Day 23-24 of the 2nd Voyage: In which once again a hunk of metal has us immobilized, but at least we’re in a better neighborhood.

First some thoughts on the events of day 22: I guess the good thing about the transmission crapping out again was that it happened right as we cleared the last breakwater in the harbor—so not too far out to sea. We’re becoming seasoned sailors (I use the term loosely; technically we’re becoming immune to misfortune), so the “oh sh*t” portion of the ordeal only lasted about 10 seconds before we all went into action. The Captain brought us about and prepared the anchor, the Deck Boss kept the Swab from getting underfoot, and I, having a classic Yogi Berra “it’s déjà vu all over again” moment, got on the VHF to inform our new BFFs in the Harbor Patrol that we had lost all gear functions—again—and that we had dropped the anchor—again—and now we needed a tow (slightly different—last time we only needed a push). “Where would you like to be towed?” they asked. “Any place with a mechanic.” I responded. “No mechanics here. I’ll give you the number for vessel assist and they can tow you to the nearest city.” they offered. (Nearest city? San Francisco? That’s half a day away…and going in the wrong direction.) “Guess we’ll go with the marina, then.” I answered. “We’re on our way.” they said with an audible sigh.

And so about an hour after leaving “H” dock, we were pushed into our new berth on “C” dock and found ourselves trudging up to the port office with our tails between our legs. The question was inevitable and the only answer we could muster was, “Yes – this is the same problem we had last night when you had to rescue our sorry butts, but if it’s any consolation we’re sure the problem is much, much worse today!” But being the lovely people that they are, they didn’t give us any grief and actually put us in contact with the only mechanic in the area—the one that works on their official boats. As it turns out, that wasn’t necessary. The Captain put in a call to Richard, our mechanic in Santa Rosa, and being the up-standing guy that he is, he offered to come out the next day and make good on what had gone so bad.

Now this is where I could get all technical and stuff, but I’m going to throw this out in laymen’s terms because it’s the only way I half understand it myself. When Richard first had our transmission, he admitted that there were a couple of things that seemed odd (yet they worked) but the only thing that was actually broken was the seal; so the seal was replaced and the transmission reinstalled. So one would assume that if the exact same transmission is going in—the one that had been working perfectly fine until the seal blew--then everything should be peachy. But apparently the broken seal was merely a cry for help and now that the transmission had our attention, it was going into full melt-down mode. Richard and the Captain hauled it out, did some surface inspections, examined the components that fed into the transmission, consulted the service manual, perused some recently discovered communications between Raven’s previous owner and the transmission’s manufacturer, and sacrificed a chicken (not really—just wanted to see if you were paying attention). To keep the narrative going (and because I sense you are zoning out), here are some key words and phrases that were bandied about: overheating, bad suction, MacGyvered, external filter, undersized ring, wrong model number, Frankensteined, pump. Editor’s Note: two of those words are not exactly what you want to hear when describing a vital component of the engine. Hint: one of them had a bad haircut, and so did the other one. The verdict is still out on what precisely the problem is, but this is what’s known: the transmission is going on another trip to Santa Rosa where it will be pulled apart completely, put back together correctly, and brought back to the boat for reinstall four days later at which time all the peripheral systems will be checked to make sure they play nice with the guy just back from rehab.

In the meantime, we are settling into our new home at the end of “C” dock. Unlike our previous spot at the end of “H”, many of the boats on this side of the marina are in good shape or are in the process of being restored plus there are quite a few live-aboards—all factors that create a more sociable (and safer) environment. Now did you notice how I said “most” of the boats? Unfortunately, much like our old spot on “H”, the boat directly across the finger dock from us is… well, words escape me. But imagine you had a boat—a fishing boat (I think)—along with a tackle shop, a lumber yard, four bucket seats from an old car, and the random contents from the garage the car came out of. Take all that and put it in the direct path of a tornado, then add a matching dinghy. Celebrate your masterpiece with four empty six-packs of beer, neatly stack them on a shelf next to the dock box (because why not?), and add one to two years of cobwebs since that was most likely the last time you set foot on the “Brother Buzz”. (Or six months with a good lawyer.) But I must say that there is a positive aspect to being next to the B-Buzz…the sea lions avoid it like the plague.

 

Pictured: The Brother Buzz...Boat of the Year? No. Patriotic? Hell, yeah.

 

Pictured: Side view. Because you just can't turn away.