A fracture in the pressurized shore-water line in my 50-foot schooner, Britannia, caused major flooding. It would have sunk her had I not managed to pump out the water ­quickly. I subsequently stripped and thoroughly cleaned five electric pumps, which worked again flawlessly. I also drained the engine oil and transmission oil and replaced them. Then, remarkably, the engine fired up immediately, as though nothing had happened.

Because the engine continued to start every time, I assumed that the starter motor was fine. During the hot summer months in Florida, we hardly visited the boat anyway, and rarely started the engine. This was a mistake. 

Over time, the starter began to turn the engine slower and slower, as though the dedicated battery was at the end of its five-year life. I installed a new battery but saw no change in the sluggish turnover, which was by then hardly sufficient to fire the ­engine at all. I also cleaned the heavy cable connections, but it made no difference. There was only one thing left to do: Remove the starter (Figure 1) and examine it. 

The thing about starter motors on heavy diesel engines in boats is this: They’re darn heavy. My engine is a Perkins 4.236 that weighs half a ton, and the starter is low down in the bowels of the bilge, secured with three very rusty three-eighths-inch nuts—one of which was almost impossible to reach with a wrench. After hanging upside down over the engine for half an hour, I finally got it off and hauled out the thing using the battery cable attached to the solenoid. It is 15 inches long and weighs 34 pounds. That’s the same weight as my number two CQR anchor.

Dismantling the Starter

There are two main parts to these normally reliable starters (see Figure 2). There is the solenoid (Figure 3), which throws a tiny pinion gear on the motor shaft into mesh with the flywheel attached to the crankshaft. The 10 teeth on the pinion gear are tapered, so they mesh smoothly with the flywheel teeth. It is called a Bendix Drive, after the inventor, Vincent Bendix, who patented it in 1915.

The other, much-larger part is the ­actual starter, containing the armature that spins the pinion gear (Figure 4) and turns the flywheel, thereby firing the engine. There could be numerous reasons why this was not happening, so ­everything on the starter needed looking at. I began with the solenoid.

Solenoid

After securing the starter firmly in the jaws of the big swivel vise in my garage, I removed the two screws holding the solenoid to the starter casing, along with the screw holding the electrical cable to the body. The solenoid still would not come away from the body, until I discovered it needed rotating a little to dislodge it from the groove it was locked in. It then almost removed itself, thanks to a large, heavy spring inside the solenoid that keeps the pinion disengaged until it’s electrically activated.

Removing the solenoid revealed the 1-inch-diameter piston (Figure 5), which throws the pinion gear forward about three-quarters of an inch in to mesh with the flywheel. There is actually nothing else inside the body of the solenoid. All the electrics are in the endcap.

I unscrewed the two small electrical terminals and the screws holding the endcap of the solenoid, and carefully pulled off the Bakelite cover. The contacts inside were dirty and badly pitted, telling me that a good electrical connection was no longer being made (Figure 6). The contacts can be removed from the endcap and cleaned. It’s best to clean electrical contacts with nonmetallic abrasives like Scotch-Brite or equivalent. Then I cleaned the inside of the endcap, greased the piston, and oiled the lever arm and pinion shaft with waterproof lithium grease. Finally, I put it all back together.

When the starter key is turned (or the button pressed on my boat), an electromagnetic field is created in the solenoid, causing the piston to retract against the spring and throw the pinon gear with great force in to mesh with the flywheel. Simultaneously, at the end of its travel, the piston also pushes the contacts together, transmitting the full voltage from the battery into the starter. This rotates the starter, which in turn rotates the engine, causing it to fire. On releasing the button, the starting current is discontinued to the solenoid, the pinion gear retracts, and the starter stops rotating.

After replacing the solenoid on the ­motor, it can be tested by applying a 12-volt positive voltage to the small terminal and the return on the body of the motor. The pinon gear should shoot forward on the shaft. Warning: Do not connect the heavy-duty battery wire to the solenoid during this test, or the starter will also rotate, creating significant counter-torque.

Starter Body

I next withdrew the two long setscrews from the rear of the starter casing, and removed the backing plate. This revealed an unbelievable mass of sludge and grime covering the four brushes and the commutator (this passes current from the brushes to the starter motor’s coils or windings). Some of it was so heavily encased that it refused to be dislodged, even after prodding with a screwdriver. Other parts dropped out in solid chunks. 

It was quite remarkable that the starter had even turned with so much water and conductive dirt inside. I washed out as much as possible with a strong jet of water from a hose—three times. I then sprayed the inside with degreasing liquid and dried it all out with a heat gun. 

Even these steps didn’t remove all the dirt, so I removed the armature to clean and inspect the windings. This was done by holding the casing in the vise and pulling out the armature. The brushes remained attached to the outer casing, and the commutator slid off them. 

The windings inside seemed quite clean, no doubt because of the dousing they had just received. I mounted the armature in the vise, with aluminum soft jaws installed, and then gently rotated a strip of 400-grit sandpaper around the commutator until it gleamed. The armature windings were then cleaned, and the end bearing and throw lever greased.

Before I could reinstall the armature, I first had to retract the four brushes so that the commutator would slide between them. On this motor, the complete brush assembly pivots, making the task easy using two small slivers of wood wedged between the arms on the brushes (Figure 7). When the armature was fully installed, I pulled out the bits of wood, and the brushes seated perfectly on the commutator. I then replaced the end plate, and the job was complete. [Editor’s note: The above procedure would benefit from a blow-down with compressed air, and then a washdown with a solvent such as brake cleaner, to remove all sanding dust, which contains copper, to prevent any possibility of a short across the windings.]

I decided to make a bench test of the operation of the starter, mounted securely in my vise. Using a car battery, I clipped a jumper cable to the larger positive solenoid terminal and the negative to the starter body. Nothing happened because the contacts inside the solenoid were open. 

Then, I held a second, thinner green wire to the terminal that normally carries the wire from the starter key or button (Figure 8). The motor pinion gear flew forward, and the motor spun furiously. On removal of the green wire, the motor stopped and the Bendix Drive retracted the pinion gear. I was sure that I heard the starter heave a sigh of relief, being free from all the foreign matter that was buried inside it.­ 

A final touch was to repaint the whole assembly black. I had built myself an almost new starter motor. 

It has performed perfectly on multiple starts, even when the battery was low, and it is a reassuring feeling to know that the engine will start at the push of a button.

Hailing from New Bern, North Carolina, Roger Hughes has been messing about on boats for half a century, as a professional captain, charterer, restorer, sailing instructor and happy imbiber. He recently completed a full restoration and extensive modification of a well-aged 50-foot ketch. Learn more at schooner-britannia.com.

Editor’s note: CW does not recommend the use of pressurized shore-water lines
on any boat. If you have one, water pressure should be off whenever you are not aboard.

The post How To Rebuild a Starter Motor appeared first on Cruising World.

Occasional grounding is an inevitable problem of navigating a yacht that draws 6 feet, 6 inches in the shallow Intracoastal Waterway. If you have a deep-draft boat like my 50-foot ­schooner, Britannia, and you happen to wander off the main channel, you can easily run aground. This does not normally cause damage for a long keel boat because the bottom is mostly soft black mud, but depending on how hard the boat goes on, it can be a quite a trial to refloat.

With any attempt to refloat, the propeller is whirling madly only a few feet from the muddy bottom. It is certain to disturb lots of silt and sludge, which then can be drawn into an ­engine-water-cooling intake.

Most freshwater-cooled marine diesel engines operate on the same principles: An impeller pump draws in cold seawater to cool the engine’s hot, fresh water through a heat exchanger; the residual warmed seawater is then pumped out the back of the boat, usually through the exhaust.

The large mesh filters fitted to most boats’ engine intakes will capture larger lumps of debris, such as seagrass and even small fish, but minute particles of sand and sludge can still pass through, clogging the seawater neoprene impeller and then working their way into the engine’s heat exchanger and cooling passageways. The first sign of this trouble is often a rise in the engine’s temperature, along with a reduction in revolutions and performance.

Stopped in Her Tracks

This exact scenario occurred when we were traversing a 20-mile section of the Intracoastal between Titusville and New Smyrna Beach, on Florida’s eastern coast, in spring 2022. 

Suffocating fumes suddenly filled the saloon, and I immediately cut the engine, then made an emergency stop by running aground in the soft, shallower side of the channel. There was no time to consider anchoring: I thought we were on fire.

All the hatches and portlights were flung open, and the breeze soon cleared the smoke to reveal a cracked fuel pipe on the Perkins 4.236 engine lift pump. This crack had been spraying diesel all over the hot engine, creating the thick, acrid smoke throughout the boat. For the first time in my long sailing career, I had to call for a tow. We went back to the Titusville mooring field, where we examined the fuel-line breakage.

I unscrewed the large primary engine filter and found the 2-inch-diameter wire gauze blocked on the outside—which is where any debris should be—but also completely solid on the inside, something I had never seen ­before. It was obvious that a considerable amount of muck had been sucked into the engine.

With the plate removed from the front of the Jabsco seawater pump, I could see, to my complete amazement, that the impeller vanes had disintegrated and vanished, leaving only the hub on the shaft. This must have happened when the primary filter become totally clogged and the impeller ran dry, shredding the vanes. 

There is only one place the broken bits can then go: into the bowels of the engine. No wonder it overheated; there was little or no raw-water circulation. 

The next day, I cleaned the filter and pipes, and fitted a new impeller, but it didn’t help with the overheating. We had to restrict the engine to only 1,300 rpm as we trudged back to Britannia’s marina berth, 15 miles south, at 3 knots. 

To further investigate, it seemed logical to follow the flow of seawater from the impeller to the next piece of equipment and then onward. The first place any broken impeller pieces could go from the raw-water pump is into the oil heat exchanger, right at the back of the engine—of course it would be there, wouldn’t it? 

I removed the water hose to the heat exchanger and poked a finger inside—and found soft rubber and dirt. This ­discovery meant removing the double-barreled oil cooler, which was no easy task with a bulkhead in the way. I finally managed to get it off the engine and, using long-nose pliers, I pulled out as many bits of ­impeller as I could. Then I back-flushed the twin pipes with water. 

The next path for the raw cooling water was to the engine heat exchanger, which was also partially blocked with tiny bits of impeller, and lots of sludge. This was when I concluded that I had to completely dismantle and clean all the seawater passageways in this big engine. 

Dismantling

All the parts of the cooling system had to come off, to be examined and cleaned. But this was easier said than done, because two floor beams had been positioned over the engine, and it was impossible to get a wrench on some of the engine fasteners. 

The beams had to come out, so I used my circular saw to make 45-degree cuts on each end, then removed the beams. Weeks later, after reassembling the ­engine, I glued a sliver of wood on one end of each beam to make up for the thickness of the saw cuts, then bolted the beams to the splice to secure them.

The most important item to clean was the engine’s large main heat exchanger, with its honeycomb of tiny tubes carrying the hot fresh water to where it is cooled by the flow of seawater—that is, when there is any.

To get at the exchanger, I first had to remove the intake manifold—to get at the nuts to remove the heavy cast-iron exhaust manifold—to then get at the nuts securing the heat-exchanger. It is at times like this when I would like to get my bruised knuckles around the necks of the people who built this boat.

Three hours later, I had the engine heat exchanger in my hands. I counted about 100 ⅛-inch-diameter pipes inside the honeycombed body, but only about 30 would actually pass water. The rest were blocked with sludge, which had passed right through the ­transmission heat exchanger. No wonder poor old “Perky” didn’t have any strength. It ­needed a ­multiple bypass operation. 

I bought a 24-inch-long ⅛-inch drill bit, and carefully rotated it by hand down every tube I could get to, extracting reams of dirt from each. But some of the tubes were so solidly ingrained that I had to drill them clean using an electric drill. This is called “rodding the tubes,” and it needs to be done carefully. If the tubes become fractured, fresh water and seawater will mix, and the expensive heat exchanger becomes useless. 

I then immersed the whole thing in a bath of Rydlyme Marine dissolving fluid, a descaling liquid that diesel engineers use to clean inaccessible parts of engines. After that, I pressure-washed the pipes until clean water flowed through both the seawater and freshwater tubes.

The engine heat exchanger distributes water to the front and back of the engine block, so I removed all the remaining water pipes, and it was clear that debris had permeated through the whole seawater system, including as far back as the exhaust elbow. I think this must have been building up for a long time, well before our recent grounding.

Another item to inspect was the ­thermostat, but it wasn’t where the engine manual said it was. I then found out that my so-called British engine was a “North American model,” and the thermostat was located under the large header tank at the front of the engine. When this tank was removed, the thermostat was there—or, rather, the great black blob of muck that was covering it. 

By now, things were completely out of hand, and I had bits of the motor all over my garage. In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought asI removed the freshwater pump to gain access to examine the inside of the block. To do this, I also had to remove the thermostat housing on top of it. 

All these heavy cast-iron pieces were bolted with rusty nuts and studs into the block, and had probably never been unscrewed in 45 years. Some were so welded up with rust that I needed a long socket handle, which I smacked with a hammer to break them loose. (These I threw away, then bought new fasteners.) 

I also had to cut many of the hoses and lever them off the pipes. I had no Perkins part numbers for them, so I took the old hoses to my local auto-parts store, where I rummaged through the many shapes in their stockroom for similar pipes. New gaskets cost $150.

Some of the water-hose clamps had ­actually snapped, leaving the pipes holding on by corrosion and simple friction. The most serious of these was a 4-inch clamp securing the exhaust elbow to the large muffler. This was broken, and the joint was literally held on by corrosion. If the pipe had parted, hot exhaust would have entered the engine bay and easily caused a fire.

The correct type of water clamps for pressurized engine pipes are the sort that have indentations where the worm drive engages in the continuous stainless band. The clamps with open slots are thinner and weaker, and liable to fail over time. I replaced 21 of these weaker clamps.

By now, the engine was looking ­completely naked, with hardly anything on either side or ends of the block. After cleaning everything with degreasing fluid, I spray-painted the block and all the parts with blue engine paint, and prepared for reassembly. I wanted my hard work to at least look good.

The engine-block freshwater drain taps were seized up and impossible to open. They had to be unscrewed from the block, dismantled and cleaned. Still, no water came out of the hole until I reamed it with a drill bit, releasing a torrent of filthy brown water. 

Clearly, the block also needed cleaning out, so I tipped all the remaining Rydlyme Marine fluid into the block and left it overnight, in hopes of dissolving much of the ingrained grime and silt.

Reassembly

After draining the dissolving fluid from the engine—fluid that, from the looks of it, had done an excellent job—I began the tedious task of reassembly. It had been a month, and I couldn’t quite remember which pipes went where. I felt like one of the king’s men, trying to put Humpty Dumpty together again. It was a good thing I had taken photographs before I started.

And, by the way, all of this happened in the height of the summer, with daily temperatures in the 90s, and sometimes over 100 degrees inside the boat. All I had for protection against the blistering heat was the boat’s air conditioning, which managed to keep the temperature around 80 degrees. Otherwise I would still be at it.

On the starboard side, first the engine heat exchanger was relocated, along with its four connecting hoses. One long metal pipe coiled around the back of the engine to the other side. 

Then came the bulky, heavy exhaust manifold, which had to be bolted with new hose clamps to its equally massive exhaust elbow. After that, I secured the inlet manifold to restore the starboard side of the motor.

On the port side, the all-important raw-water pump was rebolted in place with yet another new impeller.
I ​decided to fit a second flow filter directly after the impeller pump. This would catch all the bits of any future impeller failure.

I then primed all the pipes with water, from the seacock through both heat exchangers and the exhaust. This would ensure that circulation occurred the moment the engine fired up, instead of the impeller running dry for even a few seconds. The freshwater pump was ­reconnected to the front of the engine. 

Before refitting the thermostat ­housing, I filled the engine with fresh ­water, ensuring that water filled the ­cylinder head. I checked for leaks in the pipes and gaskets. Thankfully, there were only a few hose clamps to tighten.

Then the header tank was refitted and filled, the alternator reconnected, and the belt tensioned. The job was now ­complete—well, nearly.

I had drained all the oil out of the ­engine sump by reaching right down into the bottom of the engine and ­unscrewing the drain plug. It drained into the engine pan, which I sucked clean with my ­vacuum pump. I then replaced the plug with a 90-degree elbow and a pipe connected to a hand suction pump next to the engine, so changing the oil will now be much easier. I also changed the ­transmission oil, along with new fuel filters, and then bled the fuel system.

It was now nearing the moment of truth—to see whether the engine would start, and, much more important, remain at its nominal operating temperature of 196 degrees Fahrenheit. 

I opened the seacock and gingerly pressed the start button. After a few splutters, the engine fired up as though nothing had happened. Within seconds, there was 50 psi showing on the oil gauge. 

By now, things were completely out of hand, and I had bits of the motor all over my garage.

Water soon began pouring out of the exhaust pipe with a lot more volume than before—a good sign. It still took a few anxious minutes for the water ­temperature gauge to begin to move. I refilled the header tank with another pint or two of fresh water as it gurgled its way into every part of the engine. 

The gauge slowly rose to 196 degrees and then stopped as the new thermostat opened, allowing for full circulation of water throughout the engine. I engaged forward gear and slowly increased the engine speed to 2,000 rpm. With the mooring lines bar-tight, the temperature remained steady. 

Taking Britannia out for a longer trial run was next, and with her plowing along at 2,500 rpm, the engine temperature remained constant. 

This was a successful, but long and difficult, revitalization of a 45-year-old engine that had probably been slowly silting up for many years. It is actually a fine testament to these heavy old motors that it ran at all. 

I’m relieved that it’s over, and I have to say, I wish the engine builders and boatbuilders had given more thought to their customers who work on the boats. Many items could have been positioned for much easier access.

Britannia had been immobile since early May 2022. It was now mid-August. Being retired, I was able to work on her most days, but delays in parts ­delivery, repairs, weather and more all took their toll. My actual work log showed 130 hours.

I intend to be careful in the future to avoid groundings and, if I have one, to immediately check the water-inlet filters. I certainly don’t want a repeat of this hard labor, or the costs. 

The post Well, Let’s Not Do That Again appeared first on Cruising World.

Confession: I have an irrational fear. Not of heavy weather, but rather of having salt water back-siphon into my vessel’s diesel engine. Weird, right? 

Actually, not so weird. On new diesel installations, I’ve found that a common cause of premature engine failure is exhaust-related. 

Thus, a decade or so ago, when I installed a brand-new Perkins M92B in our 43-foot ketch, Ganesh, I paid careful attention to its exhaust system. I not only repeatedly rubbed it with hundred-dollar bills, but I also consulted various marine engineers and exhaust experts, including “Diesel” Dan Durbin, formerly of Parts and Power on Tortola, the guy who wrote the excellent “Please Don’t Drown Me” technical paper for Northern Lights. 

I’m totally anal about my exhaust system. For example: I have a custom drain on my marine muffler (Centek Vernalift) so that I can empty it during severe gales, or at least monitor the water level during extreme weather or after a 360-degree roll. Not only that, but the large exhaust hoses going into and out of that Centek muffler are different sizes at different points to reduce back pressure. And, yes, I’ve physically tested the back pressure in my system to make sure it is within spec. 

Even better, I have a water-exhaust separator (also Centek) mounted high up in my engine room, a setup that allows the raw water to flow out independently of my exhaust fumes. That’s right—my exhaust gases exit through one through-hull, and my exhaust water through another. 

Why so complicated? Because I am a poor man who sails in rough water with empty pockets, and I need my exhaust system to be bulletproof. It is much harder for a hose without salt water to allow salt water to back up into your engine than it is for a hose that contains salt water. 

Notice I said “much harder” but not impossible? That’s because nothing is really impossible for a determined, ­malevolent water molecule—nothing.

Anyway, the good news is that my system has worked perfectly, often in extreme weather conditions, for more than a decade and 50,000-plus ocean miles. The littlest details of seamanship matter most. For example, I always check my engine’s fluids before cranking up, and I always check the raw-water flow after cranking up. Always. (Well, except once in 62 years.) 

Here’s a quick overview of marine exhaust basics: There are two types. The hot-exhaust type is excellent at not allowing any salt water to back up into the engine, but the whole system is red-hot and often inadvertently catches the boat on fire; so often, in fact, that hot exhausts aren’t allowed on certain charter boats. They are just too dangerous on passenger-carrying craft. Fire at sea can be almost instantly life-endangering. 

It is much harder for a hose without salt water to allow salt water to back up into your engine than it is for a hose that contains salt water.

Most sailboats have a wet-exhaust system where the raw (salt) water mixes with the exhaust gases just after the ­manifold, and the coolish water/exhaust gets pumped into a muffler where the force of the exiting exhaust fumes lifts them both up and overboard. 

The problem with a wet exhaust is that there is always the possibility of water backing up and getting into the head of the engine. This often results in catastrophic failure of the engine—and, as a bonus, mental breakdowns among the boat’s owners. 

Which brings us to two days ago. I was waiting for a crowd of Singaporean friends to come aboard to go island-­hopping with us. They were slightly delayed. I checked the fluids in my engine, carefully eyeballed it, cranked it up (it started perfectly), and immediately visually checked its raw-water output by leaning over the side of my vessel. The raw water was pumping overboard just fine. Oh, what a good boy am I.

I ran my engine for a couple of ­minutes to allow it to come up to temperature, and then shut it off. During that time, I heard a clink, which I thought was something rolling off the cockpit table onto the cockpit sole. I lazily searched around the cockpit for the fallen object but couldn’t find it. (Clue.) No biggie, right? 

Once everyone was aboard, I recranked my now-warm engine, but this time it did not fire up on first revolution. It cranked a bit. That was unusual. (Clue: Anything unusual is a clue.)

Hmm, I mused to myself, thinking I needed to file, sand and clean my battery cables to get rid of any building corrosion. I did not check my raw water because, hey, I’d just checked it four minutes ago. What could go wrong in such a short span of time?

Plenty.

In blissful ignorance, I yelled, “Cast off!” at my wife, Carolyn, on our bow. She dropped the mooring pennant. 

All my Singaporean guests were ­huddled in the cockpit, thrilled to be underway on such a primitive, wild, daring-do sea adventure. 

“Is this safe?” asked a fellow who had never been on such a life-endangering voyage. 

“Oh,” I smirked confidently, “after three circumnavigations, I think I can get you to that placid isle called Ubin a few hundred meters ahead.”

Yes, pride always cometh before the fall. 

I attempted to increase my throttle—and, to my amazement, my engine slowed. It was at this point that it occurred to my seldom-used little pea brain that I might have a problem worthy of my feeble attention. (Clue: All problems are worthy of a skipper’s attention.)

While I was scratching my head where my hair used to be, and wondering if I had a throttle linkage problem, all hell broke loose. Huge billows of thick, gray smoke started coming out of all the hatches, companionways and opening ports. Coughing people came rushing on deck, terror in their eyes. 

“Fire!” someone screamed. 

All this happened quickly, just as I ­realized my engine was losing rpm because there was no oxygen in my engine room, only smoke. 

We were on fire. 

Carolyn and my daughter, Roma Orion, bravely hopped below to grab fire extinguishers, but both came shooting right back out, coughing heavily and bleary-eyed. 

“Poison!” Carolyn screamed. “Deadly gas!”

The situation was deteriorating quickly. Our Singaporean friends were desperately attempting to wave down a passing supertanker, screaming to be taken off Ganesh before their imminent and inevitable deaths at the hands of ocean-intoxicated, thrill-seeking Westerners.

My reputation as a respected circumnavigator was plummeting fast. I now did what I always do in emergencies: I glued on a confident smile, as if I possessed intelligence. I took a deep breath and asked myself, What the hell is going on? 

I shut off my engine and ordered the crew to the foredeck (they were all coughing and tearing up from the poisonous fumes). Next, I opened all the hatches for maximum ventilation, shut off the main battery switch (by feel while holding my breath) and, back on deck, unrolled the genoa to gain steerage. 

Once the engine and battery switch were off, the emergency was over. Well, except for our crying, terrorized guests, many of whom have since purchased rural property far inland. One claims to throw up whenever he sees a seascape. “It was exactly like the Titanic!” he tells his therapist and anyone else who will listen.

What, exactly, had happened? In a word: corrosion. When I initially cranked up, everything was fine until the clink. This sound was the flange connection between my manifold and exhaust system breaking three of its four corroded bolts. The breakage permitted the heavy pipe connection to gape open. 

Once there was no exhaust pressure in my exhaust system, there was nothing to force the raw water out of my muffler. Hence, my entire exhaust system and large-diameter hoses filled with seawater. 

After I shut off the engine the first time, some salt water flowed into my engine, not overboard. That’s why the engine hesitated while cranking the second time. But I didn’t realize the significance; I was too busy cracking dirty jokes in Mandarin. 

Mistake No. 2 was failing to recheck my raw water visually. It wasn’t pumping overboard, and if I’d have checked it, I’d have never cast off. Again, my bad. 

Before Carolyn cast off the mooring pennant, we were already in trouble. I was just too dumb to realize it. Pressurized salt water was spraying down the entire engine compartment. This caused numerous wires in my engine room to short out and begin melting their insulation. All this burning plastic, of course, produced massive toxic fumes. 

Once we were back on the mooring, we aired out the boat, unloaded all the praying, happy-to-be-alive, we’ll-never-go-to-sea-again guests, and attempted to troubleshoot our problem. 

Troubleshooting, of course, requires intelligence—why I thought I should be involved, I have no idea. I put Carolyn to port and Roma Orion to starboard, and cranked up the engine. They were supposed to tell me if they saw any new smoke or any tiny drips of water. 

Roma was immediately drenched with salt water. From where? The raw-water ­injection riser after the manifold, where the raw water gets injected into the exhaust system to cool it. 

At this point—idiot of limited ­intelligence that I am—I figured that I fully understood what had just happened. The hose clamp or hose had failed where the raw water goes into the injection point, and it had squirted under pressure, setting off a chain reaction. 

Clever, me not. 

At 3 a.m. the following day, I sat up in my bunk and said, “Oh, darn!” At first light, I unwrapped the vision-blocking fireproofing from the exhaust flanges that connect the manifold to the exhaust system. That’s when I saw the large, angled gap between the two. Without exhaust pressure in the system to evacuate the raw water, my engine exhaust system had filled completely with salt water. When I shut off the engine for the second time—thinking the emergency was over—the natural rocking and pitching of the vessel allowed salt water to get back-splashed into my cylinder head.

I now did what I always do in emergencies: I glued on a confident smile and asked myself, What the hell is going on?

The evil, ever-focused water molecules had finally had their day. I’d been too ­myopic to think through all the ramifications of the squirting water. Thus, corrosive salt water had been trapped in the cylinders for 18 long hours before I managed to get it out, and to fire up my no-longer-so-new engine. 

How much damage did this salt water do? I don’t know. My engine currently starts fine. And runs OK. (Yes, I changed the oil a couple of times.) But, surely, having the engine flooded with salt water for almost a day didn’t help its compression, now or tomorrow. 

And do I have another $20,000 laying around for a new engine? Nope! I could barely afford the new exhaust gasket and my extra-large serving of crow.

Why write such a depressing sea yarn? Because, as the T-shirts say, “Poop happens.” Despite a lifetime of guarding against salt water getting into any of the numerous engines that I’ve installed, my ever-plotting nemesis finally won a round. 

 Cap’n Fatty and Carolyn are currently in Langkawi, Malaysia, slapping paint on their bottom. (Did that come out right?)

The post Exhausted In Singapore, For All the Wrong Reasons appeared first on Cruising World.

This story originally appeared on Sailing Totem.

Along part of the west coast of North America, hurricane season officially starts on May 15. That’s still just a date on the calendar; it’s unusual to worry about systems in the Sea of Cortez until sometime in August. Even so, we’re sailing north and hauling out next week.

Since learning at the beginning of the year that our engine had …issues, we have intended to get back to the Cabrales yard in Puerto Peñasco. It’s probably “just” a head gasket, but we wonder what other issues are looming after 8,00 hours of running it. It’s been reliable and we’re diligent with maintenance. But that’s a lot of transmission wear. And the seawater pump has recently started weeping. We believe a reliable engine is an important piece of safety gear on board, so it’s time for a Yanmar whisperer (if you know one, get in touch!). This could mean putting our engine into the back of a truck and driving it to San Diego; who knows. Expertise will help us determine if we’ll put money into our 76hp 4JH3-TE (turbo), or if we’ll start researching options to repower.

At a gut level we see this swinging towards a repower (and no, not even for a second contemplating engineless – in case you saw our April Fool’s Day posts on Facebook or Instagram). We would rather not repower further south in Mexico for a few reasons. Not because there aren’t good mechanics here. Actually, there are genius mechanics to be found! So, why the move?

First, we believe the process will be a lot easier with where we can drive new stuff over the border than shipping and importing it elsewhere. It’s only an hour to Arizona from there (Salvador swears you can do it in 45 minutes, we drive… more slowly!) And San Diego may be a good place to sell it for parts, if that’s the right decision.

Second, hurricane season isn’t THAT far off. Cabrales Boatyard is the only hardstand in the Sea of Cortez that is not impacted by hurricanes. Northerly wind events generated up in Four Corners, yes. These usually blow in the 30s, and we’ve seen 50 knots! That that’s not a hurricane. Over the years, historical tracks show tropical remnants that make it that far, and they have even less wind than the northers. Kansas has had more remnant hurricanes than Puerto Peñasco! If you want a safe place to leave your boat, this is it.

Third, that pandemic that’s on? Our family are all now eligible for vaccinations in north of the border. Why wait for our jabs when we could do it soon, as a number of other shipyard denizens have already done?

Fourth, we can visit friends and family so much more easily. Generous friends are again making a car they aren’t using available for us. Having wheels translates directly to quality time stateside to connect with people we love. We SINCERELY HOPE to be headed for remote islands in 2022, so those visits are extra precious. (Look out Castle clan, we are practicing our Chicago rummy!). Pictured here are my parents: known as Poppy and Plug to their grandchildren. Mum is in a residence for memory care, and after many months, Papa can finally visit her in person instead of through a pane of glass or a screen. She doesn’t know our names any more, but she KNOWS US, and it will be really nice to get some time with both of them.

Fifth, the prospect of time on the hard is making us look anew at other projects on Totem. While we refit in 2018 and 2019 with the intention of time in remote corners again (damn you, COVID!) as usual our spending was all on safety and reliability. This time, we’re looking at making a few aesthetic improvements. Totem is pretty scruffy, inside and out; while that’s not a big deal in the scheme of things, we’re all excited about a little spiffing up. I have a half-built workstation. There are two cabins with primer but no paint. There’s a stove on its last legs. Galley countertop wearing through. With help from the crew at Cabrales, we can affordably do a lot of sprucing up.

Finally, and far from the least driving our enthusiasm to get north—rejoining the excellent company of friends at the boatyard. Several of our bubble boats from 2020 are there, and others are coming. Our socializing has been very cautious during COVID, and we are REALLY READY for that to change!

The post Sailing Totem: Our Hurricane Season Plans appeared first on Cruising World.

Engines are the boisterous beasts that sailors love to hate. We’ve known purists who pulled the noisemakers out; later they mostly pulled out their hair. Overwhelmingly sailors determine that this dependable power is essential, even if we officially refer to engines as “auxiliary.” Ours has put good service in, but this thrum from the heart of the boat is giving us heartburn at the moment.

Our 2020 was headed towards a high note in late December. With the whole family on board, we departed Puerto Peñasco on December 22 between strong northerly wind events. Jamie refers to it as the splash-and-dash. Possibly, it wasn’t a kind wakeup to our Yanmar.

The first leg was an overnight sail (odd how transits are typically referred to as a sail, even though we motored or motor-sailed almost the entire distance) to Puerto Don Juan, where we waited out a three-day blow and celebrated Christmas.

The next leg south was to Santa Rosalia; we left the first day possible. To be clear, we aren’t fans of cruising the Sea of Cortez in the wintertime. It is cold, and the opportunity isn’t so much to “cruise” as to “scoot between safe harbors when it’s not blowing stink.”

Getting south wasn’t just to get warm: it was in the hope our permits for passes to the awesome Revillagigedo islands would come through, and get there ASAP. Also called the Socorros, these islands 350 nm south of Cabo are a marine preserve biosphere of spectacular underwater life. Sharks – lots of sharks! Giant manta rays. Schools of pelagic fish (no fishing, that’s OK – we like to watch). Whales of the piscine and mammal species. How utterly awesome it would be to experience this as a family!

Arriving in Santa Rosalia in the wee hours of the morning, we anchored to wait for light to enter the harbor. In internet range again, we learned that our permits came through. The island would JUST fit into a detour from Baja to get Niall to his flight from Puerto Vallarta back to school, mid-January. Next weather window we’d continue to La Paz, hook up with friends there, and buddy boat to the Revs.

Jamie continues the tale from here.

First Signs of Engine Trouble

Just before hauling the anchor, I checked the engine and noticed the coolant expansion tank was weirdly dark. Removing it, I found it looked like the inside of a holding tank. Thumb-sized lumps of shiny oil floated in coolant stained dark from the ingress.

And the story goes:

• Engine type – Yanmar 4JH3-TE
  
• Engine hours – 8,313
  
• Engine status – questionable

Prior Cooling System Issues

Almost exactly a year ago, we experienced mild overheating while running the engine at anchor to make hot water. It may have been from snot-like little brown globs found in the coolant, which could have restricted flow sufficiently to cause a problem. With two diesel mechanics, all possible causes were removed and checked. The contamination source was never found. The freshwater cooling system was drained/ cleaned/ flushed (many times!)/ refilled, the engine worked normally for the rest of 2020. Even in a lower-mileage year, there were plenty of opportunities to put it to work in the often windless Sea of Cortez!

Sitting outside Santa Rosalia a year later, the ambiguity as gone. Clearly, there was a lot of oil in the coolant. The engine oil dipstick came up clean: no signs that coolant/freshwater contaminated the oil.

Testing Theories for Diagnosis

We took a berth at the marina to assess, and take next steps:

• Drained coolant and flushed six times with fresh water, the first two with a little dish soap to break down the oil inside.
  
• Ran the engine to circulate water during flushing. This did not introduce oil into the coolant again, but it was only low RPMs at the dock. However, the freshwater cooling loop pressurized enough to push water up into the coolant expansion tank, overflowing it until the engine was off and cooled.

Probable Cause: Head Gasket

By consensus of many and our own assessment, the cause has to be either a head gasket or cracked turbo – with gasket the almost certain culprit. It’s not the oil coolers (seawater cooled), or heat exchanger, etc.

RELATED: Sailboat Engine Replacement Options

It was a low few days of processing the possibilities, and considering the next steps. We had a lot of input from a lot of folks (you know who you are: thank you, especially Diesel Don, Salvador, and the LeLivres). The painfully cute foster boatyard kitten updates Jason sent through somehow came at just the right moments when a little lift was helpful.

Cruising is about letting go of fixed plans, and taking life one day at a time. It’s still hard to let go of missing the Revillagigedos. Our permit, secured in 2020, is just for this month. We’re told by park officials that the permit fees are jumping (no, skyrocketing! To the tune of hundreds of dollars per day for our family) for applications in 2021, so this might have been our only shot – I sure hope not. And we could wallow in that, and maybe I did a little; it was not great birthday news.

Now What?

At 8,313 hours, though diligently maintained/serviced we’ve decided that the engine needs thorough assessment. We need to identify the cause AND be certain that repairing it gains us a reliable engine for coral-strewn islands in remote corners of the Pacific.

There aren’t resources here in Santa Rosalia for a compression test. Nor is it the place to remove and resurface the head – open heart surgery for engines, as one friend put it – if we found it warped and causing the leak. Our current plan is to migrate between anchorages in range of Santa Rosalia for a month or so; the harbor offers relief from Northers, and eventually milder weather will enable a hop back to Puerto Peñasco. There we’ll probably remove the engine and get it somewhere for assessment – whether the outcome is a simple head gasket and general service or, gulp, shopping for a new engine. Well, it was going to be a slow year anyway!

This month we have an article coming out with 48°North about what wears out on a boat after extended cruising: ironically, it references our so-called iron genny as a major piece of gear that is still in service! Hopefully, we’ll have an addressable issue that means there are still a few thousand hours of service ahead. And if not, well, cruisers plans are always written in the sand at low tide, and we’ll write a new plan again.

The post Sailing Totem: Engine Heartache—Where DIY Diagnosis Ends appeared first on Cruising World.

The engine in my 1977 Down East 45 schooner, Britannia, is a tried and trusted — but noisy — Perkins 4-236, an 85-horsepower four-­cylinder diesel. There are also a Kubota three-cylinder diesel generator, five electric pumps and two bilge air blowers, all under the cabin sole.

I call the space the equipment bay. It runs 12 feet under the saloon floorboards and is 3 feet wide at the sole level, then tapers to just 15 inches at the bottom of the 41⁄2-foot-deep bilge. Seven removable floorboards give amazing access to all the equipment below, but the large space also acts as a massive boombox.

I previously had restored the teak-and-holly sole to its original beauty throughout the whole boat, but this made no difference to the noise level from the machinery below. When both diesels and extractor blowers were running, it was very noisy in the saloon, with a dull drumming you could almost feel. So I decided to do something about it.

There are a number of products that claim to significantly reduce noise from machinery, and some are specifically designed for boats. The trouble with most of these is they are also specifically aimed at your bank balance! For a boat my size, I found prices ranging from $350 for simple ¾-inch foam to $800 or more for double-thickness sound-­insulation sandwiches.

In simple terms, the object of sound insulation is to absorb noise at its source, and thereby minimize what filters into the interior of the boat. It would be practically impossible to eliminate this altogether, but I had effectively reduced the engine noise from a similar diesel on a previous boat simply by installing a false floor beneath the cabin sole. This is quite an easy and inexpensive do-it-yourself way to achieve a significant increase in peace and quiet.

Before I started work on Britannia, I wanted to take a reading of the sound levels to have a numerical comparison after the modifications were complete. I downloaded a neat iPhone app, a decibel meter by Decibel Meter Pro, for the vast sum of 99 cents, from iTunes. It was very easy to use, and I took readings at head height in the center of the saloon. With the main engine running at cruising speed, the meter registered 85 db. Then I started the generator as well, along with the twin extractor fans. The level went up to 93 db, which is roughly equivalent to a power lawn mower. When the freshwater pump was activated, it added another few decibels. I don’t know how accurate these readings actually are, but it doesn’t really matter because what I wanted was a comparison of before and after sound levels.

Fitting the False Floor

To get started, it was first necessary to make support battens for the false floor panels to lie in, under the existing plywood sole. I bought a 24-by-48-inch sheet of ½-inch plywood and cut it into 4-inch-wide strips with my table saw. I also made ¾-inch square battens out of hardwood. It was necessary to reposition some pieces of equipment fastened to the sides of the floor beams, such as wire hangers, water pipes and the big main engine filter. They all needed to be lower than the new floor. The 4-inch-wide plywood strips were then screwed to the underside of the 2-inch-wide floor beams, forming a 1-inch lip on either side.

I screwed the ¾-inch square battens to the sides of each aperture to support the ends of the false floors. I painted the beams and all the new timbers white.

I found some medium-­density fiberboard (MDF) at Home Depot that cost $25.95 for an 8-by-4-foot ½-inch sheet. I calculated that I’d need two to make the seven false floors. MDF is a heavy manufactured board similar to particleboard but smooth on both sides, with a density of 44 pounds per cubic foot. It’s used to make stereo-speaker boxes and other things for which sound control is required.

The sound-deadening properties of a ½-inch-thick sheet are actually better than the ¾-inch-thick marine plywood sole, which is roughly 35 pounds per cubic foot. (The MDF sheets were also available in ¾-inch thickness but would have been heavier and more expensive. In the end, I decided to compromise between weight, density and price, and go for the thinner stock.)

One problem to be aware of with this type of manufactured boards is their susceptibility to deterioration in damp conditions. If there is a chance they might become wet, it would be better to use marine plywood, though it’s much more expensive. A store employee cut the MDF sheets to the sizes I needed using a vertical circular saw. This saved me having to manhandle them out to the car, and enabled them to fit in my vehicle. I had them cut half an inch smaller than the spaces between the individual beams to prevent them jamming when I needed to lift them out to gain access to the bilge. A few boards still needed trimming to fit round obstructions that I could not reposition, but that was easy to do with my jigsaw.

The simplest, time-­honored method to handle boards covering apertures is to cut a hole in the board big enough to get a couple of fingers through to lift it in and out. But these MDF boards were too big and heavy for that, and it would also have allowed a little bit more noise and heat to escape. I therefore drilled 3⁄8-inch holes in each board and threaded some 3⁄8-inch-diameter rope through them, knotting it on the underside to form simple handles to easily lift the boards in and out.

The weight of the new fiberboards was 60 pounds, but it’s all positioned low in the hull, and it was a small price to pay for reducing the noise. When lying between the beams, their weight also keeps them firmly in place. The sole and subfloor now has a combined thickness of 1¼ inches, with a density of about 80 pounds per cubic foot.

Beat the Heat

To complete the project, there was one more thing I wanted to do. We could often feel heat permeating through the single-­thickness cabin sole when either of the diesel engines had been running a long time, especially on our own soles when walking barefoot. There must have been some sort of insulation glued to the underside of the floorboards at one time, but this had disintegrated. What was left was a dirty layer of dry adhesive that had to be scraped off by hand using Goof Off adhesive remover and a sharp 1½-inch chisel. I then painted the underside of the floorboards white.

To reduce the heat, I decided to add a layer of thermal insulation in the space between the subfloor and sole.

I bought two 4-by-8-foot sheets of Rmax Thermasheath R6 foam-board insulation from Lowe’s for $21.98 each. These are 2 inches thick, with aluminum foil on one face and an insulation rating of R6, which is the highest available for this thickness of foam. I cut them to the sizes I needed at the store using a sharp knife, which helped me fit them in my car. I then glued them to the underneath of each plywood floorboard using cheap construction adhesive by Liquid Nails; it was only $1.95 for a 10-ounce caulking-gun cartridge. This adhesive does not melt the foam.

The section of floor around the Perkins engine was particularly awkward because parts of the top of the engine were higher than the bottom of the floor beams. In fact, the valve cover was only an inch below the sole. This was, of course, the principal source of all the noise, so it needed special attention anyway.

I fitted battens all around the engine as I had in all the other openings, then shaped pieces of fiberboard to fit around the engine as well.

Next I cut pieces of foam and fiberboard to the size of the aperture and pressed the foam down over the engine with the fiberboard on top by actually standing on them. This indented the soft foam with an exact pattern of the high points of the engine, which I then cut out of the foam with a sharp blade. I glued what remained to the fiberboard, which then fit snugly under the removable piece of sole.

The remainder of the floor now had the ¾-inch plywood sole pieces, with 2 inches of foam glued underneath, then a ½-inch air gap, then the ½-inch MDF false floor. It was now certainly a compact floor.

After all this backbreaking work, I was naturally keen to take new readings on the decibel meter. With only the main engine running at the same revolutions per minute as before, my iPhone app meter read 65, a reduction of 20 db! Adding the generator raised this to 70 db, 23 db less than before and now about equivalent to an electric sewing machine. This reduction may not sound like much (forgive the pun), but decibel ratings are logarithmic, so the noise reduction is very noticeable. Now we can comfortably listen to the television or music at anchor, even with the generator running.

In addition to a considerable reduction in noise, there is now no perceptible heat coming through the floorboards, which helps to keep the living area cooler. Heat is carried outside by the engine-room extractor fans, and the noise from them is much reduced too.

Most projects I have undertaken on Britannia resulted in visible improvements, most notably when I renovated the teak-and-holly sole. The noise-and-heat-abatement project, on the other hand, showed no outward improvements, and the cabin looked exactly the same as before I started the job. It was only when the engines were running that the improvement was appreciated.

This method of sound insulation would be very worthwhile for any boat, offering excellent noise reduction for minimal financial outlay. I actually used some spare pieces of MDF to double the wall thickness in the spaces where my two air-conditioning units were installed, and this reduced the noise of the compressor and fan as well.

There are, of course, no labor charges factored into the cost of the job, which took me four days to complete, but messing about on boats is supposed to be fun.

– – –

Roger Hughes has spent six years restoring his Down East 45,8 Britannia. *For more on the restoration, visit his website (schooner-britannia.com).

The post Quieting Your Boat’s Engine appeared first on Cruising World.

If you are looking at a new or used boat, one of the things you need to consider is the propulsion drive system. As one of Cruising World’s Boat of the Year judges for the past decade or so, I’ve observed firsthand the proliferation of saildrives both in multihulls and monohulls. Of the 24 new boats we inspected during our 2017 Boat of the Year competition, only three had traditional shaft-drive systems. One had outboard engines, one had an electric-motor drive and the rest were all saildrives.

This is all quite understandable from a boatbuilder’s perspective. Once a new hull mold is made or modified, it is much easier for a builder to install a saildrive, reducing labor costs considerably. Additionally, because the entire drive system is supplied by the engine manufacturer, warranty issues related to the drivetrain get passed on to them and claims are out of the boatbuilder’s scope of liability. In the case of shaft drives, engine warranties end at the coupling that connects to the propeller shaft. The rest is on the boatbuilder.

Since saildrives are only available for engines up to 80 horsepower, we do still see traditional shaft drives on larger cruisers and in cases where builders of midsize sailboats are adamant about the reliability and simplicity of the traditional propulsion systems. All this said, our BOTY testing suggests that boats equipped with saildrives tend to run more quietly. Let’s examine the pros and cons of each system along with some insight on things you need to consider if you are looking at used boats.

Current Affairs

Back in 2011, I penned a piece titled “Beware the Unprotected Saildrive”. Back then, the biggest singular problem related to saildrives was excessive corrosion, and that article focused heavily on explaining ways to mitigate the issue. Well, time marches on, and the saildrives I discussed in that article are now a few years older. So, on the used-boat side of this discussion, we have plenty of boats out there with saildrives that have nearly a decade or more years in service, and the question is have they been protected properly with anodes? Have the owners followed engine-manufacturer service-interval recommendations? If you are looking at new boats and are thinking about long-term ownership, or perhaps long-distance cruising to remote areas of the globe, there is plenty to consider as well.

Is corrosion still an issue? Absolutely! It can’t be emphasized enough, aluminum saildrives are extremely vulnerable to corrosion, especially in salt water. It has been such a problem that Yanmar issued a service bulletin back in 2010 addressing the issue. Anode selection and sizing for saildrives is critical, notes the bulletin. Keep in mind that the anode installed on the drive is intended to protect the drive only. Any additional underwater metal on the boat is going to need additional anodes. Anode material is critical too. Rather than zinc, more boats are moving to aluminum-alloy anodes for salt- and brackish-­water applications. In freshwater situations, magnesium is the material of choice, but it should never be used in brackish or salt water as it won’t function properly and damage is sure to ensue.

The antifouling paint used both on the drive itself and the entire bottom of the boat should not contain any copper, per Yanmar. Cuprous oxide (copper) is the traditional material used in almost all bottom paints, so you’ll want to be careful when choosing any antifouling.

Above and beyond that, even the slightest chip in the paint on a saildrive will open the door to almost immediate corrosion of the drive housing. The process to repair said chips and ensure proper adhesion and protection is complicated; check the manufacturer’s recommendations.

If your boat is plugged in at a dock most of the time, you will need a galvanic isolator installed in your shore-power system. Without the isolator, you run the risk of your boat’s anode(s) helping to protect one of your dockmates’ boats that may have inadequate protection installed. That scenario will cause your anodes to be depleted much more quickly than normal, exposing your own drive units to potential damage.

The importance of maintaining appropriate levels of “hull potential” — an electrical term that addresses corrosion protection — as prescribed by drive manufacturers is so critical that I would recommend installing a hull-potential meter on any boat equipped with saildrives. This meter tells the operator in real time if they have sufficient anode protection installed.

Regardless of the make or model of your saildrive, ­following the advice provided in the Yanmar bulletin is going to help you keep corrosion at bay.

Care and Cost of Ownership

Saildrives are just like outboard engines in the sense that the lower unit of either is where the actual gears for forward and reverse are located, so lubricating oil needs to be sealed in and water must be kept out. The essential difference in the case of the saildrive is that it stays submerged 24/7; besides the threat of corrosion, it makes any leakage a big problem that may go undetected.

From a maintenance perspective, drive makers all recommend at least annual drive oil changes and inspection of the fluid’s color for any sign of milkiness, which indicates water in the oil and lower-unit seal leakage. If contamination is found, a haulout and seal replacement will be necessary.

Besides the unit’s gear-case seals, the drive assembly is sealed around its perimeter with the hull of the boat. This seal was one of my biggest worries about the technology initially, because a failure here would create a significant point of entry for water. It turns out my fears were unwarranted. The history here is quite good, in fact, and I’ve not heard of any failures.

That said, we are at what I believe may be a turning point in the history of saildrives. The major drive manufacturers in the United States, Yanmar and Volvo Penta, recommend replacement of the bladder seals every five and seven years, respectively. But based on my research of some major full-service boatyards, people are not having the work done at the recommended intervals. In fact, a quick scan of some of the major online forums brought me to the J/109 group, where this topic is a major discussion point. It seems many owners are going 10 years and longer before replacing the outer and inner bladder seals on their saildrives. Cost is probably the driving reason for the delay. Pricing that I found varied from $2,500 to $4,000, depending upon the drive’s location and how it was installed. Own a catamaran? Multiply by two.

Basically, replacement of seals requires lifting the engine off its bed so the work can be performed. On some boats, access is going to be quite limited and ensure a labor-charge nightmare, and it’s a task that almost certainly transcends the capabilities of most do-it-yourselfers.

One recommended annual check that is not too difficult is to test the moisture sensor installed on most units to indicate water intrusion past the outer seal. It is recommended that annually, an owner or mechanic unscrew the sensor and dip it in a cup of water to see if the alarm warning light goes on.

Close to home at least, an owner would know that if the outer seal did begin to leak, there would be adequate warning that work is needed immediately. I’m not sure how I’d feel about that notification halfway across the Pacific on the way to Tonga, but then again, I think if I were going that far afield with a ­saildrive-equipped boat, I’d be inclined to replace these seals beforehand.

In fairness, I’ve been on board many monohull cruising boats with shaft drives and drive seals that were inaccessible, perhaps with a generator installed directly over the traditional stuffing box or dripless shaft unit. This is a real issue for any voyager. Research on the resale value of older boats that offered both saildrive and conventional prop shaft-drive setups showed a definite preference toward the shaft-drive configuration. Boats from Canadian builder Hinterhoeller used both saildrives and conventional shaft drives back in the 1980s. The boats equipped with the saildrives have shown about a $10,000 lower price when compared with the shaft-drive offerings.

Shifting Concerns

Recent reports from the field indicate there are problems with shifting for both Volvo and Yanmar saildrives. The solutions, like the issues, are considerably different.

Volvo recommends a change in the gear oil used with its units. Originally, the company recommended the use of automotive automatic-­transmission fluid. Now it recommends the use of SAE 15W-40 engine oil for all drives made after September 2010. When sailing, one of the questions that often comes up is what to do with the gear shift when the engine is not running to keep the propeller from free-wheeling.

Volvo recommends ­setting the control lever in reverse if a folding propeller is equipped. If a fixed propeller is fitted, either neutral or reverse is acceptable.

As for Yanmar, the company has plenty of documented problems with its cone-type clutches slipping, most particularly on its SD40 and SD50 models. The SD20 and SD30 models used different clutch designs and do not have any history of issues. Regarding the SD40 and SD50 models, a routine-maintenance requirement is to inspect, replace or “lap” (reseat) the cone clutch mechanisms of the drives every 500 hours, and Yanmar recommends replacement of the cones every 2,000 hours. Most do-it-yourself sailors probably will not be willing to dive into this project, and the numbers I found online for this service topped out at about $4,000! In my online searching, I did find one service bulletin that made recommendations on what to do to upgrade from a model SD40 or SD50 saildrive to the newest SD60 series. The SD60 uses a different kind of clutch mechanism — multi­disc versus cone — that doesn’t have the slippage problem. The newest Volvo saildrives also use multidisc clutch mechanisms.

Checking pricing on the Yanmar SD60, I came up with a ballpark retail price of $5,000 for a complete new drive. There are some additional parts required for a conversion, but it’s all quite doable. This price does not include labor. In a nutshell, if I were looking at boats with Yanmar saildrive propulsion, new or used, I’d be checking drive-gear model numbers.

Proven Workhorses

Companies such as Catalina and Hallberg-Rassy still use traditional shaft drives across their model ranges, and the builders say they have no plans to change anytime soon. Larger sailboats also rely on conventional shafts because saildrives are not available for engines above 80 to 85 horsepower.

As I think back on my own experiences servicing boats with shaft drives, all the procedures were relatively easy and, for the most part, fell into a possible do-it-­yourselfer’s reality. I never had to worry about a bladder leak causing a boat to sink. I never fretted about an aluminum drive case dissolving out from under the boat due to galvanic corrosion. Shifting was mostly a trouble-free experience. The only major challenges were Cutless-bearing replacement, because it required a special puller to get the job done, and the occasional shaft seal that was inaccessible due to a builder installing too much gear on top of the shaft and stuffing box.

I’m savoring those fond memories because if I were looking for a new cruising sailboat in the 30- to 50-foot range, mono or multihull, it would probably have one or more saildrives installed. We’re looking at a paradigm shift here: No maintenance slackers allowed!

Ed Sherman is education vice president for the American Boat & Yacht Council and a frequent CW contributor and Boat of the Year judge.

The post Saildrive Maintenance appeared first on Cruising World.

When we bought our 1978 Sabre 34, Jackalope, 13 years ago, the previous owner reported that the diesel occasionally ran hot. His broker described it as a plus: We could look forward to nice warm showers at the end of a long day on the water. Hmm.

Indeed, during sea trials, the mechanic determined that the cooling ports in the seawater-­cooled Volvo MD11 were clogged, a condition that could be corrected only by dismantling the beast and giving it a thorough cleaning out, which the owner agreed to do as part of the sale.

For our first few seasons, the Volvo proved to be a dependable little workhorse. It started reliably, pushed the boat along well enough, and its temperature needle sat squarely between the “E” and the “M” on the TEMP gauge. Eventually, though, I noticed that each season, the needle veered a little further off center, first past the “M” and soon past the “P.” Then, two summers ago, it pegged itself at the end of the dial, firmly on the dreaded “H,” for “hot,” which spelled nothing but trouble.

Hoping to avoid another $2,000 to $3,000 dismantling of a 37-year-old engine, I tried tinkering with hoses and even flushed the Volvo with all manner of elixirs, but to no avail. With the exception of one short ride around the harbor, we were mooring-bound for the season.

As summer slipped by, we examined our options. Already I’d noticed that finding parts for the Volvo was becoming more difficult. Besides, the idea of rebuilding an engine rusting from the inside out didn’t seem wise. With a little hunting, I located a supposedly working replacement in a nearby yard, but the thought of trading our current set of problems for another old bucket of bolts didn’t instill confidence in my wife, who’d had her fill of motor-inspired calamities.

Finally, we concluded that the only real choice was to dig deep (with a tremendous groan) and repower. Our search began and ended at the Newport Boat Show, where we decided to go with a new Yanmar. The brand has earned a solid reputation, and just as important, Oldport Marine, the Newport, Rhode Island, Yanmar dealer, came well recommended as an installer.

At the time, Yanmar was running a promotion that included a new raw-­water strainer, hoses and a muffler, but we were forewarned that we’d need to replace the propeller to accommodate the rotation direction of the new engine. Oldport’s Matt Gineo also cautioned that there might be some surprises when the work began, and suggested we budget somewhere in the $18,000 to $19,000 ballpark just in case. Offsetting those costs was the fact that they’d do the job at Oldport’s dock, with the boat in the water, ­eliminating the expense of hauling and storage.

In all, the job required 52 hours of work. First the Volvo was removed, along with all the old hoses, wiring and instruments. The Sabre’s engine beds had to be modified, but the mechanic was able to sister in new boards on each side, trim them slightly, and glass the new beds in place in a fairly straightforward manner.

While the motor was out, he painted the entire engine space, cleaned up some unrelated wiring, and moved our freshwater pump from its mount under the cockpit into an interior locker to reduce the chance of it freezing up, as it had on occasion during the past few ­winters.

The only real surprise came when he removed the prop shaft and discovered that someone over the years had used the wrong size hose on our stuffing box. The hose had been heated and then stretched to fit the shaft log; it’s a wonder it hadn’t failed completely.

It was a happy day when I got the call announcing Jackalope was ready for sea trials. The new Yanmar roared to life at the touch of a button, and water, glorious water, literally spewed from the new exhaust through-hull. In the harbor, we ran the engine at various rpm, the once-sluggish control cables now sliding smoother than silk. Wide open, Jackalope cracked 7 knots with ease, a speed that was unthinkable with the old motor.

To be honest, I went into the repower with trepidation and a tinge of buyer’s remorse. That all immediately disappeared as soon as I shifted the engine into gear. It felt spectacular — like driving a brand-new boat.

We gladly paid the balance of our bill, which came in slightly below Oldport’s just-in-case estimate. And I have to say that those are some of the best dollars we’ve spent. Last summer, hallelujah, we had a boat again.

The post A New Lease on Life appeared first on Cruising World.

It’s the end of another sailing season, and as you haul the boat and begin its winter layup, you have reminders aplenty that the 30-year-old auxiliary engine is getting tired. The intermittent no-start condition, oil and coolant leaks, and excessive smelly exhaust smoke are finally getting to you. As you prepare to change the oil and run some antifreeze through the block, it occurs to you that it might be time for an upgrade. What should you consider? What are your choices? What are the pitfalls? Follow along and we’ll set you straight.

First off, if your sailboat’s auxiliary engine is truly approaching its third decade (or older), you need to understand that there may be significant components besides the engine that are probably going to need replacement. Things like the exhaust system, primary engine wiring harness, instrumentation, engine- and transmission-control cables, fuel tanks, transmission, shaft, cutlass bearing and prop are all suspect and need to be carefully evaluated. When looking at your options, be sure to factor all these additional items into your budget projection. Your new engine is just a part of the big picture.

Need More Power?

Back in the 1970s and ’80s, a lot of new sailboats were produced with engines that, frankly, were a bit underpowered. I know; I owned one. It was fine until I hit a head-on current in a narrow channel; I clearly remember moving along at a half-knot under full power. This scenario repeated itself all too frequently in some of the other New England waters I cruised regularly. More get-up-and-go would have been greatly appreciated.

So if you’ve experienced similar frustration, now is the time to consider more horsepower. How much is enough? You’ll need to do a bit of research to determine the best possible choice.

Consider that a sailboat is just like an airplane that stays at sea level. Power-to-weight ratios do matter: The heavier the plane’s engines, the more thrust it needs to gain altitude. The whole idea is to find the ideal balance. Simply replacing your 25- or 30-horsepower auxiliary engine with a 75-horsepower turbocharged model might sound good, but there’s more to consider than pure muscle.

First off, the 75-horsepower engine might simply be too heavy for your boat. Next, since most cruising sailboats have displacement hulls, things like waterline length and actual weight count considerably, just as they do for airplanes. With a full-displacement hull form, you can squeeze only so much speed out of that waterline length. Adding more horsepower represents a significant economic waste.

RELATED: Monthly Maintenance: Getting Back Aboard

Besides weight, physical dimensions are of paramount importance. Is it possible to get a motor-mount configuration that will work with your choice of marine diesel engine and the existing engine bed in the boat? What about service-point access? The water-pump impeller might appear to be easily replaceable on your new engine when you look at it at the boat show, but what about when it’s been bolted into place? There’s nothing worse than an engine part you simply can’t reach when you need to in a hurry. And will your engine-room space require additional modifications to fit a new muffler, filter location, shaft coupler, etc.?

Remember that marine diesel engines require a considerable amount of fresh air to run properly. Especially if you plan to increase horsepower, you may need to add engine-room ventilation to keep that new power plant from suffocating.

Common-Rail Marine Diesel Engines

In recent years here in the States, officials at the Environmental Protection Agency, along with their counter­parts in Europe, have been working hard to create regulations that do two things: clean up diesel fuel by reducing sulfur content significantly, and eliminate emissions from the diesel combustion process.

EPA mandates now require what are described as “Tier 3” emissions standards for boats sold in the U.S., regardless of where they are made. The effect of this became evident this past fall, when I was one of the judges for Cruising World’s Boat of the Year competition. Of the 24 boats we tested and compared, half were equipped with electronically controlled “common-rail” super-high-pressure fuel-­injection systems. The new diesels use a common chamber that is often, but not always, integrated into the engine’s cylinder head, and which holds fuel for all the cylinders in the engine. The fuel is pressurized by a pump that operates at much higher pounds-per-square-inch than those used in older systems, which sent fuel from the fuel pump directly to individual fuel injectors at each cylinder.

In older marine diesel engines, fuel pressure typically ranged from a low of about 1,500 psi to close to 4,000 psi. In these systems, the injectors opened when fuel was compressed to what is referred to as the injector “pop” pressure.

In common-rail diesel engines, injectors are still used, but the pressure in the rail chamber is on the order of 15,000 psi to 20,000 psi. Injectors, meanwhile, are controlled by electronic solenoid valves, whose opening and closing time is controlled by an onboard CPU that adjusts the duration of each burst of fuel based on data inputs like temperature, engine load and rpm.

Here’s the good news: You’ll never have to bleed air out of these systems, as they are completely self-bleeding. With older marine diesels, bleeding was a fairly common task required after fuel-filter changes or running out of fuel. This problem is simply eliminated with the common rail. All that’s needed is to crank the engine, and the high-pressure pump will take care of the rest. Now here’s the bad news: The biggest fear with these engines is a problem with the onboard electronics. Rather than carrying spare fuel injectors, long-distance cruisers may now want to carry spare injectors and a spare engine-control CPU.

The hope, of course, is that the reliability of the engines will negate the need for fuel-system maintenance; routine fuel- and oil-filter changes can still be done by the owner. Problems will arise, though, when an engine doesn’t perform as it should. These are complex machines, and without the proper skills and equipment (diagnostic computers and the ability to read error codes), a boat owner probably won’t find a way to sort things out as he might have with a traditional marine diesel.

The Kiwi delivery skipper was aboard one of the boats I boarded during the boat show in Annapolis. It was a multihull, powered by a pair of common-rail diesels, and I asked the obvious question: How have these engines been, in your experience? His answer was telling. He said he was glad to have two engines on these catamarans because usually one of the two will have problems during the delivery — problems that he can’t solve. If you’re contemplating a voyage on a single-engine monohull, you would probably find that response unnerving, to say the least.

Rebuild or Replace the Auxiliary Engine?

As I stated earlier, the simple solution to your power needs may not be to replace the 25-horsepower with the beefy 75-horsepower motor. Depending on your boat and circumstances, you may still be able to get a currently compliant (EPA-wise) engine in the lower-horsepower range that still uses older technology. The dividing line at present is found at about 50 horsepower, depending on the manufacturer.

If you think you need more than that, you’re probably going to end up with an electronically controlled diesel engine with all the fixings — and a major series of modifications to your old boat will be needed to make the change.

If that’s the case, the possibility of rebuilding your existing sailboat auxiliary engine may make better economic sense, but only if the circumstances allow it. If you are merely trying to get a boat refreshed for resale within a year or so, the overhaul of your existing engine makes some sense. A rebuild typically will save several thousand dollars, compared with a full-on replacement. But you’ll only be able to enjoy a very limited warranty on the work, compared with the two- to five-year peace of mind that comes with a new marine diesel’s warranty. Further, realize that as the engine ages, parts become increasingly difficult to find; next time a repair becomes necessary, it may be impossible. If you’re planning on keeping the boat, in my view, a repower is the only intelligent solution.

Marine Diesel Engine Comparison

A search for sailboat auxiliary diesels yields results that would indicate there are really only seven brands: Yanmar, Volvo Penta, Beta, Westerbeke, Perkins, Vetus and Nanni, with Yanmar and Volvo Penta maintaining significant market share. Of the 24 sailboats in our BOTY mix this year, 11 were powered with Yanmars and 10 with Volvo Pentas. We had one boat with twin 20-horsepower Honda outboards, one with twin Nanni diesels, and one sailboat with an electric drive. You’ll probably read in online forums that most marine diesels are made by either Kubota or Mitsubishi, but that’s not quite accurate.

Yanmar produces all of its engines, and Volvo Penta manufactures its larger ones in-house. Smaller Volvos are produced by Perkins and given a Volvo-green paint job. Understand that Perkins uses the Kubota diesel as its base engine and then marinizes it to its own specifications. Perkins, which is a subsidiary of Caterpillar, is based in the United Kingdom, but also has some distribution here in the United States.

Nanni, a French company, uses Kubota, Man, Toyota and John Deere engines as its bases, depending on the horsepower. Vetus, with very limited U.S. exposure, has used Kubota, Mitsubishi and other base engines over the years. I can remember vividly a customer of mine years ago with a Vetus that used a four-cylinder Peugeot diesel as its base.

The bottom line today is that the volume of engines produced for the marine industry is quite small by industrial standards. Globalization has made it easy for manufacturers to source base engines for marine use that might also be used in tractors, generators and other relatively small machinery in both on- and off-road applications. With that in mind, it pays to check out the dealer and distributor network from both a regional and international perspective before you make a final choice. Beta, for example, has a significant dealer and parts network here in the U.S., so if you plan on cruising locally, parts and repairs should be easy enough to find. Beta, Yanmar, Volvo Penta and Westerbeke also offer a variety of engine-mount options to accommodate the various footprints that installers may encounter.

By comparison, if you opt to go with a Nanni, here in the States at least, repairs might not be that simple. I needed no less than 30 minutes and three phone calls to the Florida distributor to find out what the U.S. warranty covers. I still don’t know. I found the Australian distributor’s website, which mentions a two-year “plus one” guarantee, but the definition of “plus one” wouldn’t upload. On sailing forums, I found quite a few folks who complained about hard-to-find and expensive parts. It seems when Nanni marinizes, say, a Kubota engine, things like air-intake filters and other common service items are proprietary, and so replacements can’t necessarily be purchased at the local Kubota tractor dealer on some remote out island. Since the company is based in Europe, service and parts may be more available there.

For those who use their boats only occasionally and close to home waters, service and parts availability may not be a big enough issue to outweigh other considerations, such as cost. But if long-distance cruising is in your plans, it pays to carefully assess service and parts availability from a global perspective.

As for your modern electronic common-rail diesel engine, if that’s the way you must go, at the very least, stick with one of the two major manufacturers, Volvo Penta or Yanmar — and even then, good luck if you get hit by lightning halfway to Tonga. You’ll be hard pressed to find a service technician in a timely fashion, so carrying spare electronic components should be a serious consideration.

And a final note: For those of you who are on the last go-round with the venerable Universal Atomic Four gasoline engine, it’s time to switch to a diesel, if for no other reason than the continued availability of parts. If you want to stick with the Universal brand, give Westerbeke a call; the company still supplies two Universal engine models — the M3-20 B and the M-25 XPB — that are bolt-in replacements for the gas units. By the way, these are both Kubota-based engines.

Ed Sherman is the vice president of the American Boat & Yacht Council and heads its education division. He is a frequent CW Boat of the Year judge.

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Every November, the marine industry gathers in Amsterdam for the huge Marine Equipment Trade Show to check out what’s new in gear, hardware, electronics and more. On the first day of the show, the winners of the DAME design awards are announced, and this year, the Torqeedo Cruise FP took home the Overall Winner prize.

The Overall Winner is recognized as an outstanding example of groundbreaking research and development. The jury praised the Torqeedo Cruise FP for “its beautiful engineering, close attention to design detail, integrated approach, compact dimensions and realistic market price. It creates exciting new opportunities for the interior of sailing yachts by removing the need for a traditional engine compartment.”

“We’re absolutely thrilled to be the overall winner of the DAME Design Award for the second time,” said Ballin, “and delighted to see the coming of age for electric mobility in the marine industry. We’re proud to be a driver in this business and thankful to be recognized for our approach.”

Other category winners include:

Airmar’s DX900+ MultiLog – a Bluetooth enabled multifunction sensor that can report speed, depth, temperature and more with no moving parts.

Harken AirWinch – Two-speed winches specifically designed for trimming the hard wing sail on AC48 boats. They feature a set of interchangeable gearing kits that give America’s Cup teams the flexibility to create the perfect blend of speed and power for each day’s weather and crew configuration.

Zhik Avlare – Zhik introduced a new fabric technology with Avlare. It’s a high-stretch fabric that repels water; is one-quarter the weight of wet spandex; is breathable, yet cuts wind chill; and keeps the wearer comfortable in both hot and cold conditions.

Sea-Tags – This MOB device is simple to use and affordable. Crew wear the Sea-Tags bracelet, and if an MOB situation occurs, the signal is lost and a connected smartphone (using the free app) sounds an alarm and records the GPS location automatically. The app will then display the boat position, heading and distance to recover the MOB.

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