The first sign that all was not well aboard Petrel came as we passed Blakely Rock, heading south for Colvos Passage. Leaving the helm for a moment, I lifted the hatch on the aft deck for a cursory check of the bilge. But instead of the dry hull I expected to see, I stared down at a dark pool of water which had reached the level of the propeller shaft, and rising. We were sinking. Not imminently, perhaps, but inevitably unless we could get the water out faster than it was coming in.
I stood there for a few minutes ticking off all of the things I needed to check; bilge pump, stuffing box, garboard seams, through hulls, getting the family and the dog into our dinghy if we needed to abandon ship… before the VHF radio interrupted me with a call from Snoose, floating just off our starboard side, warning that we had a large tug and barge combination bearing down on us. The new urgent need to get out of the commercial traffic lane supplanted the previous urgent need to find the leak. Sinking was a bad thing but a collision with a barge would really ruin the day. So I left off musing about leaks and pumps, and got us underway again, past Blake Island and the Southworth ferry crossing, to the entrance of Colvos, where we paused to consider our circumstances, life choices, and possible fate.
In the summer of 2017, after a year spent working on Petrel in the yard, and another year and a half spent working on her at her mooring, we thought that she was seaworthy enough for a short family cruise to Gig Harbor. Or, more accurately, I thought that she was seaworthy, while the rest of the family - my wife Tory, son Dash, and ever-patient dog Addison - were lulled by my confidence. The boat had no accommodations, no lighting, no navigation systems, and only the barest minimum of safety equipment, but I thought that the spirit of adventure would paper over these flaws in the plan. Besides, our destination was less than half a day’s voyage away from Seattle. Surely we could make it that far.
For companionship and safety on our first trip with Petrel, our boating friends, Ron and Kathy L., agreed to accompany us aboard their converted troller, Snoose. So we set out in company with them on a brilliant September morning, with light waves on Puget Sound and the mountains showing clear to the east and west. It was a perfect day to be on the water but from the very start our trip did not go according to plan. With no accommodations below, and just an open deck with no barrier between an active, four-year-old kid and the water, Petrel proved to be a poor choice as a family cruiser. My wife had her hands full of squirming, protesting child as I kept us in Snoose’s wake across Puget Sound and down the east side of Bainbridge Island. Now, barely half-way to our destination, we were taking on water.
Roger C. Taylor, in The Elements of Seamanship, offers the advice that the first thing one should do in an emergency, after ducking the falling mast and securing the tangled rigging, is to make a pot of coffee. The idea being that one should take one’s time to solve a problem once the immediate danger has passed. However our primitive living arrangements aboard Petrel did not rise to coffee service, or anything one might call a galley, so instead I crawled into the bilge and started poking at things while Snoose stood by to rescue us if needed.
Water coming in is not a good thing but it does happen from time to time, which is why boats are equipped with pumps to put the water back where it belongs. The question was why ours was not performing its duty. On fishing around in the bilge for the now-submerged pump, I could feel it whirring busily away, but no water was coming out. Something was clogged. I couldn’t feel any debris around the pump itself so the most likely source of the block was the oil separator I had installed to prevent the pump from depositing a “film or discoloration of the water's surface” as the posted-by-law oil discharge notice admonished us not to do, under threat of vague but certainly dire consequences, up to and including “fines and imprisonment”.
But consequences be damned, we were sinking. So I pulled out the oil filter element, and the pump began spewing a healthy stream of water overboard. Blockage removed, the water level in the bilge began to drop. The water coming out appeared to be clean (unsurprisingly, since it had just come in) so I put off the question of the clogged filter for another time, relieved to have our immediate problem solved. We were still taking on more water than I liked, but the pump was keeping up with it so we decided to continue on to Gig Harbor and take stock there.
In hindsight this was not the best decision. Further inquiries should have been made, such as “why was the filter clogged in the first place?” and “what was it clogged with?” Those questions swirled around below the surface, but I was just happy to have solved the immediate problem of staying afloat. Other concerns, I thought, could wait. And the rest of the trip proved uneventful. The now-unclogged pump kept up with the water coming in, the engine ran smoothly, and the next couple of hours passed by with no more boat problems. By fifteen-hundred hours (three o’clock in the afternoon when ashore) we were coasting by the lighthouse at the entrance to Gig Harbor.
We waved goodbye to Ron and Kathy as they headed for an open spot in the anchorage, and then motored slowly into the harbor. Finding our slip at the marina, we tied up and paused to discuss our plans for the rest of the afternoon. By this time Dash was well beyond his limit for sitting still on a small boat and needed to find a park to run around in immediately, if not sooner. Addison needed a walk. I needed a drink. And we were all looking forward to dinner and a quiet evening aboard after the adventures of the day.
However, Petrel had been leaking continuously since we docked. The bilge pump was keeping up, but there was far more coming in than would be considered reasonable. A quick calculation indicated that it was pumping somewhere around three gallons an hour. Not an emergency, but Petrel had always been a dry boat, meaning that a new and significant leak had opened up on the run down from Seattle. So we decided that I would stay aboard and keep an eye on things while Dash and Tory took Addison to the park.
With that settled I took a quick look over the side to check on the discharge from the pump - but in place of the previously clear stream of water, a gush of thick, black oil poured out. Oil was covering the dock and the side of the boat, and was beginning to coat the water with black ooze. I jumped up and shut off the pump to stop any further discharge, then stood there looking at the mess, choking on the metallic taste of panic.
In that instant I have to confess that I may have spoken sharply to Dash, who was demanding to go to a park right now! And Tory may have, understandably, become somewhat short with me in turn. It was not our best moment as a family. Only Addison was unperturbed. But domestic tranquility would have to wait as we had other problems to contend with. So the three of them went off to find a patch of grass and a few minutes of peace, leaving me to sort out the environmental disaster.
I now had several problems. I needed to clean up the oil spill, I needed to prevent Petrel from discharging any more oil, I needed to turn the pump back on to deal with all of the water that was continuing to leak in, and somewhat less urgent but still critical, I needed to find out where all the oil was coming from. The engine, presumably, but why? And all the time I sat there thinking about it, the water in the bilge was rising.
The level of water in the bilge was a problem, but it wasn’t going to become critical for a while yet so the first task was to get the oil spill cleaned up. A call to the marina office provided the location of their spill kit and I set to work with oil absorbent pads and degreaser while guilty visions of a visit by the local harbor patrol played through my mind. “Son do you know the fine for an oil spill like that? It’s Ten Thousand Dollars!” I was sure that a long trail of oil sheen must be pointing like an arrow straight to our shabby little fishing boat, sitting in the marina surrounded by all the million-dollar yachts. I scrubbed faster.
It was a long, long afternoon of pushing oil pads around the slip but finally after a couple of hours of swabbing I had as much oil soaked up as I could and the water was clear again. With that done I turned to the problem of how to pump out Petrel without putting more oil into the water. The perfect solution would have been to find another element for the bilge oil filter but a few calls informed me that there were none to be found anywhere near Gig Harbor. In fact, the only one available in the entire Seattle-Tacoma region was at the Interbay West Marine in Seattle, sitting right on the shelf where I had purchased the one I had removed earlier that day. I should have bought a spare but that knowledge was unhelpful just then.
So, Plan B. I needed to clean up all of the oil in the bilge before I could turn the pump back on. Back I went to the spill kit for more absorbent pads and degreaser, followed by another hour or so of swabbing and soaking up the remaining oil before I had the bilge clean enough. For good measure I stuffed an oil absorbent pad inside the now-useless bilge filter, then I turned the pump back on and looked over the side with a mixture of hope and trepidation. And… success! My bilge cleaning job and the makeshift filter element got the job done. Clean(ish) water now came out in place of black ooze.
In the meantime, Tory and Dash had been having their own frustrating evening. After the park they had gone in search of food, but a miscommunication had sent them on a 20-minute walk to an upscale restaurant rather than the take-out truck right next door that they had been aiming for. Missed buses, an exhausted and increasingly wild Dash and more walking made for a trying journey back. They reappeared with food just as I finished up but it was a quiet meal with everyone lost in their own thoughts on the wisdom - or not - of cruising in old, leaky boats.
After dinner we talked about our options and decided that the best plan was for Tory and Dash to take the ferry back to Seattle the next day, while Addison and I stayed on to bring Petrel home. Even without the leaks and other issues the trip down had been about an hour too long for Dash. The trip back would be longer still, as I intended to go at reduced speed in an attempt to prevent the leak from becoming any worse. So we found a friend willing to come pick them up and then turned in for the night.
I lay in my bunk with a feeling of relief, thinking that time and tide would wash away any remaining evidence of my environmental sins and that we would get a fresh start in the morning. But the constant cycling of the pump - wzzzzzzzsh, click! wzzzzzzzsh, click! (the click sounding as the float switch turned the pump off after every cycle) kept me awake. It was not a restful night. Still, the next morning began exactly the way I had envisioned - perfectly clear, with the sun reflecting off of the (now clean) water of the harbor. Letting Tory sleep in, Dash and I got up early and walked up the dock to find coffee, tea, and breakfast for everyone.
After breakfast Dash and I went rowing around the marina and then rowed out to say good morning to Ron and Kathy on Snoose. We got back to the dock just in time to see the harbor patrol boat pull up. Feeling somewhat queasy, I was happy to see that the officer aboard was just chatting with someone he knew on a boat nearby. But Dash - who was fascinated with anything related to police or fire services - wanted to say hello, so we walked over.
Just as Dash opened his mouth to speak I had an awful premonition about what he would say and, sure enough, his first words were “Hi! When we came in to the marina yesterday our boat was pumping black oil into the water!” I froze briefly before adding “And then we had to get the spill kit and clean it all up!”. The officer just smiled and said “out of the mouths of babes eh?” and pulled away. No citation. No lecture. But I’m sure he will be telling that story and laughing about it for years.
Later, we walked into town and had lunch, then I made some phone calls and was able to find a yard in Seattle that could fit Petrel in on short notice for a haulout to fix the leaks. So now I just needed to get Petrel back to Seattle, but first Tory and Dash had to leave for the ferry. I watched them walk up the dock then sat on the deck and stared out at the water for a while. I was seriously questioning my decision to take my family on a cruise aboard Petrel, to take Petrel on a cruise without better preparation, to continue trying to make Petrel into a family boat - even my entire interest in leak-prone wooden boats. The fiberglass Tollycraft cruiser next to us was looking pretty good just then.
After Tory and Dash left, Addison and I had dinner then went for a walk and settled down for the evening. As the sun set behind the mountains I reflected that Petrel was the perfect boat for a single guy and a dog. Plenty of room. No stress about losing Dash overboard, which thankfully did not happen, or him stumbling into the cockpit, which did happen, although fortunately without serious injury. And as Dash said to me “Dada, sometimes in life, bonking into things is just the way it goes”. But I was not a single guy with a dog and Petrel was not a good boat for a family. Too loud. Too small. Too many things to bonk into or fall off of. What to do? I had no answer, so I turned out the lights and settled in for another night aboard.
Sunday morning brought one final task. I needed to determine the source of the oil leak before we could get underway for Seattle. But first, breakfast. Addison and I walked into town for coffee and a pastry, then headed back to Petrel to investigate. The most likely source of the leak was the oil filter housing, as I had changed the oil and filter a few days before. I had run the motor at idle after finishing the job but I suspected that the run down at cruising speed had caused the filter to begin leaking. And so it was. The bottom of the housing and the bilge underneath were covered in a thick coat of oil.
I took the filter housing apart, cleaned it up, and put in a new gasket, before bolting it all back together. Then I placed a clean oil pad underneath so I could see if it started leaking again, and topped up the oil. By ten thirty we were ready to get underway. I rigged the dinghy for towing, backed out of the slip, and slowly motored through the quiet cove. After clearing the point at the entrance to the harbor we headed out into Dalco Passage through a fleet of small fishing boats.
A few minutes later we were at the entrance of Colvos Passage, heading north for Seattle. A quick check showed that the pump was keeping up with the leaks, the oil filter housing was tight, and the engine was running well. From there we had a perfect run up Colvos. Addison slept next to the helm while I watched the shore go by, occasionally getting passed by faster boats heading in both directions. Again I thought that Petrel would be a great boat for a single guy and a dog.
We ran up past Blake Island, past Elliott Bay and the towers of Downtown Seattle, and by the lighthouse at West Point, where we waved to Tory and Dash, who had come down to see us come in. As the afternoon slipped into evening we pulled into our slip at the Shilshole guest dock.
Our Gig Harbor cruise was done, but more work would be needed before we would have a boat that we could cruise aboard in comfort and safety. That was a project still to come.
The family of Walt Woodward, Bainbridge journalist and experienced yachtsman, had an expression for the cruising life: "Every day an adventure." But of course you know that.