Mid Ocean Engine Failure!

I’ve always thought that the phrase “ships that pass in the night” to be a bit misleading.  Watching out for and avoiding other shipping traffic – virtually all of it much bigger and faster than us – can be a major headache for little yachts like Aroha.  We were never confident that they could see us, and at night time, us them. There’s been cases of big ships running over little yachts and not even noticing.  Thankfully, all this changed with AIS.  AIS – Automatic Identification System is a great anti-collision tool that transmits our vital statistics – ship name, size, speed and course, and receives those of ships in the vicinity.  It’s easy to see this info on our screens and allows us to keep an eye on two parameters in particular – CPA – Closest Point of Approach, and TCPA – Time to CPA.  The amount of shipping traffic on our route was quite impressive, but not surprising considering it’s like a shipping highway running between the Straits of Malacca, and the Suez Canal and the Persian Gulf.  AIS makes collision avoidance a slow-motion activity since you can track most ships for an hour or more before they get anywhere near you.  And if anyone looks to be coming too close, you can simply call them on the VHF radio and ask them to confirm how they plan to pass.  Helen in particular likes calling ships.  I suspect that they like hearing a female voice on the VHF – in all our passages we’ve only ever heard one female watch keeper on the other end.

I mentioned in an earlier blog about polishing the diesel that had been sitting in Aroha’s tank for two years.  I’d left her tank completely full to exclude humid air that is likely to condensate into water in the diesel.  The downside of this is that the access point to pump out the diesel was under the fuel level.  I spent a sweaty day sitting in the aft locker, spilling diesel into the bilge and over my legs, the outcome of which – and I’m willing to admit I’m now much wiser in retrospect – was that I hadn’t done a completely thorough job emptying all the old diesel out.

A couple of days out from Galle we hit some pretty bumpy weather.  I’m pretty sure that this stirred up the old, potentially dirty fuel from the bottom of the tank and sucked it into the fuel line.  Aroha’s poor Volvo marine diesel didn’t like that at all – she coughed, spluttered, and then went silent in protest.  Yes, Aroha is a sailing boat, but I suspect that people may be surprised to know how much we rely on the “iron topsail”.  On a typical passage, we sail only about 20% of the time, motor 20%, and motor-sail the bulk of the time.  In fact, for much of the time the sails are there to steady the motion of the boat as much as for propulsion – even a gentle breeze keeps enough pressure on the sails to hold her steady, making for a smoother passage through the water.

With the engine sitting silent, Helen took over the watch, setting the sails to sail as gently as possible while Peter and I set about diagnosing the problem, then changing the fuel strainer, prefilter and filter and clearing any possible obstructions from the fuel lines.  The problem – kind of funny now in retrospect – was that out of everything we touched, about 50% we seemed to make worse!  The fuel strainer could be put back one of three ways, so of course I put in on the wrong way, causing a leak that took hours to find and fix.  The main fuel filter leaked – I think I didn’t oil the gasket enough.  And when I removed the fuel line from the diesel tank, the pick up tube (the tube that dips down into the diesel) fell off inside the tank!  None of this was remotely funny at the time, of course!  Needless to say, we couldn’t complete the job in daylight, and we resigned to sailing through the night in light airs and finishing the job with fresh minds in the morning.  Of course, the wind never comes from the right direction, so we spent the night slowing sailing towards Australia!

A few years ago on an ocean passage, a friend who was crewing for me came up to the cockpit after using the toilet.  “Toilet’s broken” he simply said, as he settled down to carry on with his Sudoku puzzle.  It struck me then that as captain I was responsible for everything on board – sailing, navigation, collision avoidance, clearing paperwork, provisioning… and even the toilet.  Thankfully the toilet was an easy fix, but sometimes I find the burden of responsibility overwhelming.  It’s easy to type but not so easy to explain – that you’re responsible for the lives of others.  Maybe it’s clear for a career soldier, but in my career as an architect, I’ve been responsible for time, money and of course “creating wonderful spaces”, but never the lives of others!

Self-doubt is a horrible thing and there were times during this “adventure” when I was unsure about whether we could get the engine going or not.  I started to question all sorts of decisions and the responsibility I felt on my shoulders for my crew, myself and my ship.  I really couldn’t think of the options for not fixing the engine.  It was 300 miles into the wind to get back to Sri Lanka, and 800 miles of low-to-no-wind to Thailand.  As I sit drafting this in the comfort of a Phuket marina, I can’t believe just how stressful the whole experience was.  I remember making “if we get out of this…” promises, and hoping that one day we could laugh it all off as one of those experiences we term well after the event “Character Building”.

Thousands of miles away, our ground-support Joff was a huge support on the end of the satellite phone, being a diesel engine expert, but also offering much needed moral support.

There was a forgiving light breeze that evening, although the direction caused us to gybe slowly across the shipping lanes a couple of times.  On my first night watch, of course I had diesel mechanics front and foremost in my mind.  I’d got to know the fuel system more intimately that I thought I ever would!  But I also thought that I need to think positive, to make the most of this experience.  I managed to find the calm of sailing slowing and gently across a forgiving sea.  Without the engine on, I could hear dolphins breathing and splashing before I could see them, and appreciated sailing almost silently under a sky brightened by a full moon.

Refocused, if not refreshed, Peter and I set about the final priming (putting diesel all through the fuel line) and bleeding (removing air from the fuel line), and it is an understatement to say “with some relief”, the Volvo started up again.  After a little coughing and spluttering, which I understand to be “too much diesel” rather than our previous issue of “not enough diesel” reaching the engine, she settled down to her steady hum.  We set the sails and the course to Phuket and continued slowly and surely, each with one ear on the engine for any tell-tale tone changes that may signal a repeat performance. 

We’d discussed having a friend join us for the Dubai to India leg back in 2019, but decided then that Helen and I would do it alone- out of simplicity and also the challenge.  It was tough, especially just two of you to do night watches, but the satisfaction of arriving at Kochi after 15 days at sea rates amongst my top relationship achievements.

Peter had planned to join us in early 2020 to sail from India to Sri Lanka – a passage of about three days.  Covid put an end to that plan, but I was surprised and pleased that Peter was willing to join us for the much longer passage to Phuket, Thailand.  At 1,450 nautical miles we were expecting to spend about 15 days at sea and having had a long break from sailing we were happy for the help.  Of course, we were pleased to have Peter with us.  He’s very practical and rolled his sleeves up to help with the dirty work, as well as offering a third person “have you thought about this?” or “could it be that?” perspective that wasn’t always obvious in the stress of the moment.

With fingers, toes and everything else crossed, the following days passed without major event.  The majority of shipping traffic out here is commercial – oil tankers, container carriers, and the occasional LPG or bulk carrier.  There’s 10 or 20 commercial ships visible on our AIS at any one time and it really does feel like we’re the hedgehog ambling along the side of a busy highway.  Up to about 400 miles after leaving Galle, there were still a lot of smallish wooden Sri Lankan fishing boats.  By and large, they operate to the side of the busy shipping routes, so we try to stay between them and the big guys.  I guess they just get bored being out at sea for what must be days on end and we’ve been approached a few times.  We know it’s harmless, and usually results in a shouted exchange of “Do you have whiskey?  Do you want some fish?”, but being so close to another boat so far from land scares the b’jesus out of us and we just wish that they’d give us sea space.

Another phrase that doesn’t really gel with me is wishing sailors “Fair Winds and Followings Seas”.  I get the fair winds bit but wishing a following sea for a modern light weight production yacht is the curse of the sea sickness roller coaster.  Most modern yachts are “big bottomed”, being wide in the middle and back to allow more cabins to be squeezed inside.  This results – in a following sea, where the swell is coming at you from behind – in a kind of surging motion as the waves pass underneath you from the back to the front.  And just as the autopilot straightens you us, the next swell is sure to come along and repeat the whole uncomfortable corkscrew motion.

At sea, a short choppy sea can be much less comfortable than larger waves – it depends mainly the wave period (time between waves).  A few years ago we were returning from Chagos to The Maldives and we experienced the biggest sea I’ve ever been in.  The waves were 16m high – I know that because from the trough of one wave, I could see the peak of the next align with the top of our mast.  But I was surprised just how gentle the motion was.  With the breeze and waves on Aroha’s beam (the side of the boat), she simply lifted up with the wave and rolled gently from one side to the other as the wave passed under.  I didn’t know enough about waves then to time the period, but I estimate it would be about sixteen seconds – hence the gentle motion.

What amazes me is that on every ocean passage, there’s at least a day or two where the sea is glassy flat.  I find it incredible that this can happen hundreds of miles from land.  This can be beautiful when the sun is low – creating an almost oily appearance on the surface of the water.

One of Peter’s daily crew jobs is updating our noon position and calculating distance travelled and remaining.  After more than our fair share of excitement on this passage, we were pleased to have calm seas for the remainder of the passage, as our daily position moves slowly move from left to right across our chart towards Thailand.

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