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| Blogs > Sailor376 > Do you sail? Or anything? |
There are those days.
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There are those days. The autopilot has died again. I usually leave the attention<b> numbing </font></b>work of helming, steering the vessel, to the autopilot. I do not use it when I am trying to hold a very tight course, in high winds, racing another boat (keep in ming racing in a sailboat is frequently the difference between 6.8 and 6.9 miles per hour), but for the long distances and because I single hand so much, it is very necessary. I remember well when I installed the autopilot. Fairly straight forward stuff, but many details go into a good installation, electrical, metal working, wood working, fiberglass, planning, layout, and ultimately does it work well, and is it easy to use. But sailboats are tricky things to work on. As I have already said, the installation involved many different tools and materials, and techniques. My Porche mechanic friend had the taps and dies to cut the threads on the mounting cup. Squares and rulers for length and location. And the the day arrives to hold your breath and drill HOLES in your baby. Yeppers, out with those diabolical drills and saws and make saw dust of glass, epoxy, fit and finish. You do hold your breath. Don't you dare drill that hole in the wrong place. And the electrical portion of the job is no small matter either. And the EVIL sailboat engineers/ gods have decreed that no wire shall ever be placed where one can see, reach, or touch in anyway, what so ever! My major electrical connection panel, not the nice neat one in the cabin with the pretty switches and fuses, no, no, no, no, the down and dirty one where all of the wires go from and to and are screwed, bolted, clipped, soldered, spaded and otherwise, ALL of the stuff that needs actual work done on. It is buried in the outside cockpit locker. It is tucked under a seat that is two feet from the operable hatch. Which, the hatch, is far, far too small for any work or light or hands or arms to reach. And SO,,,,,,,,,, the required method to work on it is this. I have to empty the seat locker of EVERYTHING. That is first. I have to EXACTLY plan all of the tools and materials needed, and then I have to climb entirely into said cockpit locket upside down and on my back. And even from there I have to tip my head back and look up past my eyebrows at a panel that looks like a spaghetti explosion and that is too close for me to work with glasses on, and too dark and far away for me to see what I am doing with the glasses off. Glasses on. Glasses off. Laying on my back and sort of on my shoulders staring up into the darkest corner of the boat with the morning sun nearly right in my eyes. My Dad said there would be days like this. But if I closed the hatch on my 6'5", 265 pounds and held a flash light between my teeth, pointed up past my eye brows, chin jutting out, I could finally see the connection. How silly! NFL linesman sized man squeezed through an opening my ten year old, at the time, would have found just big enough. Opening and closing the hatch and fumbling blindly for the next tool or material and then closing it again to be able to see what I am doing. The image that springs to mind is a trap door spider popping out to grab something and right back in again. Or the stupid funny little battery operated banks of some years ago, put a coin on the stand and a door opens, a hand comes out, grabs the coin, and disappears fast. I started to laugh. But I couldn't hold the light and laugh, so the laugh had to wait. Hell, I damn near had to hold my breath laying upside down, contorted into a hull curved space without a single flat surface. But I succeeded! Made the connections! Opened the hatch and very carefully put outside each of the tools and materials and flashlight. And then I tried to move me out as well. NOT BLOODY LIKELY. Gravity works in the down direction, NOT the up. But I got in with a feet first, twist of the shoulders, and so now to reverse that squeeze. Just like being born. Normal presentation, head first, rotate the shoulders a quarter turn, start to emerge,,, and my sleeve snagged the fire extinguisher handle and fired it! Whoooosh! Dry whitish chemical powder! A white dust explosion! A blinding cloud and all in the confined space of the side locker with me in it! Can't see, can't breath, HELL, don't even think about breathing in this stuff! DON'T PANIC! OKAY, PANIC! Couldn't see a thing and I am trying to hold my breath. Up, twist, out, feet under me, launch like a gopher coming out of a hole with his tail on fire. Off the boat. Down the dock. Trying to get to clear air from the expanding cloud of white powder. Face into the wind and Suck that air in! White powder floating, rising like a mushroom cloud, laughing so hard I'm sucking in the dust covering me. Choke, cough, laugh, choke, cough, laugh,,, powdered from head to foot with white flour looking powder. White powder floating over neighboring boats, floating on the water, white powder everywhere. Let the professional boat guy do it next time. I don't like the fact that the autopilot sucks for durability, but I don't really want to rip out the installation and then install the Raymarine replacement. BUT, if I do, I'll take the fire extinguisher out of the boat FIRST. Dean |
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*smiles*...yes perhaps best to leave it to another next time...*hugs*
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That was quite a funny story. Glad you survived the dreaded white powder. "Don't cry because it's over; smile because it happened." 
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