Day 1-5 of the 1st Voyage: S/V Raven First Mate’s Blog for the Journey Commencing June 1, 2015.

Day 1: In which we quickly learn that one day can rapidly become two...or more.

Before starting out on this odyssey, it was decided that whenever possible, we would not adhere to self-imposed deadlines if things like weather, health, equipment or systems conspired against us. In other words, if something goes south, we don’t go north (and directionally vice-versa). So it was that on the day before our planned departure, the grey water pump went belly up. For the lubber, all water from the showers and sinks (i.e. grey or “somewhat dirty” water) drains into a holding tank, which then goes through a series of hoses, pipes, filters, etc. to be pumped directly into whatever body of water we are in. The culprit in this case was the pump itself—specifically a rubbery part within the pump called a “duck bill”.  Much as with a real duck, whatever goes in one end (hopefully) comes out the other. We, on the other hand, had a constipated and very confused duck that opted to suck water from the outside and spew it inside. This was confirmed when our captain bravely took one for the team and tasted the water which was, indeed and unfortunately, salty.  Editor’s note: Captain has lamented that first mate has not kissed him since.

Luckily, a quick trip to the marine supply store and $75.00 later, new duck bills plus spares were procured. But time lost due to flooding, pulling up floor boards, tightening hoses, removing hoses, sopping up water with every available towel, pumping by hand, relaying messages from inside to outside (tiny bubbles, bloopy bubbles, one big belch then nothing), some cussing, testing tasting the water, more cussing, tracing hoses, zeroing in on pump, disconnecting pump, hauling pump over to the marine supply store, procuring and replacing duck bills, putting the whole thing back together, more message relays (“the duck has been douched!”), cleaning up, and partaking in celebratory cigar, well--that pretty much killed our planned provisioning day. So it was decided that departure would be moved out two days—one for provisioning and one to recover from the heart attack.

Day 3-4: In which we finally leave Everett and set out into the world.

After a night of perpetual rainfall, we set out at 8:00 am under grey skies and a light drizzle to our first port of call: the fuel dock. Raven holds 500 gallons of fuel and sips it efficiently (roughly 1.5 gallons per hour when motoring). With the price of diesel at around $3.35/gallon, we could technically motor all the way to Hawaii for about 2 boat bucks. Editor’s note: widely used in the boating community, a “boat buck” refers to $1,000 in lubber money. And because the Raven crew loves to coin its own terms, $100 shall now be referred to as a “dinghy dollar”. Anything less than $100 was clearly not made for the marine environment and/or was mismarked. 

Big power boats on the other hand burn through fuel like a black hole consumes the vastness of the universe around it.  A yacht of like size to Raven (52 feet) would consume 10 boat bucks worth of fuel just to get to Hawaii. They might make it there faster, but at least we’d still be able to afford a Snickers bar once we got there.

After filling the fuel tanks, we headed out of the marina and into the sound. First stop: Port Ludlow for a two-night stay. With the wind right on our nose, we opted to motor there which takes a little under four hours. Calm water and a still-grey sky make for a smooth albeit chilly journey and once there we have our pick of spots on the long dock. This is ideal because being the novice sailor that I am, the more room I have to run along the docks calling out to the captain, “This cleat? That cleat? I’m running out of cleats here! Oh, that one back there? Yeah, I knew that.” (I totally didn’t know that) the better. Editor’s note: a cleat is that piece of hardware attached to a dock that boats secure their lines to. Not, as I first called it, “that thingy that the rope goes around.”

Day 5: In which we find ourselves part of a chain gang.

The original plan was to make the short journey from Port Ludlow over to Port Townsend and stay for two nights—primarily because Port Townsend is a marine mecca and we had already amassed a shopping list of things needed for the boat: spare 12-volt battery, some new line, bungee cords, to name a few. And also because it’s a nice place to visit what with its Victorian architecture and seafaring history. But unfortunately, time, tide, and tinkle turf conspired against us.

Many marinas will not accept reservations—transient moorage is strictly first come, first serve. The protocol is to radio and/or call about 30-45 minutes out and ask if anything is available. As part of my duties, it fell on me to contact the marina and procure a slip that can accommodate a 52’ foot boat with 8’ draft, 50 amp power, and starboard-side tie preferably along the linear dock (kinda sounds like I know what I’m doing, right? Ha!) It goes more like this: First Mate calls the marina and asks for a 52’ slip along the linear dock. The marina looks at the chart and says, “Yes—we can put you right in front of Bon Sante right before the dock takes a jog toward the travel lift.” Perfect. First Mate hangs ups. Captain asks, “Did you get a starboard tie?” First Mate calls marina back. Marina looks at chart and says, “Okay, go down the linear dock to the jog, turn around, we’re going to squeeze you between Resolution and Fran.” Perfect. First Mate hangs up. Captain asks, “You did verify it’s 50 amp, right?” First Mate calls marina back. Yes, 50 amp. Captain asks, “Did they indicate if it’s the north or south side of the linear dock?” First Mate calls marina back. Marina getting annoyed with First Mate. Marina comes into view—along with lots and lots of beach near the entrance and it’s not even low tide yet. Captain asks First Mate to call marina on VHF radio and verify the water depth. First Mate tries talking into radio, gets squat, desperately starts punching random buttons as marina entrance draws near, gets nothing, and goes into chicken-sans-head mode. Captain snatches radio from First Mate’s hand and tries hailing the marina himself. Nothing. First Mate—secretly relieved—goes to get cell phone, calls the marina, and in her panic forgets what to ask. Sheepishly hands phone to captain. Long story short: even though the marina is supposed to be dredged to 12’, it’s not exact (i.e. give or take about 3’depending on tide) and marina does admit that Raven could conceivably touch bottom during low tide. Thanks, but no thanks. Tonight we spend on the hook. Editor’s note: the part about the VHF radio was included because the Captain did admit later that he had it on the wrong hailing station; small consolation, although now I only feel like 99.1%—instead of total—idiot.

On the hook/swinging on the chain. Anchoring is an art form—a choreographed dance in which Captain and First Mate work in unison to drop, drag, and set an anchor. The Captain at the bow controls the anchor itself and sends hand signals back to the First Mate in the cockpit who then throttles forward or reverse, steers left or right, till the anchor is firmly secured to the seafloor with enough chain for the boat to swing with the wind, but not enough that we swing into other anchored boats. The first one went perfectly and the afternoon was spent drinking beer on the stern deck, watching for dolphins in the bay, and desperately trying to coax a 95 lb. dog to do his business on a three by four piece of Astroturf.

We had procured the awesomely-named “Tinkle Turf” for those times when we would not be making landfall for hours/days/weeks at a time and naively thought that Otter would be ecstatic over the opportunity to mark the seven seas as his very own or, at the very least, “go before he explodes.” However, we underestimated the tenacity, bowel-strength, and knees-togetherness of a dog that is housebroken and proudly so. And so throughout the afternoon we would lead him out on deck to the Tinkle Turf, implore him to be a “good boy”, turn our backs to give him some privacy, and turn back around to find him happily napping on the little patch of green plastic. It was going to be a long day. And when the wind picked up to around 25 knots, and the anchor began to drag, it turned into a long night as well.

The second anchoring didn’t go as smoothly as the first. The wind and waves would kick up just as the anchor was about to set and bring us too close to the other boats, necessitating quick and constant readjustments. After about half an hour, the Captain was fairly confident that we were firmly anchored, but not enough so to get any sleep that night. And so began the vigil: riding out the ups and downs and side to side of the waves, watching our position in relation to the other boats in the anchorage. Was the schooner on our starboard side getting closer or farther away? Were we moving too far ahead of the small sailboat on our port side? Four of us were moving in the same direction with the wind, but two weren’t. Were they dragging anchor, or were we? Does Otter need to go out and be a good boy? Mr. Tinkle Turf is waiting!

The morning—the air still and sea as smooth as glass--revealed that we had indeed dragged or swung a bit wide, but not enough to cause alarm. The air inside the boat, however, betrayed the guttural distress of a dog in dire need of a tree so it was decided that we would cut the stay short and head out immediately for Anacortes.