I was just coming to the end of the day's sail, having poked my nose out into the Gulf of
Alaska for about 7 miles, I was just trying to pass between two islands into protected waters where there was a secure sheltered anchorage. The Gulf had a bit of a swell and the
passage between the islands was directly down
wind, and with each swell the
boat would rock, the
jib would flog, and the boom would threaten to gybe ... so I took the easy way out ... I rolled up the
genoa, centred the main and fired up the
engine.
no problems, I got passed the islands into the protected
water, when ... beeeeeeep beeeeeeep ... an unfamiliar
alarm sounds. I quickly look at the
engine panel, nope nothing unusual there - I look at the plotter, nope it's not complaining about anything ... Oh Christ! It's the smoke alarm! I poke my nose through the
companionway and sure enough there is a burning smell coming from the engine room. Immediately I shut down the engine. But in doing so I noticed that the key had been stuck in the "start" position, and I was hit with the sudden realisation that I had just burned out my starter
motor.
How did I not notice the key? I stamp my feet in the
cockpit, and shout some expletives that even a sailor shouldn't know ... but it doesn't solve the problem, I'm still in a
remote Alaskan anchorage with a burned out starter.
Fortunately there is still a bit of
wind, so I find enough space and heave-to to assess the damage. Sure enough the engine compartment smells of something burnt. I test the starter, it makes a weak and feeble
noise, so it's not completely dead, maybe it's just drained the
battery. I switch
batteries and try again ... the same feeble sound. With the starter key in the
cockpit I can't actually see if it is even turning the engine, so I place my
camera on the
cabin floor and set it recording a video, and try again. The starter does turn the engine, but with no oompf ... It'll never get it going.
So what to do next? The problem with sailing here engineless is that:
a) the
anchorages are so sheltered that there is often zero wind in them.
b) the
water is so deep, so unless you tuck right into the super sheltered
anchorages there is nowhere to drop an
anchor.
So if I try to stop for the night, there is a really good chance that I won't even reach shallow water to
anchor, and even if I do, I may never be able to leave. Also these isolated anchorages are sometimes so
remote that even raising the coastguard on the
VHF isn't possible. There are a couple of
fishing boats around, I could talk to them, but what help can they offer? An offer of a tow maybe.
My planned
route for the next four days to Sitka was inside the islands, and through narrow tidal passages with fickle winds and strong currents ... simply out of the question without an engine.
Returning back the way I just came also involves 15 miles of such passages after 7 miles upwind in the open gulf, and even then takes me to a town with a population of just 30 (one of whom I believe is a mechanic). A possible option, and maybe a better place to request a tow from, but not really a great engine
repair destination.
There is one other option ... there is wind out in the gulf, it's a little stronger than I'd like at about 20knots, and it's a very bumpy ride. The
forecast is not for it to get worse, and there is an outside
route available all the way to Sitka. I quickly plot a course on my plotter ... it's 70 miles from here ... if I can average 5 knots that's 14 hours, I'll arrive at 4am ... It's doable. I can surely get the starter repaired in Sitka.
Now there are so many things I should have done at this point while I was still hove-to in protected waters ... like take a pee, prepare some
food, find my flashlight that I'd need once it got dark etc. But I wasn't that level headed, and I simply set out on my new mission.
Once back out in the gulf it was broad reaching all the way. I had both
reefs in the main, and the
genoa partly rolled up, but I still had more
weather helm than I think my
autopilot would be able to handle, and I wouldn't trust it not to gybe with the passing waves. The largest waves were probably 6ft high with small whitecaps, but the majority were considerably smaller. Every wave the
boat would yaw up to 30 degrees either side of the course I was trying to steer, heeling hard over if veering to windward, and flogging the genoa if veering to leeward. Apart from the 7 miles I had done earlier that morning, this was the first time I had been sailing in any significant seaway ... and I had just signed up for 14 hours of it on my first ever overnight sail too.
Mostly I got in a rhythm of feeling he waves pass under the boat ... and then a big one would hit, water would splash over the cockpit side, the boat would threaten to gybe (once it did!), or round up and heel violently, adrenaline would rush through my veins, and then I'd get back in control until the next one.
At no point did I feel comfortable leaving the
wheel, so I went without dinner. As the evening progressed, I changed tack and headed towards shore, so that I'd be on the tack heading slightly out to sea when darkness fell. Fortunately a this lattitude in summer nights are mercifully short ... It wasn't properly dark until almost 11 o'clock. The next few hours were spent watching the
compass to try and keep the boat on course with the passing of the waves, and counting down the miles on the chart plotter.
Eventually I could see the light on Cape Edgecumbe, once I rounded the cape I would surely get some shelter from the waves, and the wind might calm down. I waited until I was sure I could round the cape with just one gybe and made the turn ... It seemed to take forever until I felt the effect of the lee of the island, then at about 2:30am I got there and ... the wind just died, but the waves only calmed slightly ... and it was still dark. From 2:30 to 4am when it started to get light again I was just bobbing about like a duck,
sails flapping as the boat rocked, and making less than 0.5knots in approximately the right direction. At least it was a good opportunity to take a pee and grab a packet of cookies to eat.
Then I started picking up the wind from the other side of the island ... this time it was on the nose. slowly picking up speed, and then as I neared Sitka it started dying down again until I only just had enough wind to control the boat.
At 7:30am my first overnight
passage, first 100 mile day, and longest ever sail ended ...
"Pan Pan, Pan Pan, Pan Pan, this is sailboat Kelkara approaching Sitka with a disabled engine requesting a tow into harbour".
That was just one night and I'm exhausted ... down-wind in open ocean, that's what some of you guys do for weeks at a time ... I guess I'm not quite ready for that yet.