As a fellow cruiser gazed around the torn-up main cabin of our 1982 Stevens 47, Totem, his eyes grew wide. He asked a head-scratcher: “Why?” 

Why not buy a newer sailboat? Why take on so much work? Why not be anchored at a remote Pacific Island right now instead of dry-docked in a dusty shipyard? 

Because this boat—our home of 15 years through dozens of countries along a path around Earth, classroom for our three children, magic carpet to unimaginable experiences—is our Totem. Named as an homage to our home waters in the Pacific Northwest, the tribute became our truth. Totem is as much a symbol as a safe conveyance for our family. This boat has cared for us, and we now care for it, with a refit centered on its 40th year.

The Stevens 47 is a storied Sparkman & Stephens ­design, praised by experienced sailors for seaworthiness, ­sturdiness and performance. We dispute none of this, but even well-proven boats will age into meaningful needs. All materials degrade sooner or later, especially when they’re subjected to extended use in the harsh marine environment. Some boatbuilding practices become dated. Plywood-cored decks become spongy. Fiberglassed-in chainplates become a rusty, unsafe mess. Totem wasn’t built with either, but she has original flaws. Below the lovely teak and juniper cabin sole is a plywood subfloor that is delaminated and rotten in some areas. My husband, Jamie, has been known to quip that “everything on a boat is consumable.” And ultimately, it’s true.

This isn’t Totem’s first refit; others took place under the care of prior owners, a history we’ve never fully unraveled. We’ve done several refits too. Back in 2007, the listing claimed the sailboat was “turnkey.” We found it necessary to add new standing rigging, sailhandling improvements and a working watermaker. Seven years in, another round was due in Thailand: replacing through-hulls, a failed stainless-steel water tank, and a fridge box with water-saturated foam insulation. Rerigging (again), a new watermaker (again) and new hatches were a big part of a 2019 refit in preparation for sailing across the Pacific. The pandemic scratched that plan, but it was nice to have the upgrades, regardless.

Sometimes, routine updates speak to good stewardship. When bronze fittings get a pink tone, it’s a red flag for deteriorating metal and time to replace the part—even if it looks fine. There can be spaghetti wiring with ghost wires that prior owners ignored rather than removed. Sometimes, we’ve had to make do with less-than-ideal materials or supplies; when a hidden flaw under the C-clip end of our steering chain failed off the coast of Colombia, spliced Dyneema was a quick and reliable solution that served for 5,000 nautical miles. We now have a new steering chain, a new 7-by-19 stainless-steel wire cables and an entirely new binnacle.

The 40-year refit is the biggest we’ve taken on, and was entirely unplanned. We sailed down the Sea of Cortez in Mexico in early 2021, with permits in hand to explore remote islands several hundred miles offshore. Just a few hundred miles in, our always reliable Yanmar 4JH3-TE with 8,300 hours on the clock ­manifested an unrepairable problem. Repowering is a big financial drain on the cruising kitty and, as it turned out, a big cost in time as well. Waiting for the new engine, we stumbled into additional, discretionary projects. Here’s a look at some of what we’ve been doing.

 Repowering 

The engine problem that started this refit came to our attention when we ­discovered oil in the engine’s cooling system. Troubleshooting showed that the issue wasn’t the head ­gasket; instead, pinholes in the oil gallery leaked oil across to the cooling system. Five to eight hours of motoring was enough to make a gloppy mess of the coolant. 

Totem had been repowered once before, around 2002—a major tick in her favor when we were boat shopping. But 20 years of active cruising later, the bill came due. A shiny new Beta 70 turbo is now aligned and mounted in Totem’s engine room, chosen for reliability and simpler routine maintenance. 

We also updated the engine-room insulation and engine-exhaust hose. The challenge of replacing 24 feet of 3-inch-diameter exhaust hose snaked through tight, hidden spaces brings to mind wrestling an alligator at night. We also replaced and sealed delaminated plywood, and the entire engine room is now painted glossy gray.

 Hull Paint 

Totem’s hull was a cosmetic disaster for years, and we’ve worn that scruffiness like a badge. Each scratch is the reminder of a dugout canoe that came to visit, or an enthusiastic fisherman who arrived to trade. But the paint wore through in places, exposing the original dark blue gelcoat. Even that was thin in places. It was becoming more than a cosmetic problem. 

We hired crew at the Cabrales Boatyard in Puerto Penasco, Mexico, to prep (so much sanding and fairing), prime, and spray two-part topcoat. The hardest part was choosing which white to use. I wish that were a joke.

 Cabin Rehabilitation 

Global supply-chain issues caused refit delays that led to more refit projects. Every cabin is now included on the list. In the heads, the shower pans let water find a way to the adjacent bulkheads. (Shower pans, you had one job!) Over time, hidden sections of the bulkhead rotted. Even though we converted the forward wet head to be dry in 2007, the problem percolated out of sight. Removing the shower pans revealed rotten plywood subfloor. As with many projects, you start one and find four more.

Repairing the ­bulkheads was relatively easy. We removed the roughly ­12-by-18-inch section in each, created a tapered edge, and then layered fiberglass down to the hull. In the ­forward head, the new plywood floor is sealed, fiberglassed with epoxy, and capped with tiles. 

The aft head, which still has a shower, needed the pan improved. The original was board-flat, so water collected when Totem sat at a slight angle. The new pan has a distinct angle that actually drains. And the plywood subfloor was replaced. 

We also fixed the original, cracked laminate surfaces that lined both heads. That job required a heat gun, metal scraper, and no small measure of blood, sweat and tears.

Surprisingly Consumable 

Abovedecks, it’s easy to assume that a binnacle will last as long as a boat. Totem’s is original, and while it has served well, the chain cog and axle show notable wear, and the brake mechanism is so worn that it no longer secures the wheel. Plus, Jamie has never liked the design because of poor access to inspecting the inner mechanics. 

Now, in its place, we have an Edson Vision II ­pedestal that opens easily for inspection.

Safety Issues 

Fiberglass is flexible—to a point. Over 40 years, smooth water and big seas alike pressed or smashed into Totem’s bow. We now have slight oil canning, or waviness and distortion near the bow. The Stevens 47 hull is thick, but it still gets only so many million flexes before the resin degrades. And we have plans to carve through many more sea miles.

Reinforcing inside Totem’s hull at the bow to address the distortion opened up another opportunity: to install a crash box. Our friends recently suffered some scary damage to their 2008 Seawind 1160 when they hit an unidentified floating object north of Hawaii. That object ripped a hole in the starboard bow while they were 1,500 nautical miles from land. An effective crash bulkhead saved the vessel—and the crew—from needing rescue. We want that level of security too.

Safety updates are a theme we carried throughout this refit. Our old stainless-steel cockpit scuppers looked fine, but after removing them, we found them to be brittle and replaced them. Chainplate inspection is vital to a vessel’s safety, and we removed and inspected each one. Using a 10x magnifying loupe to examine them thoroughly, Jamie noted a few small areas (about ¼-inch in diameter) where shallow pitting started through the otherwise mirror finish. These minor areas of rust occurred where water must have leaked through. We used muriatic acid to eliminate the rust, and polished the chainplates with a progression of sandpaper, starting at 260 grit and going up to 3,000 grit, before reinstalling.

We switched out Totem’s rudder-shaft gland assembly, which required a complete redesign using off-the-shelf parts because a standard replacement was not available. We replaced the boot with a 4-inch-diameter exhaust hose and fabricated a new upper gland.

We upgraded our old ditch kit with ACR’s RapidDitch kit, and customized locker space near the companionway to accommodate it.

 Headliner 

I remember, when we purchased Totem, stepping belowdecks at a marina up the estuary in Alameda, California. The basket-weave-­embossed vinyl headliner was permanently grubby. I thought, That will be the first to go. 

It wasn’t essential, so it continued to irritate me for another seven years. We put in a Formica headliner in Thailand, which bought us time, but it wasn’t done right. We lived with it and thought about how we’d do it better someday.

 Our extended stay at the yard has allowed us to tackle a lot of “someday” projects like this one. Jamie worked up a solution for the headliner by using ¼-inch plywood panels, cut to fit, and faired with West System epoxy and 407 filler. They create a super-smooth and tough finish. And the panels can be fabricated outside the boat, sparing grueling overhead sanding. The trick was securing the panels in place. They were too thin for screws. The solution Jamie landed on was wetting out fiberglass tape with epoxy, and forming ridged strips that bonded to the panels and ceiling. The only remaining work was to apply thickened epoxy on the seams.

 Cabinets 

Totem’s main cabin has been through several iterations, each one tuned to the stage we found ourselves in life. In 2007, Jamie did a significant rebuild that took an 18-inch section of stowage out of the port side; moving the settee and table outboard allowed us to create midline seating for the family. It was a fantastic upgrade, and the shelves on the port hull were perfect for our children’s collections of books. 

Fast-forward a few years: We opened up the space, giving our dwarf hamster a place to run as our need for printed books reduced. That change was effective, if a bit crude. 

Now, with help from a skilled carpenter, that space is reconfigured again to retain stowage and bookshelves, with a finer finish.Similarly, in the aft cabin, we did a makeover of the cabinets and a desk space for our current needs.

 Cockpit Comfort 

Abovedecks, our dodger and Bimini top have been through several rounds of progressive improvement. The hard dodger crafted in 2007 now has fairing to clean up the rough underside, as well as improved stainless mounts. There are new snaps for the soft-sided dodger. A car-painting shop sprayed it with epoxy topcoat to gleaming perfection: It will now look like the dodger we always wanted, with molded-in grips that channel rain to the sides instead of sheeting it into the cockpit.

 Swim Steps 

The most dramatic change was among the first that we tackled. We had been hauled out for only a few weeks when Jamie pressed an angle-grinder cutting disc into Totem’s transom. Years of pondering how to make it a better platform for entering and exiting finally landed on a clever approach. 

He perched on a ladder against our reverse transom, a legacy of 1970s design, and created steps that would appear as if they are carved into the back. Partway through, I described my vision for sitting back there, feet in the water, enjoying morning coffee and a view. The bottom step then became a swim platform. 

This upgrade has created a new space for us to enjoy life afloat. It eliminated the awkward, perpetually rusting stainless-steel ladder, and gave us bonus space in the propane locker, which is about 20 percent larger. 

Reaching The End 

“When will you splash Totem?” is the question we hear repeatedly. “It’s a 40-year refit, so only 38 years to go,” Jamie replies with a weary, wry smile. 

The timeline has extended far beyond anything we imagined. The delays answer the question of why cutting the dock lines can be so hard for cruisers. Life gets in the way. There was a pandemic. Our daughters went off to college and life on land. There were unanticipated ­delivery delays. And it was an important time to be in reach of my parents. We could not have known that these two years in the shipyard would be my mother’s last two on Earth; to be in reach for easy visits was priceless. She passed away early this year.

But ultimately, Jamie and I are on no timeline but our own. As we reach the point of being ready enough, the islands beckon, and we’ll soon point their way. 

Galley Upgrades

While every cabin on Totem is part of the refit, changes to the ­galley crept up on us. At first, we focused entirely on ­nondiscretionary needs. The Force 10 we installed in 2007 was on its last legs, and was not practically repairable. The laminate countertop installed in 2014 in Thailand was wearing through enough to expose particleboard—that had to go. Jamie fell through dry-rotted stringers under the sole—looks like that would have to be replaced!

Discretionary updates crept in, easily justified. The new stove’s geometry would let us reclaim precious inches of workspace at the forward end by rebuilding a cabinet, turning it from skinny to functional. Then, when pulling off the laminate—why not just pull the whole countertop and reimagine a better use of the storage spaces below? That engine compartment (the whole inboard side of the galley) needed to be gutted for the new Beta anyway. It wasn’t long before the only remaining part of the galley we weren’t tearing into were the lockers along the port hull—and it had always bothered Jamie how when they were rebuilt in 2014, they weren’t to his spec, leaving yawning portals to unrealized storage.

Suddenly we were looking at our galley as a near-rebuild, not a few fixes. But a love for cooking and eating well, and no additional time cost to the haulout, made it easy to embrace expanded plans.

The first splurge was a GN-Espace stove. This UK-made “cooker” is a rarity among boat ovens—it’s actually insulated. This means baking in the tropics without heating the boat, and vastly more efficient use of propane. I can’t wait to hone my sourdough skills from the tropics!

 Countertop material has been the hardest to settle on. For months, installing quartz—a manufactured product from stone powder and resin—was the plan. But it’s too heavy: not because of the weight overall (we determined it to be about the same as having another person on board), but the heft needed to lift the slab for refrigerator access, or a large square to reach the garbage can hidden beneath. Solid surfacing was our second choice, but there isn’t an installer/fabricator or supplier in this part of Mexico—and it’s not a material we’d like to tackle as amateurs. We decided on bamboo. Strips of the grass bonded to form a slab creates the lightest-weight countertop among all options (save laminate), with the benefit of being relatively thin—an asset because we seek to avoid adding height. The environmentally friendly option feels and looks good.

Cabin-sole replacement has been a trickier proposition than expected. We could never match the teak and juniper elsewhere on Totem; attempting it would look awkward. Casting for options, we initially chose recycled rubber tiles, but Jamie and I kept returning to memories of the cork flooring we loved in our Seattle kitchen: It is comfortably resilient underfoot, handles traffic well (hiding grime from toddlers and dogs), and is a renewable material that we can feel good about. Finding glue-down tiles intended for use in high-moisture settings (such as a bathroom…or a sailboat!) settled the choice.

Finally, there is literally the kitchen sink thrown in. With new counters and fresh finishes everywhere else in the galley, that 1982 sink was going to look pretty out of place. Jamie jokingly refers to our new sink as “The Bathtub.” And while the household size might be inordinately large on a sailboat, it fits, it has fantastic utility with nested cutting boards and drainage, and we know from our prior use patterns that we’ll appreciate the capacity. —BG

A Paean to Sanding

It’s ironic that making  Totem  better requires removing so much of Totem in a slow, agonizing process. I’m referring to sanding. I hate sanding. I recall learning this as a ­7-year-old kid; sandpaper wrapped around the wooden block, cleaning the gunwales of an old wooden skiff in my backyard. At 13, I rebuilt the centerboard trunk on my Enterprise-class sailing dinghy and produced an astonishing quantity of dust. My summer job at age 18 was preparing boats in a shipyard for spring launch in Mystic, Connecticut. Wet sanding ­bottom paint is a grueling, messy business. Almost four decades later, this refit on Totem is one epic, tedious, awful sanding event. Countless coarse 60- and 80-grit sander disks, cut through rough surfaces. An eternity of 120-grit sheets. When the dust settled, I learned to row in that wooden skiff. I learned to race the wind in that sailing ­dinghy. Totem might be a dusty mess, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.—Jamie Gifford

The post Total Refit of Our 40-Year-Old Stevens 47 Totem appeared first on Cruising World.

Do you ever have a feeling that your life is about to change?” My wife said these words to me as we parked our Toyota 4Runner in front of the covered warehouse containing a 31-foot Hallberg-Rassy Monsun from 1975. I didn’t know what struck Missy, but I shrugged it off. “Let’s leave our ­emotions here in the car,” I said. I was lying. For the ­previous two months, I had been admiring this boat online, asking the broker for more pictures, and digesting anything that had information about the Monsun. Even before seeing the boat in person, I had dreams of ­following along the tracks that John Neal wrote about having sailed in his Monsun, which he owned for 11 years and sailed 44,000 miles before selling it in Australia. We wanted our first keelboat to sail (with Poseidon’s blessing) from our home port on Lake Erie to the Pacific. 

At that moment, though, I had to reel back my mind to where I was standing in Michigan. I had learned from reading all the books that you have to leave your emotions out of buying a sailboat. Which, in all honesty, I think is a bunch of baloney. Why shouldn’t you fall in love with something as time-consuming, money-depleting and frustrating as an old sailboat?

Anyway, it was time to focus. I had to find a reason not to buy this boat. 

The broker unlocked the warehouse and turned on the dim, fluorescent lights. The warehouse could fit about 50 average-size sailboats, but only about 10 were left on the hard that season, all tucked back into the corner. After five minutes of searching, we found the boat. 

The hull looked and felt solid, fair and clean. At first glance, the gelcoat looked outstanding for a 45-year-old boat, and even the nonslip on deck was still in good condition. The downside was that when we went inside the cabin, there was a strong odor coming from the head and holding tank. The cushions no longer had any resilience, and the covers needed replacing. Missy and I were too infatuated with the cockpit to care. It was covered in teak, and it felt snug and secure. The interior mahogany seemed so nautical. 

And then I opened the engine bay to see the Yanmar 3YM30, outfitted to the boat in 2015 and with only 200 hours logged. The engine looked immaculate, something I wouldn’t mind working on. 

A clean engine bay was a major ­checkpoint for me. It meant that the ­previous owner had cared. Not only that, but when something broke, I would be able to hop in and fix it without later stepping into our boat’s cabin covered in grease. 

The sails still had their inspection tags from the sailmaker for their yearly service. And, being a freshwater boat, it had rigging in decent condition. 

That was it. The boat had its flaws, but we were sold. 

Making the monsun shipshape

We closed on the boat after the survey and arranged to have it shipped to our marina in Monroe, Michigan. Our project list was built on our bluewater passagemaking dreams, which we’d spun up by reading Don Casey’s This Old Boat and Inspecting the Aging Sailboat, listening to Andy Shell and crew’s 59° North (now called On the Wind) podcasts, clicking around John Harris’ website, morganscloud.com, and scouring our surveyor’s report. Everything we wanted to do would be in our spare time because we were working full time. On the ­weekends, we would haul our tools to the marina and work on the boat throughout winter. Our goal was to fix up the boat in two years, and then cast off the lines. 

We followed the basic principles that Schell and Harris preach: Keep the water out, keep the rig up, and keep the crew happy and healthy. We added a fourth item: Keep it small and simple. 

Keeping the water out required us to replace all the original through-hulls, which had gate valves as seacocks instead of ball valves. We also had to replace the hoses and clamps for the deck scuppers and cockpit drains. 

We went with Groco IBVF seacocks and flanged adapters, and Scandvik ABA hose clamps. Replacing the through-hulls was an intimidating project, but the most technical aspect was ensuring that the through-hull and flange were flush to the hull inside and outside. It took some time to level the inside of the hull with epoxy resin and colloidal silica filler. With lots of sanding on the inside of the hull, and patience, we were able to ensure a watertight seal once the 3M Marine Adhesive Sealant 5200 was applied. 

During the survey, we had noticed some evidence of water entering from the lower shroud plates, so another task was to remove the U-bolt-style lower shroud plates. Then we had to remove any of the core that seemed to have water intrusion. We filled it with epoxy and redrilled the original bolt holes. I went to a local machine shop and had them fabricate the backing plates out of quarter-inch 316 stainless steel. 

That mom-and-pop shop with a couple of CNC machines was able to knock out the job in no time. As a plus, they became enthusiastic followers of our journey. 

Five frustrating inches

Next we focused on keeping up the rig. The rigging was old, its age unknown. So, even though the boat was lightly used for four months out of the year and had never seen salt water, we still decided to replace the rigging. The turnbuckles were replaced the first season with BSI turnbuckles and toggles. The following season, we replaced the 1-by-19 wire, ordering the length of wire and mechanical Sta-Lok terminals online from Defender. We took the measurements of the stays in January, but we didn’t get around to cutting them until much later. We cut the backstay in May, a few days before the boat was ready to splash. 

When we stepped the mast, Missy ­informed me that the backstay wasn’t going to reach the chainplate. “Well, unscrew the turnbuckle. It will fit,” I said. 

She replied with, “It’s about 5 inches short, and the turnbuckle is on its last few threads.” 

My heart sank. We were going to have to take off the mast and wait for another order of wire to replace it. But in a pinch, we found a Dyneema strop and a soft shackle that we could use as an extender. That combination allowed us to step the mast and move the boat over to our dock slip. 

We left the rig only hand-tight and did not bend on the sails. Once the new order of 1-by-19 wire showed up, I began cutting again, checking and double-checking measurements. In front of our boat slip, I used a mini hacksaw and a homemade miter box to make a clean, perpendicular cut. 

Once the backstay was cut and ready to go, Missy went up the mast, after setting the halyard and topping lift as additional temporary backstays. To my disbelief, once again, the backstay was short. 

“What the heck!” I yelled in frustration. 

“How is this so off?” Missy asked with undertones of blame. 

Both times, I had cut the backstay 5 inches short. I finally figured out that I was failing to account for the difference in swage and Sta-Lok length (about 2½ inches on each end). I learned that, when measuring stays, it is important to make a simple sketch or note stating exactly where the measurement started and ended, even if you are freezing your butt off while taking the measurements in Michigan in January. 

The third time, Missy came up with a plan to ensure that the length would be correct. I would first attach the Sta-Lok fitting to only one end, and Missy would go aloft and connect the fitting to the masthead. Then I would cut the backstay to the correct length by visually checking it. 

Finally, we had a backstay. With this setback, the rest of the rigging waited until we were on our way along the Erie Canal. The remaining shrouds were cut with the mast down, on the free dock in Waterford, New York. 

Getting comfortable

The most daunting and time-consuming of the tasks was keeping the crew happy and healthy. To us, this meant staying well-rested and well-fed, and living in a clean environment. Our boat had been a Great Lakes vacation cruiser. Used lightly and only for the summer season, it wasn’t outfitted for full-time living aboard. 

Since we would spend every day sitting and sleeping on the boat, we decided to replace the cushions and covers. We ­transformed one bedroom of our ­two-bedroom apartment into our canvas loft, and another room into boat-parts storage. This meant that our bed would have to be relocated to the living room, which we figured would be good practice for living in a small space. Missy measured all the cushions, including the V-berth, and came up with a quantity of foam, Sunbrella, underlining fabric and zipper length. Before ordering, we tried Sailrite’s foam sample box to find the perfect foam firmness. We placed the 6-by-6-inch foam samples on the ground, testing each to see what worked best for us—which would have been a funny sight to see, trying to test a cushion with our butts halfway on and halfway off the tiny samples. 

Missy then cut out the cushions using an electric knife, the kind regularly brought out for Thanksgiving turkey. All of the cushions required curved edges along the hull, which required Missy to make two measurement lines (top and bottom), and then cut the cushions at an angle. To make this complicated cut, I would sit under the cushion and guide one side of the blade to make sure it was still on the cut line. The cushion edges were not perfect, but, by oversizing the cushion slightly and using Sailrite’s plastic-shrink method, the small imperfections were no longer noticeable. 

The cushion covers were sized and sewn to the same dimensions as the original Hallberg-Rassy. This resulted in a skintight fitting. Missy decided to modify the settee cushions, changing them from a single 6-foot-long cushion to separate cushions that matched the stowage underneath. This greatly improved our access to cans of beans and tuna below the settees. Missy also cut the fabric-wrapped backrests in half so that we wouldn’t have to clear off an entire side of the salon to access underneath. 

I had learned from reading all the books that you have to leave your emotions out of buying a sailboat. Which, in all honesty, I think is a bunch of baloney. Why shouldn’t you fall in love with something as time-consuming, money-depleting and frustrating as an old sailboat?

And finally, to keep us snuggly in our bunks underway, Missy sewed some lee cloths out of Phifertex and binding, with pockets for quick storage of a headlamp, headphones, a book or a cellphone. She used webbing and buckles to allow for quick tensioning, and ease of ingress and egress. Every time I come in to rest on our boat, I still marvel at how amazing the cushions look and feel. 

Getting even more comfortable

When we first received our boat, it came with an Origo two-burner stove. We kept the alcohol stovetop for the first summer, but it became obvious within the first two weekends that it was not for us. I immediately grew tired of refilling the alcohol, which always seemed to be empty in the morning when we wanted to make coffee. The following winter, I replaced the Origo with a Force 10 two-burner ­propane stove and oven. It’s a major ­luxury to be able to light the stovetop without a lighter or match, and without fumbling around the cockpit locker to find the denatured alcohol. 

Then there is the added benefit of ­oven-baked fresh bread, which my wife said was a requirement for our new lifestyle. Since beginning cruising, she has made bread on the Hudson River approaching New York City, while underway in the Atlantic bound for Marsh Harbour in the Bahamas, and many times ­throughout the islands.

We also tried to go down the path of no refrigeration. We did it as part-time liveaboards the first summer. We bought bags of ice every weekend. Then we attempted it as full-time liveaboards. But halfway through the Erie Canal, we ordered an Engel fridge and had it shipped to meet us in Annapolis, Maryland. For vegetables and eggs, we chose to keep our icebox filled, which meant that every two or three days, we were buying a bag of ice. If I wanted cold beer, I had to splurge for two bags of ice. 

Man, was the fridge worth it. Enjoying a cold beer off Hawksbill Cay in the Exumas while sitting waist-deep in crystal-clear water on a mile-long sandbar with new friends was bliss. The only downsides of the fridge are the space it takes up and the extra 100-watt solar panel we had to add for the energy use. 

Setting off aboard Ukiyo

With these changes and many other small projects done, we planned to set off from Monroe, Michigan. We quit our jobs, terminated our apartment lease, and attempted to move onto the boat. We struggled to fit all of our stuff aboard, so we laid out everything on the lawn in front of our slip. Curious dock neighbors came by later that evening, worried we were dividing up our belongings and separating. 

After two more weeks at the dock, we were bound for Annapolis via the Erie Canal, Hudson River, New Jersey coast and Delaware Bay. In Annapolis, we spent five weeks on a second refit geared toward offshore sailing. We anchored the boat up the Severn River near Severna Park, Maryland—my childhood hometown. 

With the help of my family, we had a mooring ball and access to a dock. My dad and I worked for weeks to finish some major items. We installed a Hydrovane self-steering system, replaced our 50 feet of three-eighths G4 chain with 125 feet, swapped out the 35-pound CQR anchor for a 44-pound Spade anchor, and added deck fittings and ­reinforcements for the Dyneema ­removable inner forestay. We also bought new sails and completed many minor projects. It was a real treat working with my dad, and my mom always had a ­world-class dinner ready when we got home. 

All of these items, in my mind, fell ­under the category of “keep the crew ­happy and healthy.” You see, happiness to me is sleeping soundly and staying well-rested at anchor and underway. Adding a Hydrovane, which acts as our third crewmember and steers the boat perfectly offshore, allowed Missy and me to relax. And the oversize Spade anchor has been worth every penny during winter cold fronts that blow through the Bahamas. 

Meanwhile, Missy converted my ­parents’ basement into another canvas loft. This time, she spent two weeks redoing our dodger and dodger frame. The smile on her face when the test fit was successful rivaled our wedding day. 

Finally, we added critical safety equipment, including an ISO-certified life raft, an EPIRB, two personal locator beacons and a new manual bilge pump. Then we were off to Morehead City, North Carolina, to wait for a weather window for a five-day trip offshore to Marsh Harbour. 

All in all, with our refitted boat, we spent three months cruising across Lake Erie and along the US East Coast, and then four months cruising the Bahamas. We waited out hurricane season in Luperón, Dominican Republic, with plans of sailing the Eastern Caribbean before heading west to Panama. 

The refit almost broke us a few times, even before we left the dock. There were so many unknowns, from how we would shower to whether we could actually live in such a small space. Once we left the dock, though, we immediately adapted to our new home and lifestyle. 

As we continue our journey, we wake up every morning not knowing what the day will bring. Will we swim with eagle rays? Run aground? Lose our dinghy? Adopt a kitten?

We never know. To us, this is what life is all about. It’s all part of the adventure. 

Follow Missy Hearn and Greg Thomasson’s journey on Instagram @sv_ukiyo or on their website, ­thirdreefadventures.com.

The post A Classic Reborn: Refitting a Hallberg-Rassy 31 For Long Term Cruising appeared first on Cruising World.

We’re calling our extended refit “the 40-year refit,” as our Stevens 47, Totem, was built in 1982. There was a brief time last year when the effort was optimistically referred to as the 39-year refit. Ha! Projects grew as we saw an opportunity to make lasting improvements. Some are essential, but many are quality-of-life additions we’ll appreciate for years to come.

I’ve started cataloging the 40-year refit in four sections: repowering; improvements to the hull & deck; cabin updates and interior improvement; and systems updates. In May 2021 (it’s really been that long), I made a list of refit projects we planned to tackle. There has been great progress on some, little on others, and a lot of additional effort we didn’t even imagine. 

Here’s a rundown of some of the biggest and most essential projects.

Repowering with Beta. A 70 hp (turbo) Beta will replace Totem’s 75-hp Yanmar 4JH3-TE. The new engine has a long way to travel, starting with fabrication at Kubota in Japan, then getting marinized at Beta in the United Kingdom, then arriving at the US distributor in North Carolina for customization, after which it’s shipped to us in Arizona and we bring it into Mexico. 

Primed for hull paint. Last week, Totem was moved into the paint shed at Cabrales Boatyard. AlexSeal’s matterhorn white is on order from the San Diego Marine Exchange. I couldn’t get my family to go along with an international orange boot stripe, but we all like the deep shade of green that’s planned.

Cooking with GN Espace. Taunting me from the porch of our temporary land digs, the OceanChef propane cooker (that’s UK English for stove) ticked every box for me. I’ll share more after it’s installed; feast your eyes here for now. We’re excited to put it to use.

Replacing the chainplate. We’re replacing Totem’s headstay, the only chainplate we didn’t replace in 2008. The machine shop at Cabrales did fine work with a piece of 316 stainless steel. Jamie is scheming about how to adapt it for a sprit so we can fly a cruising Code Zero. We’re trying to avoid project creep, but wouldn’t that be cool, to have the ability to fly a Code Zero?

Adding swim steps. Jamie made the first cuts into Totem’s reverse transom in May. It’s all done now except for the priming and painting. 

Updating cabins. We thought we’d make a few changes to freshen things up. Ha, a few changes! Most of Totem’s vertical and horizontal surfaces, from bulkheads to lockers, are being rebuilt. This project is radical and slightly overwhelming: interior design is not our strong suit. (Advice is welcome.) The traditionalists will bemoan the loss of all that lovely teak finish below, but we think it’s going to be great.

Thru-hulls have moved. Gray-water tanks have been created. Cabin sole is being replaced in some areas, and there has been a lot of bulkhead reinforcing because the low humidity here sucks out moisture and exposes hidden rot. There’s a long “bonus project” list.

Some big decisions are still pending, such as selections for a new battery bank. We know we want to migrate from AGMs to lithium. Weighing the pros and cons of different setups takes focused time we haven’t been able to dedicate.

Our son, Niall, who is our happiness engineer, has finished his visit with us and is back on his college campus now, eyeing graduation in May 2022, and possibly not disappointed that our delays improve his chances of joining us for extended passagemaking.

The post Sailing Totem: The 40-Year Refit appeared first on Cruising World.

Total Refit of Our 40-Year-Old Stevens 47 Totem

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Eager to get rid of dark wood and old vinyl, this do-it-yourselfer found a cleaner and brighter way to finish the v-berth.

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The post Refits and Upgrades appeared first on Cruising World.

When we sailed into Opua, New Zealand, in a gale in September 2014, after crossing the Pacific Ocean solo in four months and four stops, Gannet, my ultralight Moore 24, was beginning to unravel. All the tiller pilots were dead. The port floorboard was broken and the port pipe berth unusable after the tube jumped out of its socket when Gannet became airborne off a wave and crashed into a trough. These were more important than they might seem because they left no place to brace my foot in the cabin while the little sloop was heeled 30 degrees and more to port as she generally was in the last 48 hours of that passage from Tonga. We had inadequate solar charging in overcast conditions, with two of the six panels nonfunctioning.

RELATED: Solo Sailor Webb Chiles to Finish Sixth Circumnavigation

One of the lessons learned from investigations of airline crashes is that they are often the result of a cascade of small failures, none important in itself, but collectively fatal. I did not know what might break next on Gannet, and I did not want to find out, so I pushed hard to get in port before the wind backed, increased from 40-45 knots to 50-55, and closed the door—forcing Gannet to remain at sea for several more days.

Not long after our arrival, I unraveled some myself when I fell and all but severed part of my left shoulder rotator cuff.

I do not claim to be better than ever, but, thanks to physical therapy and my own exercises, I was better than I ever expected to be six months later. I know that a torn rotator cuff does not heal, but it felt as though it had.

Gannet definitely was better than ever by the time we put to sea again. The boatyard in Opua made new iroko floorboards. I had new tiller pilots and great hopes for the mostly underdeck Pelagic pilot. In port, the pipe berth was as easy to pop back in place as at sea it was not. I replaced the failed solar panels. And I made several improvements.

By far the greatest of these was reconfiguring the cockpit by removing a bridge that held the mainsheet traveler that was always a nuisance to step over—and at sea sometimes a hazard—and relocating the traveler to the cockpit floor.

The idea for this came from photos I saw online of other Moore 24s that have made the change, and I was greatly aided by Gilles Combrisson of GC Rigging in Point Richmond, California, whose firm made the pod on which the mainsheet block and cam cleat are mounted, provided me with the Harken track, risers, bolts and G-10 backing plate cut to size, and advised me of the Harken Duo-Cam that solves the problem of running the underdeck backstay control. Combrisson credits Scott Easam for first devising this configuration.

I did the work myself over a period of four days. It would have taken less, but this being New Zealand, I was often ­interrupted by rain. The result was dramatic. Living on and sailing Gannet was easier in many ways every day. This was one of the best modifications I made to the little boat.

During that stopover, I also took delivery of a new G1 gennaker from North Sails’ Opua loft. My old gennaker was fuller cut and good for broad reaching, but it slowed the boat as the wind moved forward. With the new sail, I had a vision of setting both gennakers wing and wing on an ocean passage and watching Gannet fly under clouds of sail.

Because the G1 didn’t furl well with my Facnor gennaker furler, I ordered a ProFurl Spinex top-down furler. I then cleared the deck by removing unused genoa tracks and cam cleats, also reducing the number of nuts on which I can hit my head inside the cabin by more than 40.

I added a TackTick wind system, which being solar powered and wireless was easy to install.

And I dramatically improved the sound of music with two Megaboom speakers, which when linked to play in stereo were by far the best waterproof Bluetooth speakers I’ve heard.

Though some of these upgrades were far from essential, all enhanced life aboard and sailing oceans. The Tasman, Coral and Arafura seas, and the Indian Ocean laid ahead.

Writer and sailor Webb Chiles completed his sixth solo ­circumnavigation in 2019 when he and Gannet, his Moore 24, ­arrived back in San Diego. You can follow his ongoing ­adventures on his website, inthepresentsea.com.

The post Upgrades for a Circumnavigation appeared first on Cruising World.

I have been messing about on boats for more years than I care to remember, but it still never ceases to amaze me how many new things you learn when you restore an old boat. One example: Who knew that the ceiling on a boat is not the ceiling at all? “Ceilings” are those wooden slats often fitted by manufacturers on cabin sides, most frequently in a fo’c’sle. The correct nautical term for the actual roof (i.e., ceiling) of the cabin is “overhead.”

I learned these archaic snippets (whose only value are in impressing fellow mariners) when I decided to renovate the forward cabin of my 1977 Down East 45 schooner, Britannia. The cabin was still covered with 40-year-old ­faded foam-backed vinyl, much of it in rotten, smelly condition, and all the woodwork needed revarnishing, if not a complete replacement.

Nautical expressions can get somewhat confusing when referring to ceilings, which are really slats, and roofs, which are overheads. So for this article I decided to use common terms. “Roof” means the underside of the fiberglass deck that forms the actual roof of the cabin, and also includes the underside of the lower deck, forward of the bunks. “Slats” are the teak strips on the sides of the hull. “Side” means the sides of the cabin, both the lower sloping sides with the slats, and also the upper sides with the port lights in them.

Teak slats might look nice, but they are extremely difficult to clean behind and can trap dust and mildew. I therefore decided to remove all 22 of these 2-by-½-inch-thick strips from the sides, and replace them with easy-to-clean hygienic plastic sheeting. With six plugged screws securing each slat to the hull ribs, that was a lot of unscrewing—132 screws, to be precise! After the sides had been washed, an immediate improvement was that the cabin appeared larger, even though it had actually been widened by only a little over an inch.

I then cut out all the dirty vinyl covering on the sides and roof, which was glued and stapled to the fiberglass deck. I removed three port lights—two on the starboard side and one to port—then temporarily sealed the outside with duct tape to try to keep any rain out until I could reinstall them after I had fitted the new plastic side coverings.

Anyone who works on boats knows it is usually much easier to strip things out than to rebuild them, and this project was no exception. After cutting out all the dirty vinyl, I then made templates by taping sheets of foam art board together, then cutting and adding bits to form the exact shape of each side. Then I traced the template on a plastic sheet on the marina dock. Plas-Tex plastic sheet comes in 4-by-8-foot panels about 1/16-inch thick. It is very pliable, waterproof and washable, yet easily trimmed with scissors and a box cutter. It is sold by Lowe’s hardware store at $20 per sheet. I used a total of five sheets.

I glued the panels to each side of the hull using contact adhesive on the side ribs and battens that run along the top of the cabin. I used gel-type ­adhesive because it is not stringy and doesn’t drip like the regular sort. This is particularly important when applying glue upside down. I screwed a teak batten along the bottom of the sheet, which stopped it from sagging between the ribs.

With the lower panels in place, I then made templates for the upper sides, which curve around the shape of the deck. These were larger than the lower sides and more difficult to glue underneath. Reinstalling the port lights helped to keep the large side panels in place.

The largest and final piece of Plas-Tex had to be glued to the forward underside of the roof. I made the template by taping the art boards to the roof with masking tape to hold them in place while I trimmed and added pieces where required.

RELATED: Restoring Your Gelcoat

After cutting a plastic sheet to shape, I pre-glued the fiberglass roof and the plastic. Sticking it up after about 10 minutes was a delicate once-off operation because contact adhesive sticks—as its name suggests—on contact. I lay on my back while my wife slid the large sticky sheet over me, and I carefully placed it where I had made marks from the template. It was became a question of “push it up and hope,” and then pressing it in place with arms and legs while the glue made contact. I then made props to hold the sheet in place while the glue hardened.

I had originally trimmed the sheets to overlap each other by about half an inch. This enabled me to score through both overlapping layers at the same time, using a box cutter with a sharp new blade. I then stripped off the top layer and peeled away the inside layer, leaving a perfect butt joint between the two pieces. It was just a matter of cleaning excess glue with solvent.

I cut other teak trim pieces from the slats I had removed, varnished them, then glued them to cover the joints ­between the sides and roof.

There were also two ­sections that needed covering in the roof of the cabin, between the deck beams and around the hatch. For this I used the same tongue-and-groove plastic boards I had used throughout the rest of the boat. It is called plank paneling and is PVC planking used as wainscot panels on house walls. Each board is 7 inches wide and ¼-inch thick and comes in a pack of three boards, each 8 feet long, for $20 from Lowe’s. It’s reversible; one is molded with two strips and the other with three thinner strips. I decided to use the two-strip side. An important benefit, particularly on a boat, is the rot- and mildew-free lifetime guarantee, along with the ability to wash it with soap and water. I had also found that the thickness gave better thermal insulation from the hot deck compared with thin vinyl. I measured and trimmed these panels individually to accommodate any unevenness between the deck beams, then slotted them into the previous panel, and discreetly nailed them to the wooden beads that had supported the original vinyl. I needed only one pack to ­complete this small area.

These improvements made the cabin appear much larger than before because the dark wood slats tended to bring the sides inward. It is also brighter and much easier to clean.

I added a second 12-volt dome light to provide better light into this cabin. I also wired two 120-volt sconce lights and connected both systems to a double switch mounted near the door. This is a much more practical method than groping in the dark for the tiny overhead dome-light switches.

There are two hanging lockers, one to each side, that had been varnished with multiple layers over the years. I removed both locker doors, along with the pin rails around the shelf tops. I also removed the cabin door and the chain locker door and framework, along with four sliding drawers. I took them home to restore in my garage. The locker sides and tops had to be stripped in situ with varnish remover, then scraped down to the original teak. This was then cleaned with teak cleaner and given two coats of satin varnish, which brought out the beautiful golden tones of the wood. The inside of the lockers was then painted white.

As part of the renovation, I wondered what to do about the imitation-teak laminate shelf covering on top of the lockers. These were not scratched or damaged because Formica laminate is very resilient, but they had lost their luster over time. After experimenting with a small section, I decided to varnish them with clear gloss varnish. I cleaned the laminate with soap and water, then slapped on a liberal coat of clear gloss with a 2-inch brush. I then left the tops untouched for a week so the varnish could thoroughly dry to a hard finish. It set to a fine, smooth, shiny finish with the advantage that when it gets scratched—which it undoubtedly will—it will be easy to retouch with a dab of new varnish.

I then reinstalled the freshly varnished pin rails around the edges of the shelves. But instead of the square corners, which the original pin rail had, I made rounded corners out of spare wood. These look much nicer, but more important, they are not as painful when you bump your arm against them as the boat rolls.

We had taken the foam bunks to our home to wash the covers. When everything was replaced, we found ourselves with a pristine new double cabin. It had not cost a lot of money, if you don’t count the effort—but it was all worth it.

Costs

Serial DIYer Roger Hughes is a frequent contributor to Cruising World. See more of Britannia’s renovation projects at schooner-britannia.com.

The post Forward Cabin Makeover appeared first on Cruising World.

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During the winter and spring of 2015 and 2016, I completed a total refit of my Pearson 36, Snoek, so named after a saltwater fish indigenous to the waters off South Africa, where I was raised.

The first two articles dealt with an overview of the project and the revamped plumbing, respectively. Continuing on with more detail on specific areas of the boat, this month we’ll take a look at the new deck layout.

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The post Deck Upgrades appeared first on Cruising World.

Where masking tape is concerned, the first matter to address is whether you wish to leave the tape in place, exposed to the elements (including dew), for more than 24 hours. If not, you (and your wallet) are in luck. Except when used with two-part coatings, good old khaki-colored masking tape, the type that’s been around for decades, is fine. While you wouldn’t want to use it to pull a fine line, such as a boot or sheer stripe, it will work well for antifouling paint and many other less-than-precise applications.

At just 4 or 5 dollars a roll, this tape is inexpensive, and you won’t feel too bad if a roll is left out in the rain, which will almost certainly render it unusable (one of my pet peeves when I ran a boatyard). If you require greater definition to an edge and a finer line — as well as resistance to solvents and two-part paints — a high-­performance version of this tape (3M 218 Fine Line masking tape) is available for about $17 a roll, depending on the width. This tape can be stretched to make smooth curves, but it also can be torn without using a knife as you complete a run.

Again, beware: These types of masking tape are, for the most part, not weather-­resistant. Even storing them in a damp environment can destroy them. It’s hard to watch a boat owner laboriously mask off brightwork, apply a coat of varnish and then not return straightaway because the weather turns poor for a week or two. When it comes time to remove this tape, it will stubbornly resist. Much of it will be left behind as strips are pulled up and torn, often requiring the use of a razor scraper and adhesive remover. Upon exposure to moisture — it takes nothing more than dew to wreck it — this tape will separate from its adhesive, leaving a formidable cleanup task for the unwary user.

These days there’s a wide range of masking-tape options beyond the standard variety, too many to list all of them here. However, a couple are especially useful and noteworthy. For any masking job that may be exposed to rain and sun for up to seven days (or 14 days indoors), you must move up to the next level of tape sophistication. In that case, 3M’s blue medium-adhesion masking tape fits the bill. Medium adhesion means it’s unlikely to pull paint and varnish off with it as it’s removed. (There are other tape manufacturers besides 3M, but my experience is with this dependable brand; the company invented masking tape in 1925.) If your project will last longer than this, and you don’t wish to remove and replace tape every seven days, then silver masking tape is the right choice, as it can be used outdoors for more than 30 days. In fact, I’ve used it for twice this duration, but plan on a minimum of a month. This tape is also useful for temporary on-deck repairs, such as a leaky hatch.

All masking tapes are not very strong, nor are they meant to be. But if you simply need a moisture barrier, the silver variety works well. Avoid the temptation to use duct tape for any temporary on-deck repair. Once it’s wet, its backing separates from its tenacious glue, which is extremely difficult to remove.

In short, determine what you will need in the way of weather resistance, chemical compatibility and the fineness of the line before reaching for a roll of masking tape. 3M and other tape manufacturers provide detailed sales information for all of their products, making the selection process relatively easy. Lastly, here’s a tip: The natural tendency when removing tape is to pull it at 90 degrees to the surface. That’s fine if the surface is gelcoat, but if, for instance, it’s an old varnished sole or recently applied enamel paint, there’s a risk of pulling the coating with it. To avoid that, pull the tape back closer to 180 degrees. By doing so, you’ll create less stress on the coating’s bond.

Steve D’Antonio offers services for boat owners and buyers through Steve D’Antonio Marine Consulting www.stevedmarineconsulting.com.

The post The Right Tapes for Sailboat Projects appeared first on Cruising World.

The original saloon table on my Down East 45 schooner was a single heavy sheet of 3⁄4-inch-thick laminated plywood, 27 inches wide by 57 inches long. It was supported on two substantial aluminum pedestals locking into large, round collars screwed to the floor and table.

There were two annoying problems with this structure: It was permanently mounted on the port side of the saloon, so people sitting on the starboard settee couldn’t reach the table. It was also difficult to squeeze in and out of one end because the chart table bulkhead was in the way. It was a very large but also impractical table, so I decided to build myself a more versatile one that could seat more than just three people.

My new design would have a narrow, fixed center section, with hinged leaves on either side that swing up to reach either or both of the settees. This is hardly a unique concept, so why didn’t the original builders do it this way? To make it the right height for the settees, the table needed to be 27 inches high, but this meant the new leaves could not be more than 27 inches or they would catch on the floor when they were down. With both leaves open, this left a 13-inch space in the middle, which determined the width of the fixed section. The table would be 43 inches long to allow access on all sides.

Tabletop

I started with a 4-by-8-foot sheet of oak plywood from Lowe’s. The folks at the store cut this large, heavy sheet to my three panel sizes on their circular saw, which saved me a lot of time and enabled me to fit the pieces into my vehicle. I wanted rounded corners on all the pieces, so I traced around a tin lid to give me a radius, then cut the corners with a fine scrolling blade fitted in my jigsaw.

I decided to laminate the tabletops with a high-­pressure melamine laminate, similar to Formica, because it is both hard and scratch-­resistant. I found exactly what I was looking for on the Wilsonart website. It is a realistic-­looking teak-grained laminate called Nepal Teak in a high-gloss finish that looks just like real varnished teak. I special-­ordered a 4-by-8-foot sheet from Lowe’s. It is 3⁄64 inch thick, and I cut it to the approximate size of each table section using metal cutting shears, leaving about a 1⁄2-inch overhang on all sides. Then I glued them on the plywood using, Weldwood’s original contact cement, which is more liquid than the gel variety. I spread it on the plywood and laminate surfaces with a 6-inch roller, then waited for the glue to become tacky. When joining large surfaces of laminate with contact cement, you have to get it right on the first try because the cement bonds on contact and there is no wiggle room. I placed the laminate on my workbench with the glue side up, then laid two thin wooden battens on each end. I put the plywood on top, glue side down. The wood strips kept the two pieces apart while I positioned the plywood accurately above the laminate. It was then a simple matter to slide the battens out and press the plywood to the laminate. I then placed the board on some paper on the house floor and walked all over it in my deck shoes. This applied much more than the 75 pounds of pressure called for in the gluing instructions and firmly pressed the pieces together.

After leaving the three boards overnight for the glue to harden, I carefully trimmed the laminate flush with the edges of the boards, using a router with a vertical cutting bit and roller-bearing guide. This produced a sharp, straight edge to which I intended to fit teak trim all the way around.

Trim

I had some 1⁄2-inch-thick teak slats left over from a forward-­cabin rebuild that were just right to make the straight-edge trim for the panels. Of course, this was much too thick to bend around the corners, so I used my jigsaw to cut rounded trim from bits of solid teak I had saved from previous projects. All the trim had to be drilled and counterbored, then screwed and glued to the edges of the three boards. Then all the holes — 75 total — had to be plugged and sanded.

I decided to make fixed fiddles on the center section because the things that invariably get placed there are liable to slide off when the boat rocks — even in a marina. I cut strips to length and beveled and rounded the tops, then shaped both ends in a graceful swan’s-neck curve to join the corner trim. I left the corners open to enable the table to be wiped, and to add a bit of decorative accent.

An unusual stumbling block I didn’t anticipate was keeping track of all the pieces of trim that had been shaped to match the individual edges and corners. I made 12 corner pieces, four edging strips for fiddles and eight other edging trims. All were slightly different, because this table was nothing if not “handcrafted.”

I hinged the table’s leaves using six stainless-steel sliding pull-apart hinges — three on each leaf. These allow the leaves to be easily detached from the center section when necessary, such as to access the floorboards.

Supports

The mainmast compression post on my schooner is a 4-inch square post passing through the saloon to the keelson, and it offered a perfect support for one end of the table’s center section. I used a 4-inch brass-plated butt hinge to support that end of the table, screwing one half of the hinge to the compression post with a teak block spacer and the other to the underside of the table. The spacer is important because it enables the center section of the table to hinge up and hang with a strop to a deck beam when I need access to the floorboards. This attachment method also allows me to remove the table completely by simply knocking the hinge pin out, separating the two halves of the hinge.

To support the other end of the table, I shaped a leg out of plywood. I attached it at the top with a short piano hinge that allows the leg to fold flat to the underside of the center section of the table whenever it’s lifted to get to the floorboards. I secured the bottom of the leg with two pins that drop into flanged bushings I set in the floor. I made the pins by screwing 1⁄4-inch-diameter stainless wood screws into the bottom of the support, then hack-sawing the heads off and rounding them with a file. To support the table’s leaves, I bought two attractive turned-wood table legs, grandly termed “early American table legs,” from Lowe’s. I fastened the top of each leg to the center of the leaf edge’s underside, using a small brass hinge, so when not in use, each leg folds to the inside of the leaf, where it is held by a plastic C-clip. I screwed 1⁄4-inch-diameter pins in the bottom of each leg, which drop into bronze flange bushings I sunk into the floor. This simple yet secure support for the table leaves is much stronger than center-­section supports like those I have had on other boats, which nearly always allow the leaves to sag. I also bought two brass barrel-bolt latches, which I screwed to each leaf. The bolts drop into flanged bushings set in the floor and stop the leaves from swinging about in the folded-­down position when the boat heels.

I stained the plywood on the underside of the panels and the table legs with teak stain, which, when rubbed with a rag, made the wood look amazingly like the shade of real teak. I bought a quart of the stain, called 120 Teak Natural and made by Zar, from a local hardware store. When all the woodwork was complete, I varnished it with two coats of Epifanes high-gloss wood varnish. The result is that it’s difficult to distinguish between the real teak trim and the laminate.

When both leaves are extended, the new table is more than twice the size of the old one and looks positively baronial. More important, it is much more functional because it easily seats six and allows access all around, yet when the leaves are down it is smaller than the original.

Roger Hughes is nearing the completion of a six-year project restoring his Down East 45, Britannia. For more on the restoration, visit his website www.schooner-britannia.com.

The post Refitting a Tired Saloon Table appeared first on Cruising World.

During our nearly four-year cruise of Mexico, my husband, Mark, and I lived almost exclusively on 555 watts of solar power charging a 640-amp-hour house battery bank. We anchored out virtually every night aboard our 2008 Hunter 44DS, Groovy, and relied on the sun for power. During one 10-week stretch, while we waited for a replacement engine alternator to arrive, our boat’s solar panels were our sole source of power. We had no backup charging system to turn to, and yet we lived and sailed comfortably the entire time. Mounting solar panels on a sailboat was not difficult, but a few key decisions made a huge difference in how effective our panels were.

A solar-power installation on a sailboat is made up of two independent systems: one system to charge the batteries, and another system to provide 120-volt AC power for household appliances. In the charging system, the solar panels convert sunlight into electrical current and deliver it to the batteries via a solar charge controller. Similar to a voltage regulator, the charge controller acts as a gatekeeper to protect the batteries from receiving more current than they need as they are being charged. In the AC power system, an inverter or inverter/charger converts the 12-volt DC power in the battery into 120 volts AC whenever it is turned on.

Panel Positioning and Wiring Considerations

One of the biggest challenges for sailors installing solar power on a sailboat is finding a place on the boat where the panels will be shaded as little as possible. Just a few square inches of shade on one panel can render that panel all but inoperable. Unfortunately, between the mast, radome, spreaders and boom, shadows cross the deck all day long, especially as the boat swings back and forth at anchor.

What’s worse, if the panels are wired in series rather than in parallel, this little bit of shade can shut down the entire solar-panel array. When we installed solar power on Groovy, we had already lived exclusively on solar power in an RV for over two years. Our RV solar panels had been wired in series, and we had witnessed the array shutting down current production when just half of one panel was shaded.

Choosing whether to wire the panels in series or parallel on a boat affects the wire gauge required, which is why many solar-power installers lean toward wiring the panels in series. Panels wired in series can be wired all the way to the solar charge controller with a thinner-gauge wire than those wired in parallel. This is because the voltage of panels wired in series is additive, while the current remains constant, so the current flowing is just that of a single panel. In contrast, the current flowing from panels that are wired in parallel is additive, while the voltage across them is not. This means that in a parallel installation, the current going to the charge controller is several times higher and requires much thicker cable to avoid any voltage loss over the length of the wire.

Not only is thinner-gauge wire less expensive, but it is also more supple and easier to work with, making the job of snaking it in and around various crevices in the boat and connecting it to the solar charge controller much less of a struggle. Thus the choice between series and parallel wiring boils down to a trade-off between system performance, expense and ease of solar system installation.

Luckily, the size of the wire can be reduced if higher-­voltage solar panels are chosen. Since watts are determined by multiplying volts by amps, a higher-voltage panel that generates the same watts as a lower-voltage panel will produce less current. Therefore, selecting nominal 24-volt panels instead of 12-volt panels allows for the use of thinner wire sizes no matter how they are wired.

Our Marine Solar Panel Design Choices

In our installation, we decided to mount three 185-watt, 24-volt (nominal) Kyocera solar panels high above the cockpit, well aft of the boom, as far away as possible from potential shade. Our Hunter came with a big, solid stainless-steel arch, and we turned to Alejandro Ulloa, a brilliant metal fabricator at Baja Naval Boatyard in Ensenada, Mexico, to build a polished stainless-steel solar-panel arch extension onto the existing structure. He designed the arch extension with integrated telescoping davits to hoist our dinghy as well as support the solar panels. These davits were strong enough — and the lines and blocks had enough purchase — that either of us could lift our light Porta-Bote dinghy with its 6-horsepower outboard without a winch.

We spaced the panels about a half-inch apart and wired them in parallel. Using two twin-lead wires, we snaked the three positive leads and one common ground down through the inside of the arch tubes so they wouldn’t be visible, and placed wire loom over the exposed wires under the panels.

The junction points for the three parallel panels were on positive and negative bus bars inside a combiner box, all mounted in a cockpit lazarette. Inside the combiner box, we installed three breakers, one for each panel. This gave us the ability to shut off any or all of the panels if we needed to (we never did).

We mounted a Xantrex solar charge controller (model XW MPPT 60-150) in a hanging locker, as close to the batteries as possible, in a spot where it was easy to monitor and program. We ran twin-lead wire from the combiner box to the charge controller and from there to the batteries.

Our boat came with three new 12-volt Mastervolt 4D AGM house batteries, all wired in parallel, for a total of 480 amp-hours of capacity. We wanted a bigger house battery bank, and because it is best for the age, type and size of the batteries to be matched, we added a fourth new Mastervolt 4D AGM house battery, which brought our total to 640 amp-hours. Our batteries were installed at the lowest point in the hull, below the floorboards, and they ran the length of the saloon, from just forward of the companionway stairs to just aft of the V-berth stateroom door.

The best way to charge a bank of batteries that are wired in parallel is to span the entire battery bank with the leads coming from the charge controller. We did this by connecting the positive lead from the charge controller to the positive terminal of the first battery in the bank, and the negative lead from the charge controller to the negative terminal of the last battery. By spanning the entire bank, the batteries were charged equally rather than having the charging current focused on just the first battery in the bank.

We feel that AGM batteries are superior to wet cell (flooded) batteries because they can be installed in any orientation, don’t require maintenance, can’t spill (even in a capsize), and charge more quickly. Our Mastervolt batteries, like almost all AGM batteries on the market, are dual-purpose, combining the very different characteristics of both deep-cycle and start batteries. Our batteries work well, but if we were doing an installation from scratch today, we would consider the new Trojan Reliant AGM batteries. These batteries are engineered strictly for deep-cycle use and have been optimized to provide consistent current and maximize battery life.

Our boat came with a Xantrex Freedom 2,500-watt inverter/charger wired into the boat’s AC wiring system with a transfer switch. The inverter/charger performed two functions. While the boat was disconnected from shore power, it converted the batteries’ 12-volt DC power into 120-volt AC power, allowing us to operate 120-volt appliances, like our microwave. When the boat was connected to shore power, it charged the batteries.

Because this inverter/charger was a modified-sine-wave inverter, mimicking AC ­current with a stair-stepped square wave, we also had a 600-watt pure-sine-wave inverter to power our potentially more sensitive electronic devices. We chose Exeltech because its inverters produce an electrical signal that is clean enough to power medical equipment, and they are NASA’s choice for both the Russian and American sides of the International Space Station. For simplicity, rather than wiring the inverter into the cabin’s AC wiring, we plugged ordinary household power strips into the AC outlets on the inverter and plugged our appliances into the power strips. Like the charge controller, the inverter must be located as close to the batteries as possible. Ours was under a settee.

Shade’s Impact on Sailboat Solar Panels

Once our solar installation was completed on our sailboat, we closely observed the effects of shade on our solar-panel array. We were often anchored in an orientation that put the panels in full sun. Just as often, however, we were angled in such a way that shade from the mast and boom covered portions of our panels. It was fascinating to monitor the solar charge controller’s LCD display whenever the sun was forward of the beam — the current from the panels to the batteries fluctuated up and down as we swung at anchor.

Taking notes one morning, we noticed that the charging current was repeatedly creeping up and down between 9.5 and 24.5 amps as the boat moved to and fro. When the entire solar-panel array was in full sun, it generated 24.5 amps of current. When we moved so the mast shaded a portion of one panel, the array generated 15 amps. When it shaded portions of two panels and only one was in full sun, the array produced just 9.5 amps. Of course, it would have been preferable to see a steady 24.5 amps all morning, but this sure beat watching the current drop to zero whenever a shadow crossed a panel.

We discovered that shade makes a huge impact while sailing, too. Surprisingly, it is far worse to have the panels shaded by the sails than to have the panels in full sun but tilted away from its direct rays. One afternoon, we noticed that while we were on a tack that tilted the panels away from the sun, they generated 24.5 amps of current, whereas on a tack where the panels were tilted toward the sun but two of the three were partially shaded by the sails, the current dropped to a mere 10 amps.

Reflections On Our Solar Panel Installation

A wonderful and surprising side benefit of our large solar panels and arch system was that the setup created fabulous shade over the jumpseats at the stern end of the cockpit. Our metal fabricator, Alejandro, placed a support strut at hand-holding height, and sitting in those seats feels secure and comfortable while sailing, no matter the conditions.

After living on solar power for eight years of cruising and land-yacht travel, we’ve learned that you can never have too much solar power. Groovy’s 555 watts was enough to run all our household appliances as needed, including our nearly 4-cubic-foot DC refrigerator, two laptops, a TV/DVD player, and lights at night. However, it was not quite enough power to run all that plus our stand-alone 2.5-cubic-foot DC freezer during the short days and low sun angles of the winter months without supplemental charging from the engine alternator every few days. For the 10 weeks that we did not have a functioning alternator, our solution was to turn off the freezer, which enabled our batteries to reach full charge every afternoon.

Solar power made a world of difference in our cruise. Not only did it allow us to live comfortably and with ample electricity for weeks on end when our engine alternator went on the blink, but as a “set-it-and-forget-it” system, it also gave us the freedom to anchor out for as long as we wished without worrying about the batteries. In our eyes, the solar-panel arch enhanced the beauty and lines of our boat, giving her a sleek and clean appearance. It was true icing on the cake to discover that the panels and arch system also provided much-needed shade over the cockpit and helm from the hot tropical sunshine. If you are preparing for a cruise, consider turning to the sun for electricity and outfitting your sailboat with solar power.

The Installation:

Emily and Mark Fagan offer cruising tips and share their stories and photos on their website, roadslesstraveled.us. They are currently enjoying a land cruise across America aboard an RV.

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