-it-yourself paint job a realistic option. A dock-­neighbor couple took this route, and after a short spell on the hard that included rolling and tipping with a good-quality paint, their boat reappeared with a mirrorlike finish. It was gorgeous.

As good as it looked, though—and as persistent as my wife was that we should do the same with our boat—I was determined to give the original gelcoat one more chance. Once you paint, I reasoned, you’re committed to paint forever. And even the best paint ages. Aside from that, it’s susceptible to scratches and chafe from lines and fenders, and it can be hard to blend in repairs if they’re required. Gelcoat, on the other hand, is rugged stuff, and white is an easy color to match if the finish gets scratched or dinged. 

So, in the end, I decided to go the elbow-grease route and see where it would get us.

Let the Fun Commence

The following spring, once we were on a mooring we’d rented from a boatyard on the other side of Narragansett Bay, I waited for their parking lot where boats were stored to clear out so that we could haul out and spend a few days in an out-of-the-way corner. In the meantime, I began to amass supplies so that we could get to work as soon as the Sabre was secure on jack stands.

The first order of business was to decide how to proceed and just how deep to jump into the project. Gelcoat, after all, is a relatively thin layer of resin that is sprayed into a boat’s mold at the start of the layup process. The trick to restoring its luster is to scour it enough so that it’s clean and shiny, but not use excessive abrasives that will wear it out. 

In the past, we’d tried hand-polishing the hull with several one-step products that combine a mild abrasive with wax. They worked OK in places, but I couldn’t say that the hull shone when we finished.

On the other hand, the oxidation wasn’t so severe that you came away with white dust every time you touched the hull. Had that been the case, we may well have wanted to resort to wet sanding, starting with, say, 300-grit paper, then working up to maybe 800- or 1,000-grit (or higher) sheets before compounding and polishing.

Instead, I chose a more modest approach with 3M’s Marine Compound and Finishing Material, thinking if that didn’t work, I could always go back and try a stronger cutting compound. To apply the material, and later wax and buff the hull, I bought a variable-speed electric polisher and a variety of foam and wool polishing pads.

Once the boat was out of the water, pressure-washed and set on jack stands, I set up staging using a plank set on the rungs of a folding ladder, as well as a stepladder that was tall enough to reach the deck. 

The first step was to wash the topsides from stem to stern using a scrub brush, sponge, and bucket of water and boat soap. This soap is designed to release dirt and oil and to wash off without leaving a residue—and it’s kind to the environment. I took my time and worked in sections, scrubbing and then rinsing the hull with a small electric pressure washer.

Next, I attacked the remaining stains near the waterline with Star brite Instant Hull Cleaner. I love the stuff. It’s a mild acid that you can apply with a sponge (be sure to wear rubber gloves). Wait a few minutes, hit it with fresh water from the hose, and presto, the hull is clean.

For rust stains around the fasteners of our stern ladder, and on any persistent blotches elsewhere, I used a paintbrush to apply a coat of MaryKate On & Off Hull Cleaner. It’s a stronger acidic solution; you definitely want to be careful with the stuff and not get it on your skin. But it works great, and again, all you need to do is use a hose to wash it off.

Polish Makes Perfect

Once the hull was clean, I was ready to go to work with the variable-speed polisher and rubbing compound. As much as possible, I tried to work in the shade, partly to escape the early-summer heat, but also to keep the compounding material from drying out too quickly. 

I set the staging so that I could hold the polisher somewhere between chest and head high, and planned to work in small sections at a time. I kept a spray bottle with water handy and occasionally lightly misted the area to extend working time. I would run the polisher at as high a speed as felt comfortable, moving it from side to side and up and down to avoid swirling or, worse, burning through the gelcoat. Whenever the polisher was running, I made sure that I had on a respirator to avoid breathing in the abrasive dust. 

I experimented a bit, ­applying the rubbing compound by squirting it in small amounts from the bottle and dabbing it on with a sponge. I’m not sure if I ever decided which was the more efficient technique. As I worked each area, I kept the polisher going until I could see the hull shine and any hazing disappear.

I quickly learned to take care and slow down the polisher near obstacles. The machine has a lot of torque and can suddenly reveal a sinister mind of its own if your attention wanders.  

Frequent repositioning of the staging was necessary, and I needed to adjust the height of the plank as I went if I wanted to avoid holding the polisher overhead. It’s a relatively light tool, but it felt heavier and heavier as the hours passed. One trick I found helpful was to position the folding ladder ahead of me so that I could slide the plank onto its two rungs and drag them forward together before repositioning the stepladder. It was a relatively slow process, measured in feet per hour, making me glad I had a 34-footer and not a 50-foot yacht.

In the end, it took about a day to cover each side of the boat, and a few hours more to spruce up the transom.

Well-Waxed

Before applying wax, I took time to walk around the boat and look for any remaining smudged spots. Using just the ­stepladder, I went over any area that still looked hazy with a little more compound and the foam pad and polisher. Then it was time to begin the final step of applying a coat of Meguiar’s Marine Paste Wax. 

For the record, I did not pick the wax for any particular reason other than I had a sample can of it on hand. I believe when it comes to picking a wax, the “to each his own” rule applies. The best advice I could find online was to pick a marine wax, one that’s designed to seal and protect the gelcoat. 

Once again, I set up my makeshift staging to hold the electric polisher about chest high. To begin, I used a wax ­applicator pad to apply the paste wax, rubbing it on in a circular motion. After applying a few feet’s worth of wax, I went back to where I ­started, and once the wax had dried, I grabbed the variable-­speed ­polisher, now equipped with a wool polishing pad. It buffed the surface to a smooth shine. 

Just like compounding, it was ­slow-going. For yuks, I tried using a random orbital buffer I’d brought along for backup. I can’t truly say which was the better tool; they both felt pretty heavy by day’s end.

But the work was well worth it. On the last night in the yard (yes, we were staying aboard the boat on the hard, my wife working on her own set of haulout chores on deck and down below), we stood by the boat as dusk settled in, sipping cocktails to celebrate the tasks we’d completed. In the glow of the streetlight, the buffed-out hull shone. 

Better yet, early the next evening, with the sailboat back on its mooring, we took an inflatable ride as the sun sank low. Returning to the boat, we couldn’t help but notice the reflection of the waves dancing along the hull. The way a sailboat should look. 

Mark Pillsbury, Boat of the Year judge and CW editor-at-large, is a die-hard sailor who has owned a number of sailboats, including a Sabre 34, on which he lived for 15 years.

The post Polishing the Gel Coat Is a Good Alternative to Painting the Topsides appeared first on Cruising World.

Special delivery: Sign up for the free Cruising World email newsletter. Subscribe to Cruising World magazine for $29 for 1 year and receive 3 bonus digital issues.

Hoses are like arteries and veins for your vessel. You can’t live without them, and the healthier they are, the better. They convey everything from seawater and exhaust gases to fuel, effluent and potable water.  

While virtually all hoses are critical, some are more important than others. If a blackwater hose fails, it can be inconvenient and unpleasant, and it might force you to head to a yard for assistance. But if a hose fails below the waterline and involves raw water or fuel, that can be catastrophic.

While it might sound obvious, not all hose is created equal. Few hoses can do double duty. Most are specifically designed for one or, at most, two tasks.

I frequently encounter unsuitable hose being used in below-the-waterline raw-water applications. Because a failure can lead to flooding, this hose must be especially robust and purpose-made for the application. When a question arises about the type of hose that should be used, I often say, “Let’s see what the hose manufacturer says about the product, and be sure to let them know that a failure could lead to the loss of the vessel.” That often ends the discussion.

With few exceptions, most clear PVC hose, even when it’s reinforced, isn’t suited to raw-water use, especially below the waterline. And “below the waterline” has a specific definition where the American Boat & Yacht Council Standards are concerned: It includes any part of a sailing vessel’s hull that is submerged when the vessel heels to the toe rail.  

If hose is labeled SAE J2006, then it’s designated for use as a wet exhaust hose, and thus suited for all raw-water applications above or below the waterline. While that rating isn’t mandatory, there are hoses designed for raw-water use that aren’t designed for exhaust applications. If the rating is present, you can rest assured that the hose is robust.

There are several different types of fuel hose, including A1 and A2, and B1 and B2, with some variations. Ideally, and for ABYC compliance, all hose used aboard inboard-powered vessels should have an A rating, which means it is capable of withstanding two and a half minutes of exposure to flame without failing. The “1” suffix denotes that it is designed for fuel supply, and the “2” suffix means fuel fill. Type B hoses should be used only for outboard motors. Ordinary automotive fuel hose should not be used, especially in engine compartments.  

Hose, tubing and all plumbing used for potable-water applications should be specifically designed for that application. Where hose is concerned, it must carry a designation for drinking water. These might be written as NSF 61, FDA-approved or potable water. And most hose carries a maximum-temperature rating. Most water heaters will provide water that is no more than about 125 degrees Fahrenheit, however, it might be significantly hotter if water is being heated by the engine. Make sure the hose is rated for the anticipated temperature.

If your engine is plumbed to your water heater, as almost all are, then it must be equipped with a tempering valve, a device that I’ll discuss next month.  Metallic plumbing components, particularly those made from brass or bronze, should be lead-free and thus safe for potable water.  

If a hose has no markings, then it should not be used in a potable-water, fuel or raw-water application. 

Steve D’Antonio holds four American Boat and Yacht Council certifications, including Corrosion, Diesel Engine, Electrical and Systems categories, affording him ABYC Master Technician status. He offers services for boat owners and buyers through Steve D’Antonio Marine Consulting.

The post Monthly Maintenance: Use the Right Marine Hose for the Job appeared first on Cruising World.

Special delivery: Sign up for the free Cruising World email newsletter. Subscribe to Cruising World magazine for $29 for 1 year and receive 3 bonus digital issues.

Most propulsion engines (and gensets) on sailboats are located at or below the waterline, making them ripe for seawater flooding, which can occur for one of three reasons. First, the engine is not installed in accordance with the manufacturer’s instructions. This can allow a siphon to develop, fill the exhaust, and then flood the engine’s cylinders. When the engine is idle, a bad installation also can push in water through the exhaust discharge in a following sea, and from there through open exhaust valves and into the cylinders. Second, an anti-siphon valve malfunctions. Or third, the engine is cranked excessively while bleeding the fuel system. With each revolution, the raw-water pump moves a small amount of seawater into the exhaust system, which eventually overflows back into the engine and through an open exhaust valve.

If your engine floods with seawater, do not operate it again until you have identified and remedied the source. For an engine equipped with a turbocharger and aftercooler, the latter might fill with seawater as well. It would also need to be drained of water, flushed and cleaned. If flooding has occurred within the past 24 hours, then follow these steps. First, open or turn off the start battery switch, and second, turn off the fuel supply. Next, put on safety glasses. Remove the injectors or glow plugs, if you have them in your setup, and then cover the exposed holes with rags and remain clear of them. You can then turn over the engine manually, a task often called barring, by engaging a socket wrench with the alternator pulley. You might need to press down on the slack side of the belt to keep it from slipping. Slowly make at least two full revolutions. If you feel any resistance, stop, because a valve might be seized. If the engine turns freely, you can then crank the engine using the starter for five to 10 seconds, then reinstall the injectors or glow plugs. 

That brings us to step eight: Drain the oil, and replace it and the filter. Remove the valve-cover oil-fill cap to let water vapor escape more easily. Start the engine and allow it to run for about five minutes. Then, drain and replace the oil and filter again. The oil might be milky in appearance if water leaked past the piston rings and into the crankcase. Once that’s done, start the engine and let it idle with no load for five minutes. After two no-load runs and oil changes, carry out an additional oil change, and run the engine under moderate load, now with the valve-cover cap in place, ideally achieving an oil temperature of 200 degrees Fahrenheit, or as close to that as possible. Last, carry out one final oil change. At this point, the oil should not have a milky appearance. Run the engine normally thereafter, and check the oil frequently for any signs of moisture.

If the engine has been flooded with water for more than 24 hours, corrosion may have already begun to set in within the cylinders. In that case, repeat steps one through four from above. Then, remove the valve cover and inspect for visible damage to the valve train. Next, pour a generous quantity of kerosene, light motor oil or automatic transmission fluid over the valve train. Using a light plastic-head hammer, tap each rocker arm over the valve, and watch to see whether the valves and rocker arms move freely. If any rocker arms or valves seem sticky or don’t move immediately when tapped, there is a possibility of valve, valve train and piston damage if the starter is ­engaged. At this point, a ­decision must be made ­whether to remove the cylinder head. If all valves and rockers move freely, and if the engine turns freely when it’s barred over, then disable the run function by holding the stop button or equivalent to prevent the engine from starting. Turn on the battery switch, and spray fogging oil into the air intake (remove the air filter if it’s present) while cranking the engine with the starter for 30 seconds. After that, you can continue from step eight. If this scenario is caught early, in most cases it can be resolved with no permanent damage. 

Steve D’Antonio offers services for boat owners and buyers through Steve D’Antonio Marine Consulting.

The post Monthly Maintenance: What Should You Do If Your Engine Has Flooded? appeared first on Cruising World.

Special delivery: Sign up for the free Cruising World email newsletter. Subscribe to Cruising World magazine for $29 for 1 year and receive 3 bonus digital issues.

A fracture in the pressurized shore-water line in my 50-foot schooner, Britannia, caused major flooding. It would have sunk her had I not managed to pump out the water ­quickly. I subsequently stripped and thoroughly cleaned five electric pumps, which worked again flawlessly. I also drained the engine oil and transmission oil and replaced them. Then, remarkably, the engine fired up immediately, as though nothing had happened.

Because the engine continued to start every time, I assumed that the starter motor was fine. During the hot summer months in Florida, we hardly visited the boat anyway, and rarely started the engine. This was a mistake. 

Over time, the starter began to turn the engine slower and slower, as though the dedicated battery was at the end of its five-year life. I installed a new battery but saw no change in the sluggish turnover, which was by then hardly sufficient to fire the ­engine at all. I also cleaned the heavy cable connections, but it made no difference. There was only one thing left to do: Remove the starter (Figure 1) and examine it. 

The thing about starter motors on heavy diesel engines in boats is this: They’re darn heavy. My engine is a Perkins 4.236 that weighs half a ton, and the starter is low down in the bowels of the bilge, secured with three very rusty three-eighths-inch nuts—one of which was almost impossible to reach with a wrench. After hanging upside down over the engine for half an hour, I finally got it off and hauled out the thing using the battery cable attached to the solenoid. It is 15 inches long and weighs 34 pounds. That’s the same weight as my number two CQR anchor.

Dismantling the Starter

There are two main parts to these normally reliable starters (see Figure 2). There is the solenoid (Figure 3), which throws a tiny pinion gear on the motor shaft into mesh with the flywheel attached to the crankshaft. The 10 teeth on the pinion gear are tapered, so they mesh smoothly with the flywheel teeth. It is called a Bendix Drive, after the inventor, Vincent Bendix, who patented it in 1915.

The other, much-larger part is the ­actual starter, containing the armature that spins the pinion gear (Figure 4) and turns the flywheel, thereby firing the engine. There could be numerous reasons why this was not happening, so ­everything on the starter needed looking at. I began with the solenoid.

Solenoid

After securing the starter firmly in the jaws of the big swivel vise in my garage, I removed the two screws holding the solenoid to the starter casing, along with the screw holding the electrical cable to the body. The solenoid still would not come away from the body, until I discovered it needed rotating a little to dislodge it from the groove it was locked in. It then almost removed itself, thanks to a large, heavy spring inside the solenoid that keeps the pinion disengaged until it’s electrically activated.

Removing the solenoid revealed the 1-inch-diameter piston (Figure 5), which throws the pinion gear forward about three-quarters of an inch in to mesh with the flywheel. There is actually nothing else inside the body of the solenoid. All the electrics are in the endcap.

I unscrewed the two small electrical terminals and the screws holding the endcap of the solenoid, and carefully pulled off the Bakelite cover. The contacts inside were dirty and badly pitted, telling me that a good electrical connection was no longer being made (Figure 6). The contacts can be removed from the endcap and cleaned. It’s best to clean electrical contacts with nonmetallic abrasives like Scotch-Brite or equivalent. Then I cleaned the inside of the endcap, greased the piston, and oiled the lever arm and pinion shaft with waterproof lithium grease. Finally, I put it all back together.

When the starter key is turned (or the button pressed on my boat), an electromagnetic field is created in the solenoid, causing the piston to retract against the spring and throw the pinon gear with great force in to mesh with the flywheel. Simultaneously, at the end of its travel, the piston also pushes the contacts together, transmitting the full voltage from the battery into the starter. This rotates the starter, which in turn rotates the engine, causing it to fire. On releasing the button, the starting current is discontinued to the solenoid, the pinion gear retracts, and the starter stops rotating.

After replacing the solenoid on the ­motor, it can be tested by applying a 12-volt positive voltage to the small terminal and the return on the body of the motor. The pinon gear should shoot forward on the shaft. Warning: Do not connect the heavy-duty battery wire to the solenoid during this test, or the starter will also rotate, creating significant counter-torque.

Starter Body

I next withdrew the two long setscrews from the rear of the starter casing, and removed the backing plate. This revealed an unbelievable mass of sludge and grime covering the four brushes and the commutator (this passes current from the brushes to the starter motor’s coils or windings). Some of it was so heavily encased that it refused to be dislodged, even after prodding with a screwdriver. Other parts dropped out in solid chunks. 

It was quite remarkable that the starter had even turned with so much water and conductive dirt inside. I washed out as much as possible with a strong jet of water from a hose—three times. I then sprayed the inside with degreasing liquid and dried it all out with a heat gun. 

Even these steps didn’t remove all the dirt, so I removed the armature to clean and inspect the windings. This was done by holding the casing in the vise and pulling out the armature. The brushes remained attached to the outer casing, and the commutator slid off them. 

The windings inside seemed quite clean, no doubt because of the dousing they had just received. I mounted the armature in the vise, with aluminum soft jaws installed, and then gently rotated a strip of 400-grit sandpaper around the commutator until it gleamed. The armature windings were then cleaned, and the end bearing and throw lever greased.

Before I could reinstall the armature, I first had to retract the four brushes so that the commutator would slide between them. On this motor, the complete brush assembly pivots, making the task easy using two small slivers of wood wedged between the arms on the brushes (Figure 7). When the armature was fully installed, I pulled out the bits of wood, and the brushes seated perfectly on the commutator. I then replaced the end plate, and the job was complete. [Editor’s note: The above procedure would benefit from a blow-down with compressed air, and then a washdown with a solvent such as brake cleaner, to remove all sanding dust, which contains copper, to prevent any possibility of a short across the windings.]

I decided to make a bench test of the operation of the starter, mounted securely in my vise. Using a car battery, I clipped a jumper cable to the larger positive solenoid terminal and the negative to the starter body. Nothing happened because the contacts inside the solenoid were open. 

Then, I held a second, thinner green wire to the terminal that normally carries the wire from the starter key or button (Figure 8). The motor pinion gear flew forward, and the motor spun furiously. On removal of the green wire, the motor stopped and the Bendix Drive retracted the pinion gear. I was sure that I heard the starter heave a sigh of relief, being free from all the foreign matter that was buried inside it.­ 

A final touch was to repaint the whole assembly black. I had built myself an almost new starter motor. 

It has performed perfectly on multiple starts, even when the battery was low, and it is a reassuring feeling to know that the engine will start at the push of a button.

Hailing from New Bern, North Carolina, Roger Hughes has been messing about on boats for half a century, as a professional captain, charterer, restorer, sailing instructor and happy imbiber. He recently completed a full restoration and extensive modification of a well-aged 50-foot ketch. Learn more at schooner-britannia.com.

Editor’s note: CW does not recommend the use of pressurized shore-water lines
on any boat. If you have one, water pressure should be off whenever you are not aboard.

The post How To Rebuild a Starter Motor appeared first on Cruising World.

Special delivery: Sign up for the free Cruising World email newsletter. Subscribe to Cruising World magazine for $29 for 1 year and receive 3 bonus digital issues.

What is it with boats that sail with their fenders out? I’ve observed this apathetic habit nearly everywhere I’ve been on water, but never so much as I see it in Southern California. I have called Los Angeles home for the past eight years. Maybe it’s the old New Englander in me, or perhaps I’m just getting older, but it seems that every year, I see more and more boats underway with their fenders out. They bob from the lifelines like a pair of dirty running shoes dangling from knotted laces on a railing the day after track season ended.  

I’m not whining about boats motoring to the fuel dock or headed back to their slip after an afternoon cruise. I’m talking about the boats I see when I am halfway to Catalina, a 30-mile sail from Marina del Rey. Out there, I’ve seen more boats than I can recall sailing hard over with their sails full, rail in the water, and fenders out as if the owner were anticipating a collision with one of the many container ships crossing their bow in the commercial shipping lane. 

It’s not like fenders enhance a boat’s aesthetic. And don’t get me started on how many fenders I have seen out during the cruising-class starting line on the Wednesday-night sunset-racing series.

Matty, a dedicated ­crewmember on my boat for our cruising-class races, calls those dangling fenders “California racing stripes.” He is an Angelino native and, until this past summer, enjoyed the liveaboard life in Marina del Rey for eight years on his 1974 Coronado 35 sailboat. Matty’s coined phrase set the stage for an engaging debate while the rest of our crew laughed, like a sitcom audience, at our passionate opinions about fender etiquette. Matty claimed that stowing fenders was not worth the effort. I’m obsessed with a clean and tidy deck, always. 

Unlike Matty, who is a recreational sailor through and through, I used to earn a living crewing and skippering a variety of yachts in places such as New England, the Mediterranean and the Caribbean. I spent much of my career working under sailors of a different generation. The result: I believe anything on a boat that is not in use should be securely stowed. 

I argued that leaving fenders out and tied to the lifelines could be a hazard. A jib sheet could unexpectedly snag during a tack or jibe and wrap around a fender. A crewmember could lose his or her footing when rushing up to the foredeck, and maybe trip or even fall overboard. 

Stowing the fenders does not require much effort. My 7-year-old daughter, Samantha, is the person on my boat who stows and sets the fenders, and she does a marvelous job. To help make the task easy for her or anyone else pitching in, I fitted each fender with a brass fixed-eye boat snap (an inexpensive stock piece of hardware that is like a carabiner but has an eye cast to the end of it) to the short run of line that is tied to the top of the fender. On a calm day, with my boat secured to the dock, I clipped the brass fixed-eye boat snaps to the lifelines and ran the fender lines through the eyes on the snaps. I lifted the fenders to the desired height, just high enough above the water to keep them dry and prevent marine growth from building up on the bottom of the fender and cover. I knotted each fender line to the corresponding snap with two half hitches so that the fender would always hang from the same height every time. 

My lifelines are close to level on my boat, so I set all my fenders to the same height. This way, nobody has to think about which fender goes where, tying knots, or adjusting heights when setting the fenders. Also, the brass fixed-eye boat snap makes for an easy clip-on, clip-off process. 

When we depart for a sail, Samantha pulls up each fender and lays it on the deck after we are clear from our dock. Then, she unclips the fenders from the lifelines and carries them back to the cockpit one by one. We have a space in our lazarette reserved for the fenders when we go on our daysails. When we’re out cruising, I lash the fenders to the mast and stow them under our dinghy, which is tied down to our foredeck. When we are moored or anchored, I sit the fenders on our deck up at the bow and lash them to the bow pulpit.

After our sails have been furled and we are heading back to the dock, Samantha works in reverse order. She pulls the fenders out of the lazarette one by one and walks them forward to clip them to the lifelines. To ensure that the fenders are always set in the right location, I wrapped a strip of black electrical tape on the lifelines where each fender should be set.

I also have fender covers, which are well worth the money. I buy dark ones that don’t show much dirt. Without them, the rubber surface of the fenders becomes sticky and collects grime. That grime then rubs off onto my topsides, making for an ­unpleasant-­looking boat. 

But sailing with dirty topsides is a whole other topic. Don’t get me started on that one either. 

Will Sofrin is an author and wooden-boat builder who has sailed professionally throughout Europe, New England and the Caribbean.

The post Bring in Your Boat Fenders Already! appeared first on Cruising World.

Special delivery: Sign up for the free Cruising World email newsletter. Subscribe to Cruising World magazine for $29 for 1 year and receive 3 bonus digital issues.

One of the most attractive aspects of a cruising lifestyle is independence. However, with that independence comes self-reliance. If you have a fire, you can’t call the fire department. If you get hungry, you can’t call for a pizza delivery.

While it helps with boating to be a mechanical and electrical expert, it is by no means a necessity to cruise safely and enjoyably. However, you must be able to perform certain tasks, including the replacement of fan belts, fuel filters and impellers (and raw-water pumps). You must also be able to bleed air from the fuel system.

Fan-belt service was covered in a recent column, so let’s have a look at raw-water pumps. These pumps use a flexible rubber impeller to move seawater through the heat exchanger, where the seawater absorbs heat from the engine’s coolant. From there, the water moves to the exhaust mixing elbow, where it cools the hot exhaust gases, and then goes overboard.  

This is important: Without cooling water, the exhaust hose and muffler will overheat, often faster than the engine itself. If you suffer an overheat, be sure to inspect the exhaust hose and fiberglass or plastic mufflers for damage.

I’m a firm believer in ­preventive maintenance, and it is my strong recommendation that impellers be replaced annually or every 600 hours, whichever comes first. In fact, because some of the blades are always compressed—and because deformed, disused or lightly used impellers can suffer more-frequent failure than those in regular service—this preventive maintenance is something that I consider a requirement. Impellers are relatively inexpensive, and replacing them virtually ensures that, short of a clogged intake, you will never have a ­premature impeller failure.

When replacing impellers, resist the temptation to pry out the old impeller using a screwdriver. Most pump bodies are made from relatively soft brass and are easily damaged. Typically, you’ll damage the ­cover-plate sealing surface, which in turn leads to air or water leaks. Instead, use an impeller puller or a plastic pry bar.  

Once the impeller is removed, inspect it for lost blades. If any are missing, you’ll have to go looking for them “downstream.” In most cases, they’ll be stuck at the inlet side of the heat exchanger.

Then, look carefully at the pump’s cam. This is a crescent-­shaped device over which the impeller blades ride and are deformed, which in turn creates the pumping action. The cam too is made from brass, so it will wear away (and ­dezincify) over time. If it wears enough, pump capacity can be reduced or stopped altogether. Often, the wear is noticeable only when comparing the old cam with a new one, so it’s a good idea to have a replacement on hand.  

Use caution when replacing the cam. The securing screw is small and easy to drop into the bilge. Also be sure to retain and reuse, or replace, the sealing washer.

The cover plate should also be inspected at this time. While discoloration on the side that bears against the impeller is normal, any discernible wear, if you can feel a ridge, is too much. The plate should be replaced. 

Plates without embossed writing on the outside face can often be reversed to double their life. Like the cam, if the cover plate wears too much, the impeller seal will be compromised; it might lose suction and stop pumping. 

Steve D’Antonio offers services for boat owners and buyers through Steve D’Antonio Marine Consulting stevedmarineconsulting.com.

The post Replacing Impellers and Raw-water Pumps Onboard appeared first on Cruising World.

Special delivery: Sign up for the free Cruising World email newsletter. Subscribe to Cruising World magazine for $29 for 1 year and receive 3 bonus digital issues.

I was at the marina recently, prepping Delilah‘s sunburned, 50-year-old teak for varnish. It was Tuesday morning in Los Angeles and, for a few precious moments, I was showing all the signs of a competent, mechanically capable man who can do his own boat work. 

One foot on the dock, the other on the boat, I leaned, reached and began to remove a small section of old varnish from Delilah‘s toe rail. But, as the boat drifted on its dock lines, my reaching turned to stretching; stretching turned to an ever-widening, yoga-like stance; and, soon, I was doing my closest approximation of the splits. I fell on the boat. My heat gun fell in the drink. Birds scattered as a small, high-pitched scream came out of me. 

And this, friends, was Day One of my teak maintenance experience.

Over the following days and weeks, small failures turned to fiasco as I assembled a growing list of mishaps, silly mistakes and minor middle-aged injuries. After stripping, sanding and cleaning the toe rail, handrails and cabin top trim, I left my freshly-prepped teak uncovered in the rain. Does it rain in LA? Yeah, it poured for a week. When the storm was over, I removed my blue tape and pulled off large sections of deck paint. I slipped up and scratched Delilah‘s hull with a palm sander, and I drained an entire tin of acetone in my dock box.

Can you see a pattern? I could, and it drove me nuts. 

Truth was, my work was amateur at best. Delilah‘s teak would probably never look as good as the day I bought her. Also, I live 25 miles from the marina. In LA traffic, it takes me approximately 16 hours to get to the boat. Sure, I was halfway through the toe rail and trim, but I hadn’t even started on the cockpit combings. 

“How’s it going?” a dock mate asked. 

I’d been off-and-on at the project for two weeks, was finishing my third coat of varnish, and listening to dangerous amounts of Emo. 

“The boat’s looking good,” he said. “You wanna take a break and come sailing with us?”

We raced around the buoys that evening. On the final stretch, maybe 300 yards from the finish line, the wind shut off and we were becalmed. As the sun disappeared, I held a limp jib sheet and remembered a passage from a Robert Pirsig book: “Zen is the spirit of the valley, not the mountaintop,” he wrote. “The only zen you find at the top of a mountain is the zen you bring up there.”

Back at the dock, I cleaned up my tools in the dark, then slept on the boat. In the morning, I walked to coffee and got an early start on my fourth coat of varnish. Only, this time, I opened the wrong can and brushed on the wrong product. Blame the universe? Blame others? Blame myself? Truth was, the spilled acetone had taken the labels off the cans. 

I keep a book of poetry on the boat. Sometimes I read it. Sometimes it’s a photo prop. This time, it was a self-help kit. “We are so achievement-oriented that we often surge right by the true value of relating to what’s before us,” Mark Nepo writes, “because we think that accomplishing things will complete us, when it is experiencing life that will.”

A week earlier, I might have cried over the mistake. But this time, I stopped, looked around and laughed. On a nearby dock, sea lions were waking; a small family of ducks was floating past. In the trees, birds chirped. All around me, there was light, air, moving water, the miracle of life.

I sat down, smiled, and watched the varnish dry. After all, what could be better?

Click here to read more from The Noob Files

David Blake Fischer is a “noob” sailor living in Southern California whose work has appeared in McSweeney’s, BuzzFeed, the Moth, and Good Old Boat. He hasn’t crossed oceans. In fact, he’s only recently crossed the Santa Monica Bay. Follow him as he fumbles out the channel, backwinds his jib and sometimes drags his fenders on Delilah, his Cape Dory 25. Stalk him on Instagram.

The post Zen and the Art of Teak Toe Rail Maintenance appeared first on Cruising World.