Good Old Boat Issue 142: Jan/Feb 2022

Learning Experience

Hell and HighWater A pleasant amble up the ICW is rudely interrupted by a near-sinking. BY DAVID BOND I t’s a hot August day, Mile Marker Somewhere, along a meandering stretch of well-marked rivers down in one. Of course, he never left the dock, and like a dope, I never checked his electrical connections.

I am not built for these warm, southern waters, but the boat doesn’t seem to mind the heat. I’ve only had Traveller for about a month and am working my way up the ICW, chancing along , as they say in Maine, as I try to make my way north and home. A cold beer and a sandwich—that's what a fella wants on a hot day like this. Maybe at the next mile marker I’ll drop the little Fortress anchor and make lunch. And that’s when it happens. First comes the sound—the electric, brain-stabbing shrill of

the high-water alarm. It shocks the heck out of me. I slide back the companionway hatch; my blurry reflection sloshes back and forth up at me from the cabin sole. That noise! It doesn’t help that the cabin resounds like an echo chamber. And where is all this water coming from anyway? The previous owner, a cunning old devil and crooked as a fish hook, had proudly showed me his “bombproof” pump system: two Rule-o- Matic float switches, one above the other, with a high-water alarmwired into the top

South Carolina’s portion of the Intracoastal Waterway (ICW). Too hot for alligators, I guess, but there’s enough of a breeze to fill the jib, so I throttle back the diesel. My version of motorsailing Traveller , my 1968 Cheoy Lee Luders 36, is to unfurl the big jib and keep the diesel clicking along just enough to glide on through the dead spots. The mainsail is tucked away on the boom above the canvas bimini.

Now, I’m furious at him and at myself, but this is no time to fume. It’s time to act. I furl the jib smoothly and dart forward to lower the anchor, stopping briefly enough at the bow pulpit to hurl a few choice words and have a good yell. I return aft, push the throttle into reverse to set the hook, and pop the throttle into neutral. A quick look up and down the river, then I splash down into the cabin. The water is warm and not quite up to my ankles. Reaching beneath it, I pull up a floorboard. Both Rule switches have failed, but luckily, not the alarm. The that the taped wires have pulled loose. The float switch dangles limply from the pump; its corroded wire ends are loose and waterlogged. The previous owner had cobbled together short pieces of wire and loosely wrapped them with black electrical tape. He didn’t use butt connectors, heat-shrink tubing, or marine sealant; he just stripped them back, twisted and then taped them together. Now the tape is pump is in the deepest part of the bilge and cable-tied to a long, wooden dowel. I pull up the oily pump and find

ILLUSTRATIONS BY TOM PAYNE

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