Posted on March 19, 2016
Tired of looking at the engine yet? Not as tired as Michu. Let’s talk about something else.
Many people can get behind the idea of spending 24-7 in close quarters with adorable babies (possibly they have forgotten/never knew about the random screaming and poopy diapers). Most folks have fond memories of the Adorable Toddler Stage of human development. Not a ton of people we know would commit to sharing a 300-square-foot living space with a teenager.
F is currently 11, but by the time we’re done with this trip she’ll be a full-on teen, and we’ve discovered that teenage behavior seems to start long before the magic number 13. Therefore, the driving force behind any boat consideration when we were shopping was not a particular sail plan, tankage requirements or builder’s rep–it was interior layout. While plenty of folks cruise comfortably with two kids by splitting up the v-berth or sticking one child in the saloon pilot berth, we felt we would all be happier living abroad if every person had some private space.
This turned out to be more difficult than expected. Apparently, most people purchasing boat suitable for living aboard in the last 20 years are retired. The emphasis in monohulls has been on spacious aft berths, instead of splitting the aft living spaces into two separate rooms. Families have been flocking to catamarans, which are much more spacious and allow you to banish two kids to an entirely different hull; that sounds great to us, but there was never going to be a decent catamaran available in our price range. Used charter boats generally have more interior living space, but they also have less-than-ideal galleys, terrible anchoring setups, and a history of running aground.
Our search led us to consider some really weird boats in fairly far-flung locations, and I won’t get too in-depth about that right now; suffice to say, we think the Beneteau First series is a pretty solid choice for affordable family sailing. This particular boat has a reputation for being very well made–it’s not just a lightweight cruiser, sacrificing quality joinery for wide-open spaces. It gives each kid their own separate room, with a closing door and everything; plus, it’s got a secret passage between the rooms! (Some people would call it a second head, but we prefer “secret passage.”) We’re glad we made the decision to carve out personal spaces for our kids. At home, they share a bunkbed; as they get closer to departure, having their own room is one of the things they’re most excited about.
Mirror-image rooms, with the companionway in between…I think they have more room back there than we do in the v-berth…
That’s not the only way we’re trying to keep from losing our minds via family togetherness, though. We’ve also been amassing an auxiliary fleet: inflatable dinghy, smaller rowing dinghy, and a kayak. Need to get away from the fam? Paddle off for some quiet time. The kayak is really the best, and we’d like another, but we’re attempting restraint.
Finally: the Pod. If all else fails, on our boat you can climb in to a fabric cocoon and create your own little world away. This was a gift to F from her grandparents, but really, everyone loves it.
And if all else fails, you can always swim to the beach.
Posted on March 16, 2016
At the end of my last post, the real time was early April 2015; I left off at a point where I was angry and frustrated at a small, hard-to-see, very stubborn piece of bronze. Sometimes there is no way out but forward. After my initial defeat I desperately needed a “win” before I started phase two of the bushing battle. The flywheel was right there staring at me, so I decided to go for a quick victory and remove it. It took me a while but I finally came up with a way to keep the motor from turning over while I unscrewed the large flywheel bolt.
With one minor victory under my belt, it was time to go after that bushing. I thought if I could drill out the majority of the bushing, then I would have a little more room with which to work and maybe I’d be a little more successful with the hacksaw blade.
The drill-out worked really well. It took me about two minutes to drill this hole, including the time to take photos. It also reinforced my idea that I should have started with drilling out the bushing, and then I could have simply used a tap to cut new thread; however, this was no longer an option as I had already gone too deep with my relief cuts. The other thing the drill-out did was let me indirectly see (still using the camera to see what is going on) into the now bigger hole a little better. I could see that my relief cut at the 12 o’clock position still had a little ways to go. I got out the hacksaw blade and ran it back and forth for about ten minutes. I checked that the cut was parallel to the bore hole in the block. It was looking good, and after about 15 more strokes I heard a soft but distinct “click”. Could it be? I put a cold chisel on a flat spot and hit it with a hammer to spin the grommet counter-clockwise…and it moved!!! I added penetrating oil and, using the cold chisel and the hammer, I managed to spin it about four revolutions–but it didn’t unscrew. Was it not threaded? I used a little screwdriver and gently pried while I spun it and out it came!!! The dang thing was a pressed in bushing.
Now I needed a way to go from hose barb to smooth bore hole. My new plan was to cut threads in the side of the block. I wasn’t sure if the hole was the right size for a tap, and there was no way I could precisely bore out that hole with the engine inside the boat.
Let’s move on.
The conversion kit came with two different gaskets for the water pump; the amount of metal overlap on the upper edge of the pump seemed awfully skinny. After a run to the hardware store for some mounting bolts (not in the serpentine belt kit), I selected what I thought was the correct gasket and bolted on the pump. There was a little rubbing when I spun the water pump over by hand. I took it off and sanded down coolant passage in the area where it was rubbing, after that it spun smoothly. Then I bolted on the new flywheel. I had just gotten the new alternator three days earlier, so now was a good time to lift it up an see how it fit.
It didn’t fit.
The large Racor 500 Turbine fuel filter I put in last year was in the way. I spent the rest of the day running back and forth for parts, and finally managed to move the filter aft to make room for the big alternator.
The next day I tried to lift the new heat exchanger/exhaust manifold in place.
It didn’t fit.
Come on, every other Beneteau First 38 has this exact heat exchanger on the same Perkins motor, it has to fit! I was laying in T’s berth working through the starboard side access hatch; from there I couldn’t see what I was getting hung up on. From the front of the motor I could see the sea water strainer was in the way–out it came. The new heat exchanger did not come with a way to connect to the exhaust hose, or add the cooling seawater to the exhaust line. The final problem (ok, not really the final one) was that the metal flanges on mounting feet of the new manifold are about 1/4 inch thicker than the flanges on the feet of the old exhaust-only manifold. The 30-year-old studs screwed into the exhaust side of the engine block were 1/4 of an inch too short. These studs would have to be removed and replaced with longer ones.
I used the two nut method to take out all of the studs: thread a nut onto the stud; then thread a second nut on while holding the second nut with a wrench; back out the first nut until the nuts bind on each other. I had doused all four of the studs with penetrating oil the night before and tapped on them lightly with a hammer. I have found that it sometimes helps with a stuck fastener to slightly tighten before you loosen. The idea is to break the seal made by the rust and not to break the bolt or stud or whatever you are removing. Once it wiggles, keep adding oil and keep wiggling, and it will eventually come out. The first stud came right out, and the next one came out with a little heat. Studs three and four were stubborn, but I had time to let the penetrating oil soak, so I moved on to other projects (fresh water system) and would return every couple of hours to apply more heat and oil.
At home I had to deal with the geometry problems of the exhaust. Maybe I should explain wet exhaust. On the VW diesel car the hot exhaust travels through a metal pipe led under a metal car. It gets hot. It will burn you. Luckily, it is out of the way unless you decide to crawl under you car. On our boat, the hot exhaust travels out through a rubber hose which snakes its way from the motor to the transom. If water is not added to cool off the spent gasses, the exhaust would melt the hose. The other option would be to have a hot metal pipe running through the boat. I took the old exhaust elbow, which has passages to add water to the exhaust, off of the old manifold. I then spent the money at a local welding shop to have a small aluminum extender made, as well as a flange for the elbow so I could plumb in the water.
I returned to the boat in the middle of May. The hole in the side of the block was 1 1/8 inches, which is just about the right size for cutting one inch pipe threads.
Two days later, I could screw a hosebarb into the side of my motor. At first I was nervous about the tap going in off-center, but once it got started, it cut smoothly. Pipe thread is tapered, so the deeper the cut, the more cutting surface of the tap is engaged. It gets a lot harder to turn the tap. In the beginning I was cutting little chips; then at the end, I needed so much pressure that I was worried I would break the tap. So, I mostly wiggled it back and forth, each time moving it a little more forward, now making more of a grey metal paste instead of chips. Way slower then simply cranking on it; also way safer.
I got the last exhaust stud out using paraffin wax. I put a wet rag on the stud and heated up the block around it with the MAP gas torch. Then I removed the rag and rubbed the solid paraffin on the base of the hot stud; the heat melted the wax, and the cooling action of the hotter metal engine block wicked the melted wax into the threads. The stud slid out like butter. It worked so well, I used the same system to swap out the thermostat housing studs. Paraffin wax for stuck fasteners from now on!
The cross flow pipe was in–but in the configuration intended by the guy who designed the kit, I was unable to swing the alternator on its hinge. The alternator has to be able to move in and out in order to adjust the belt tension. I went to bed thinking if only the pipe was hose, then I could bend it wherever I wanted.
I am notoriously bad at brazing pipe–it always leaks. After the soldering was done and the hose clamps were tight I did a test run, filling the engine with water and… then the water came pouring out from behind the circulating pump.
The tan gasket fit the motor, but it didn’t fit the pump. The black gasket fit the pump but it didn’t fit the motor (tiny gap at the top). When I first installed it, I held the gaskets up to the pump and I selected the black one; like a doofus, I never checked the fit against the engine block. I remembered the little bit of interference when I first bolted it on. I rang up the diesel parts guys and explained the problem.
Perkins guy: So, you say it doesn't fit and it's really leaking. We've never had that problem before. Are you sure it's a Perkins 4108?
Me: Is there an adapter plate that goes between the water pump and the engine?
Perkins guy: Let me see... Yep, it looks like there is.
Me: I'll take one.
Perkins guy: Do you want to know how much?
Me: Sure. *Thinking...what other options are there, anyway?*
Perkins guy: Twenty-five dollars.
Me: Great. Send it.
Now it was early July, and, adapter plate in hand, I made another trip. I was thinking about the anemic water flow the last time I winterized the engine, and how much scale had built up after 30 years in lake Texoma. So, I also brought up an electric pump and a gallon of concentrated engine de-scaler.
July 15th, two weeks after last year’s launch, I finally had the whole thing put together. I fired up the engine on land, drawing cooling water from a bucket with a running garden hose in it. Three and a half months and maybe 50 hours; maybe more, and now we have a closed cooling motor. To be fair, in the previous three months I also removed three unneeded through hulls, glassed in the holes, built the new mast from parts, did a full bottom job (five coats of barrier coat and two coats of antifouling paint), and I rebuilt the entire freshwater system.
Next up in Engine Part 4: The Frankenstarter.
Posted on March 10, 2016
Here are some things you’ll never hear on our boat:
"Time to peel to the half-ounce."
"I don't think there's enough room at the committee boat."
Here is something you will hear, hopefully often:
"Let's bust out the code zero!"
Cuz we’ve got a brand new sail, people!!
Here’s how it went down. Michu was cyberloafing on eBay, “researching” fishing reels, as one does in February in Wisconsin, when his fingers casually sauntered over to the Used Sail section of the internet. What he found was a lovely new sail billed as an asymmetrical cruising spinnaker. Now, as we’ve established: we’re big fans of the actual “sailing” part of our trip. Our boat is on the lighter side for a cruiser, which means–among other things–she’ll be happily pushed along in a zephyr, as long as we have a good sail for the conditions, which will often mean a spinnaker of some kind–the pretty, poofy, colorful sails that stand out from the front of a sailboat. This sail was in brand-new condition, made for a boat similar to ours, and cheaper than we’d expected to pay. Should we bid?
Photos by Somerset Sails. Looks good, right?
Instead, my forward-thinking husband phoned the sailmaker to get more details. Martin, of Somerset Sails in upstate New York, gingerly explained that the sail was not actually what most people would consider a traditional asymmetric spinnaker–it was more of what’s called a “code zero.”
On the other end of the line, Michu and I broke out into silent disco.
A code zero is a great all-purpose spinnaker for us. Designed to be almost a cross between a genoa and a traditional spinnaker (a little less poofy, y’all), it’s easier to control and can be sailed at a higher angle–closer to the wind. It’s a very versatile sail; it should do a great job when winds are light and aft, AND increase the fun factor for us by a lot.
Martin the sailmaker arbitrarily knocked a couple of hundred dollars off the price and threw in a fully-rigged Chutescoop at cost. This huge fabric tube can be raised and lowered over our sail to keep it under control, making it even easier to use. Why was he throwing us this amazing deal? A client had ordered a whole new suit of sails, but on unpacking the code zero, decided he didn’t like the color.
The color. I’ll just let you absorb that for a moment.
Fortunately, Martin had already made his money on the rest of the sails that the guy bought. His aesthetic rejection, our gain; we’ll learn to live with the bright yellow.
Posted on March 9, 2016
Among cruisers, there’s a tendency to self-categorize between those who sail to travel–experiencing new cultures, meeting new people, seeing new things; and those who are in it for the sailing–feeling the breeze in your face, listening to the sound of the waves, moving your boat through space with just the power of the wind. Michu and I can’t quite seem to take sides.
Michu and I met while teaching sailing. Our non-sailing friends seem to think this is wildly romantic and adorable and somehow unusual if not unique, but our experience has been the opposite–we know dozens of people who’ve met and then married thanks to sailing, and meeting someone while covered in stinky lake water with a shocking sunglasses tan is not particularly meet-cute. We were both deeply sunk into the sailing life before we met, and while we might have individually harbored rose-colored ideas about the live aboard life, our focus was on going fast. Especially on Lake Michigan keelboats, E scows, or Badger Techs (ok, maybe there was not a lot of “fast” going on in that last fleet, but…pretty fun!).
Nothing about our boat is set up for racing, including the two available sailors for a boat designed to be raced by eight, but the racing mentality is hard to shake. This summer, we were motoring past Sheboygan in flat water when we were joined by two other boats, both motoring. Of course, we immediately started racing them. While motoring. “Looks like the blue one is gaining…should we maybe put up the main, try and catch this little bit of breeze? It might be filling in a little bit further out…”
We totally dusted them, by the way. I can’t believe they didn’t pop their kite.
The best day we had this summer was not a day spent exploring a new town, or relaxing on a beach, but a 10-hour reach down the Wisconsin shore in 12-15 knots. We baked bread. We read. We played games. Mostly, we sat in the cockpit and stared at the sails…because we love it. Our hearts sing and our minds clear and it is our best place.
However. That’s not why we’re taking our kids on this adventure. Having lived abroad for a few years in my impressionable youth, I know something about the character-forming nature of travel. We’re driven to expose our kids to other worlds, and broaden their experience beyond this lovely little patch of Wisconsin we call home. Two of their four grandparents were born in Cuba, but they couldn’t tell you anything about that country; this way, they’ll be able to spend a whole month there.
At the same time: we love traveling for ourselves. Since having kids and putting the lockdown on our finances, we have barely left the state. Our kids haven’t been on a plane since T was a baby, and Michu’s previous passport was issued when he was not long out of high school. Michu has lived in Madison for twenty years straight, and I’ve now spent more years here than I lived in my hometown growing up. We feel the need to move, to shake things up, to change the view.
Bottom line: we’re in it for both. It’s pretty much the best mix for us–sailing, exploring, and having a home to stay comfy, with a kettle on the stove and all.
Posted on March 5, 2016
Until last spring and for the first 31 years of her existence, Milou’s engine cooled itself by sucking up water from the outside, circulating it through the engine and spitting the now-warmer water out of the exhaust. Up until now, this has not really been much of a problem. Actually, even now, including the 31 years of calcium/mineral buildup clogging the cooling passages, direct cooling would probably work just fine for us as long as Milou remained in a body of freshwater. The problem with direct cooling is that once we make it to the Atlantic, the saltwater will eat our motor.
As an aside, I’d like to know if anyone has actually seen a marine survey worth the paper it was printed on? If so, I think it should be put in a museum. Before becoming a nurse, I spent ten years of my professional life working on boats. I did both mechanical and fiberglass work, ended up writing service and I managed a couple of shops. I am a little bit boat savvy, but the amount that I don’t know is still much larger than the amount that I know about boats (well, any subject really). When I flew down to Texas to check out the cheapest boat we could find that satisfied our list of basic requirements, I hired a marine surveyor to go through it with me. I did this because I wanted an objective observer and frankly I hadn’t spent much time on 40-foot cruising sailboats with inboard diesels. At the time, I assumed that the motor already had a heat exchanger; and when I asked the surveyor where the antifreeze was kept, he patted the exhaust manifold and said, “It’s in here, this is the heat exchanger”. I said ok and paid more attention to the batteries that were venting hydrogen sulfide gas.
Well, the spring after we took possession I went to run up the motor. I checked the oil level, and the transmission fluid, but I could not find a cap for adding or checking the coolant. After a little more research on the Perkins 4108 I realized that our motor was missing a circulating pump, and that it was set up for direct cooling.
What is this engine cooling he keeps yammering about? Lets go back to our friend the less-environmentally-friendly-then-advertised VW. Every combustion engine makes heat. The one in the VW has a radiator. The VW circulates antifreeze through the motor, where it picks up heat, and then through a radiator, where a fan blows cool outside air on the hot radiator and the heat is carried away on the wind (there are also air-cooled motors, but they all still need fresh air). A boat motor lives in a small confined space below deck–very little air movement. A radiator would just heat up the engine room until the engine overheated. Marine motors get around this by dumping the heat overboard in exhaust water. They can either do this directly by sucking the water right into the motor, or indirectly by sucking up seawater (or lake water) and passing it through a heat exchanger–basically a radiator, but it radiates heat into water instead of air. The advantage of indirect (or closed) cooling is that it keeps the motor separated from the corrosive effects of salt water. It also lets heat flow through the motor in more of a controlled manner, leading to a happier, longer-lasting engine.
Math and Trade-Offs – At this point I had already decided I wanted a big alternator; to do that I needed to upgrade to a serpentine belt. The $600 serpentine belt kit included a new, beefier water pump, which I also needed to convert the cooling system. The other thing I would need was a heat exchanger and some plumbing parts; that kit cost an additional $1800. A well-cared-for Perkins 4108 should last about 10,000 hours before needing to be rebuilt. Our hour meter reads 2929.6, and I’d wager that it has not been well cared for. Was it worth $2500 and who knows how many hours to convert the motor? Well, a new motor with closed cooling would be around $12,000. I could probably find a used rebuilt 4108 with closed cooling for $5000 – $7000. In the end I elected to spend $2500 to upgrade a motor that is probably worth about the same amount.
Obviously it is now time to start bolting on some new parts. Hey–they came as complete, expensive kits from an authorized dealer. I’m sure this will be as easy as removing some 30-year-old bolts!
Here is the first of many problems. The bracket that holds the throttle cable in place is bolted to the old manifold, and there is no way to attach it to the new Bowman combination manifold/heat-exchanger.
I realized that if I didn’t come up with a solution for the throttle cable now, it would be much more difficult once the new manifold/heat exchanger was in place. There was an unused 3/8 inch threaded hole machined into the side of the block. I had a bolt and a sleeve that fit to act as a stand off from the side of the motor. Then I took a walk around the boatyard looking for a piece of scrap. I found a nice little piece of galvanized bar stock. Using my hand drill, I machined it into a bracket to attach the cable clamp to the offset. The picture shows the first version; I didn’t like the alignment of the cable. I ended up taking the assembly home and tweaked it a little to get everything lined up well. Admittedly, the fix has a very “agricultural” feel to it, but hey it works.
Part of converting to closed cooling involves installing a pipe that transfers coolant from the heat exchanger to the engine block, upstream of the circulating pump. After hours of internet research, looking at pictures and YouTube videos of running 4108’s, I determined that this was where I had to attach the pipe. The coolant pipe is large diameter, 3/4 inch. After removing the 3/8-inch plug, I was concerned the restriction would cause problems with the cooling flow. One of the issues I had with this !*##@! piece of bronze is the I could not directly eyeball it; my head doesn’t fit between the motor and wall of the engine room. I had a quick phone consult with a good friend who has rebuilt a bunch of Land Rovers (English diesels). After telling me there are absolutely no guarantees, he thought the bronze thing was a bushing that I could maybe unscrew.
The above pictures show me destroying the plug thread with an EZ out and a large crescent wrench. I used a MAP gas torch to heat up the metal of the engine block around the plug and repeatedly doused the whole thing with penetrating oil. The bushing didn’t budge. I went back out to the boat yard to grab a piece of pipe I saw when scrounging for throttle cable assembly. With the pipe in place as a cheater I managed to move the whole engine block up, unweighting the pressure on the forward engine mounts, and I broke the big wrench in the process. The EZ out really dug into the bronze bushing, but the thing would not move. Another phone call to Gustaf (childhood friend of 42 years and Land Rover enthusiast); his advice:
“The bronze threads are probably corroded into the cast iron of the engine block. Well, you could take a hacksaw blade and cut through the softer bronze right up to the peaks of the cast iron threads. Don’t mess up the threads in the block. The cut may relieve enough tension to unscrew it, but you will probably need to cut out a pie piece and then pry out the bushing.” I swear I heard laughter as he hung up.
Remember I can not visualize this hole. (In nursing, when I come at you with a hose that is going to go somewhere uncomfortable, I always visualize the hole.) I have like 50 pictures of this, because I would run the hacksaw blade back and forth in two inch strokes until my forearm hurt too much or I got nervous about ruining the block. Then I stopped and took a picture, to see where I was–each picture a little more horrifying the the one before. I made the relief cut. Heat. Lube. EZ out. Nothing. I spent another six long hours hand cutting a second relief until I could knock out a small pie piece. Heat. Lube. EZ out. Nothing. Man, at that point I was done. Done.
It would have been easier to pull the motor out of the boat and be able to see what the heck I was doing. I was kicking myself, thinking that I was going to have to tell Deb I had spent three days away from my family creating a new, expensive problem. I went home thinking I was going to have to pull the motor to fix this horrible mess I had made. I was also thinking it was too bad I went at it blind with a hacksaw, when I could have simply drilled out the bushing a little and cut new larger threads in the thing.