oceanfroggie
Well-Known Member
Confessions of a skipper - True or False?
I was making a solo passage from Kinsale to Kilrush Creek on the Atlantic west coast of Ireland, approx 175nm. Forecast winds N F3-4, 2m swell from west left over from a blow the day before. Visibility was forecast as good to moderate in the haze with a slight risk of mist and fog during early morning that should burn off quickly in the sun. The boat a Broom 38 twin shaft drive had made many trips around this awesome cruising area.
I left Kinsale at 5:30am to a glorious eastern sunrise, but observed thin wisps of low cloud hugging the hills past Kinsale head. Reason for early departure was I was unsure what the sea state would be like on the last leg of the trip from the Blasket Islands to the mouth of the Shannon estuary. This would have a bearing on my speed into a head sea left over from the day before. If lucky with sea sate there was a possibility I could make good speed and run all the way up the Shannon estuary after refuelling at Kilrush in time for HW access to Limerick. The first 5 hours proved uneventful, but I had observed distant mist and clumps of fog way off out to sea, but blue sky and sun where I was. Despite the low winds there was quite a bit of boat movement and rolling in the decaying but confused Atlantic. Visibility started to vary as mist thickened for periods, but I could make out the distant Blaskets and the Dingle peninsula. On single handed passages visits to the head are a fact of cruising life. My normal procedure was to stop the boat when going below, but on occasion when well clear of obstructions with no traffic showing on the radar for miles, I slow to displacement speed and hit the auto button on the helm pilot. Making way in a swell reduces the boat movement so going below can be more comfortable with less chance of getting a bang on the head. On this occasion I slowed to 7 kt and pressed “auto”, monitored it had engaged and was maintaining heading before climbing below. Hand grips normally not needed were helpful as she rolled and wallowed. I made my way to the aft cabin head, mid procedure there was a loud crash nearby from the stair way into the aft cabin. Gave me a heck of a fright, I rushed out to see that the large tool box normally stowed under the stairs to the cockpit had slide out and tumbled down the few steps to our aft cabin spewing it's contents all over the carpet. Ughh and blast! I carefully repacked it including all the rubbish that accumulates inside, then cleared the dirt off the carpet, annoyed I had not stowed it properly. I left it on the floor of the aft cabin and returned to the head to finalise 'procedures'.
Before returning upstairs to the helm I went to the galley fridge to get a drink and a snack, but passing through the saloon I observed visibility had dropped to a few hundred meters and the Blaskets had vanished. Upon returning to the aft helm cockpit I observed the chart plotter and radar displays were without power, but the auto helm and other instruments were ok. What to do? As usual I had been pencilling in the odd fix on paper charts just to kill time so decided to continue at displacement speed and revert to old navigation. Auto helm is a great aid to steering in poor vis. I checked my heading on the display and calculated when I'd expect to see the dingle peninsula again as vis was varying between 200-500m, and it looked like it would soon burn off, especially as I could make out blue sky directly overhead. I was about to get my backup hand held gps from the grab bag, but decided I'd wait a bit as the vis seemed to be improving. Time passed by, I tried to see why the plotter and radar were out, but the nav circuit breaker had not tripped. Two more hours had passed; vis seemed up to about a mile but no land in sight. Time to get the hand held gps, what was going on? I switched it on, having been unused since the previous season it was taking an age to acquire a fix due to its almanac being beyond the 24 week limit. It seemed almost instant but after a few minutes the mist and fog layer lifted. To my amazement Ireland reappeared BUT behind me along with the Skelligs, a long way behind. I had been heading out into the Atlantic and my hand held finally acquired a fix confirming what I still doubted was true. The auto pilot was still on a heading of 355 true, but the compass was showing 210 degrees! I'd been tracking the wrong direction for nearly 3 hours heading out into the Atlantic - but how?
Visibility was then excellent so I turned and headed back for the Blaskets the entire and distinctive coastline now clearly visible. Nearly six hours of extra passage time was going to put a dint in my fuel, so I proceeded to Kilrush slowing to displacement speed to conserve fuel. 
There had been no calamity but how did 'captain careful' get into a potentially nasty mess I asked myself. I gave Shannon coast guard radio a TR advising of my ETA at Kilrush and my low fuel status. I agonised as I looked at the two fuel gauges which always read pessimistically anyway. About 4 miles from Kilrush the inshore lifeboat appeared which I had not requested, was embarrassed but comforted to see. They had overheard my TR with the CG and as they had been on local training exercise decided to divert. They came along side, put a crew member on board and said they'd escort me safely to a berth at the marina in case the fumes I was running on finally disappeared. I sheepishly moored up and said hello to the marina manager John who I'd known for a few years. I offered the RNLI crew a cup of tea and some nice chocy biscuits, they came on board and I told them what had happened. They had a look around and one of them shouted up "ah another flipin metel toolbox". I queried "What?" He had nearly tripped over the toolbox in the aft cabin. He said "I bet your autopilots fluxgate compasses is mounted under this floor, right under this toolbox!" It was “magnetic blasted deviation” on a whopping scale, and when I put the toolbox on the floor at the foot of our island bed it caused the boat to change heading over 150 degrees putting it on a heading for South America, and fuel starvation out of VHF range! He also spotted the galley fan circuit breaker was off on the fuse board having been hit by the brush handle dislodged by the toolbox during its flight aft. Reset it and the plotter and radar displays came back to life. How unlucky was it that and that the engineer who had upgraded my plotter the year before moved them to another circuit breaker.
Lessons learned always check the compass and the electronic toys are in broad agreement, and often it’s a combination of events that can lead to a mishap rather than a single error or failure.
The RNLI chaps told me some of their interesting stories and gave me some great advice about the safety of our boat before returning to their base. I felt a right “wally” but no harm had been done. I had been lucky.
I was making a solo passage from Kinsale to Kilrush Creek on the Atlantic west coast of Ireland, approx 175nm. Forecast winds N F3-4, 2m swell from west left over from a blow the day before. Visibility was forecast as good to moderate in the haze with a slight risk of mist and fog during early morning that should burn off quickly in the sun. The boat a Broom 38 twin shaft drive had made many trips around this awesome cruising area.
I left Kinsale at 5:30am to a glorious eastern sunrise, but observed thin wisps of low cloud hugging the hills past Kinsale head. Reason for early departure was I was unsure what the sea state would be like on the last leg of the trip from the Blasket Islands to the mouth of the Shannon estuary. This would have a bearing on my speed into a head sea left over from the day before. If lucky with sea sate there was a possibility I could make good speed and run all the way up the Shannon estuary after refuelling at Kilrush in time for HW access to Limerick. The first 5 hours proved uneventful, but I had observed distant mist and clumps of fog way off out to sea, but blue sky and sun where I was. Despite the low winds there was quite a bit of boat movement and rolling in the decaying but confused Atlantic. Visibility started to vary as mist thickened for periods, but I could make out the distant Blaskets and the Dingle peninsula. On single handed passages visits to the head are a fact of cruising life. My normal procedure was to stop the boat when going below, but on occasion when well clear of obstructions with no traffic showing on the radar for miles, I slow to displacement speed and hit the auto button on the helm pilot. Making way in a swell reduces the boat movement so going below can be more comfortable with less chance of getting a bang on the head. On this occasion I slowed to 7 kt and pressed “auto”, monitored it had engaged and was maintaining heading before climbing below. Hand grips normally not needed were helpful as she rolled and wallowed. I made my way to the aft cabin head, mid procedure there was a loud crash nearby from the stair way into the aft cabin. Gave me a heck of a fright, I rushed out to see that the large tool box normally stowed under the stairs to the cockpit had slide out and tumbled down the few steps to our aft cabin spewing it's contents all over the carpet. Ughh and blast! I carefully repacked it including all the rubbish that accumulates inside, then cleared the dirt off the carpet, annoyed I had not stowed it properly. I left it on the floor of the aft cabin and returned to the head to finalise 'procedures'.
Before returning upstairs to the helm I went to the galley fridge to get a drink and a snack, but passing through the saloon I observed visibility had dropped to a few hundred meters and the Blaskets had vanished. Upon returning to the aft helm cockpit I observed the chart plotter and radar displays were without power, but the auto helm and other instruments were ok. What to do? As usual I had been pencilling in the odd fix on paper charts just to kill time so decided to continue at displacement speed and revert to old navigation. Auto helm is a great aid to steering in poor vis. I checked my heading on the display and calculated when I'd expect to see the dingle peninsula again as vis was varying between 200-500m, and it looked like it would soon burn off, especially as I could make out blue sky directly overhead. I was about to get my backup hand held gps from the grab bag, but decided I'd wait a bit as the vis seemed to be improving. Time passed by, I tried to see why the plotter and radar were out, but the nav circuit breaker had not tripped. Two more hours had passed; vis seemed up to about a mile but no land in sight. Time to get the hand held gps, what was going on? I switched it on, having been unused since the previous season it was taking an age to acquire a fix due to its almanac being beyond the 24 week limit. It seemed almost instant but after a few minutes the mist and fog layer lifted. To my amazement Ireland reappeared BUT behind me along with the Skelligs, a long way behind. I had been heading out into the Atlantic and my hand held finally acquired a fix confirming what I still doubted was true. The auto pilot was still on a heading of 355 true, but the compass was showing 210 degrees! I'd been tracking the wrong direction for nearly 3 hours heading out into the Atlantic - but how?
Visibility was then excellent so I turned and headed back for the Blaskets the entire and distinctive coastline now clearly visible. Nearly six hours of extra passage time was going to put a dint in my fuel, so I proceeded to Kilrush slowing to displacement speed to conserve fuel.
There had been no calamity but how did 'captain careful' get into a potentially nasty mess I asked myself. I gave Shannon coast guard radio a TR advising of my ETA at Kilrush and my low fuel status. I agonised as I looked at the two fuel gauges which always read pessimistically anyway. About 4 miles from Kilrush the inshore lifeboat appeared which I had not requested, was embarrassed but comforted to see. They had overheard my TR with the CG and as they had been on local training exercise decided to divert. They came along side, put a crew member on board and said they'd escort me safely to a berth at the marina in case the fumes I was running on finally disappeared. I sheepishly moored up and said hello to the marina manager John who I'd known for a few years. I offered the RNLI crew a cup of tea and some nice chocy biscuits, they came on board and I told them what had happened. They had a look around and one of them shouted up "ah another flipin metel toolbox". I queried "What?" He had nearly tripped over the toolbox in the aft cabin. He said "I bet your autopilots fluxgate compasses is mounted under this floor, right under this toolbox!" It was “magnetic blasted deviation” on a whopping scale, and when I put the toolbox on the floor at the foot of our island bed it caused the boat to change heading over 150 degrees putting it on a heading for South America, and fuel starvation out of VHF range! He also spotted the galley fan circuit breaker was off on the fuse board having been hit by the brush handle dislodged by the toolbox during its flight aft. Reset it and the plotter and radar displays came back to life. How unlucky was it that and that the engineer who had upgraded my plotter the year before moved them to another circuit breaker.
Lessons learned always check the compass and the electronic toys are in broad agreement, and often it’s a combination of events that can lead to a mishap rather than a single error or failure.
The RNLI chaps told me some of their interesting stories and gave me some great advice about the safety of our boat before returning to their base. I felt a right “wally” but no harm had been done. I had been lucky.
but made a bit of a good yarn.
