or.... VIRTUOUSLY JUMPING IN AT THE DEEP END
VIRTUOUS WAYS
Four virtues are advertised on huge billboards along the Rhein-Herne-Kanal, virtues every inland skipper aspires to: diligence, patience, courage and humility.
In preparing to drive our motorboat SULINA to Strasbourg to be taken out of the water there, we had an opportunity to learn and practice each of these.
DILIGENCE
On Easter Monday, the 22nd of March, we, that is Liz, Johannes and Clovis, drove to Datteln, expecting to make some minor improvements to the boat before setting out. We got in, stuck the key into the ignition, turned it… and NOTHING happened. Puzzled, we asked our boating guru Jörg the next day to take a look. Under his „magic touch“ it started almost straight away – the trick being to push the key into the ignition while turning it. So, all was well, we thought. Our helpful friends left, and towards evening we wanted to take SULINA for a little spin. The engine started – and died. With mounting frustration we pleaded for help to our hosts and friends, when they came again the next day. Jörg showed us a way of pumping the diesel manually to the engine. Yes, it started, but each time with increasing difficulty and delay. So he suggested a change of fuel filter. The filter, however, proved to be still fairly clean, so a thorough clean-out of the 180 litre tank was suggested next. Opening up the tank, pumping out the remaining fuel and scraping out half a kilo of rust, dirt and gunge took the best part of the day and left me steeped up to the eyebrows in grime. This now surely would be the solution. – Far from it: we found to our horror as well as relief, that not a drop of diesel reached the filter from the tank. At last we knew where to search: after copious amounts of WD40 and elbow grease we finally managed to take everything apart and found the culprit: A short piece of piping between the tank and a ball valve was totally blocked by precisely the same kind of debris I had scraped out of the tank.
Everything was thoroughly cleaned, put together again, closed up and filled again with diesel. And now, altogether three days later, the engine started readily – what a relief. An enjoyable, two hour trial run up and down the canal showed no problems, apart from the engine temperature being a bit high, touching 100°C.
So the next morning was to see us starting on our trip south. Everything was once more checked through: engine oil, fuel, grease around the propeller drive shaft, water level in the internal cooling circuit, water filter in the external circuit, which to our surprise and dismay was empty - -.
PATIENCE
The start of our trip obviously had to be delayed yet again. We learned that the easiest way to check that water is flowing through the outer cooling system is to see if water is spurted out of the exhaust pipe. Which at present it did not. Now totally at a loss as to the cause, I was dependent on the expertise of our friends. Andreas, Jörg’s son, opened the impeller, that is the pump that sucks water from outside the boat into and through the system, or is supposed to in an ideal world. Our rubber impeller in its present shape was clearly not able to pump any water. We needed a new impeller. Unfortunately it was Saturday by now and shops likely to close soon or be closed already. But luck was with us and in a boating shop 30 km away we found what we needed. The precious piece of equipment was lovingly coated with grease and slotted into its housing; but when the engine was started again, still no water was sucked up – what now? On careful and methodical examination it was discovered that the lid of the water filter was missing a sealing ring and therefore instead of forming the vacuum necessary to suck the water up, it let air in. So we needed a rubber sealing ring of very specific dimensions. Surely, the place we had got the impeller from would also have such a ring. In half an hour it would close, not enough to get there in time. We tried anyway, and by extraordinary good fortune, we slipped in, when a shop assistant was about to lock up. „No, sorry“, such rings they did not sell. Our race had been in vain. But they suggested to look in a „Baumarkt“, and sure enough in a place not 200m from the boat we found what we were looking for. With the well greased rubber ring the filter lid now formed a good seal but – still no water was sucked up by the running engine. The pump was taken out and tested outside of the boat. It worked well. The problem lay without a doubt in the water from under the boat not reaching the filter and impeller. More exploration: the water hose between the hull inlet and the filter was about a meter long, of substantial diameter and had a ball valve near the inlet. Aha! The valve should simply be closed, the hose filled with water through the opened filter, then the filter closed and the valve opened; nothing easier. But what was that? The valve handle was broken off. The entire ball valve would have to be replaced as soon as the boat was out of the water, but for the moment that was no solution, as the valve could obviously not be taken out while below the water line – the boat would be flooded. In the end Jörg came up with an ingenious idea: the filter was opened, a garden hose was connected to an existing T-junction in the section between inlet and filter and by the sheer water pressure it not only added to the water under the boat, but also pushed the water level up to the filter. When that was full it was closed, as well as the stop valve in the junction, and the garden hose turned off. Our filter and impeller were full of water and when the engine was started again, before too long water came out of the exhaust at the back. Success!
COURAGE
Finally our voyage could begin. I drove the car to Koblenz, which we hoped to reach in four days of boating and came back by train, bus and the last five kilometers on foot.
The next morning we proudly and happily steered the boat out of the Datteln harbour and into the Rhein-Herne-Kanal, waving a fond good-bye to a few friends on shore.
With gentle and relaxed 800rpm we ambled along the canal west towards the river Rhine, a good 40 km away, making about 8km/h. Before too long we approached our first lock HERNE-OST. As our marine radio, which is intended for communication with the lock master, among other things, was back at the supplier again, because the GPS did not work, we tried to reach the lock by mobile phone – successfully, and were asked to enter the lock behind a freighter. That was the easier part. Much more difficult was the tying on to a pollard, set into the concrete wall of the lock chamber, without bumping or scraping the boat. The upper gate closed and the water level started dropping. Our pollard threatened to rise out of reach, but sure enough another one appeared at a convenient level below. Letting go of the rope, pulling it off the pollard and looping it again around the pollard below, before the boat drifted away from the wall, required a certain amount of nimbleness and speed, but Liz managed nicely. We kept dropping and switching from pollard to pollard, maybe ten times. Would our descent never stop? Finally it did after something like ten meters, leaving us dwarfed between gigantic black concrete chamber walls.The lower gate opened and the freighter in front of us started its engine, causing considerable turbulence in the water, demanding all our strength to hold the boat against the wall. Then he was gone, and we after him.
A few kilometers before the second lock WANNE-EICKEL another freighter overtook us very slowly on our left side. A worker on that ship indicated to me to slow down because he wanted to go right in order to tie onto a quay, waiting to be locked through. I did so and in an attempt to make more space for my big brother, must have gone a bit too far to starboard, because all of a sudden ugly crunching sounds let the boat shake: we had touched ground or rather the sloping gravel side of the canal. Shocked, with thumping heart I steered back out towards the towering wall of my big neighbour. Had we sustained a leak, were we about to sink? Nothing of the sort. It would not remain the only occasion on which we touched ground, but a steel hull is robust. When we later in Strasbourg had the boat taken out of the water, barely a scratch showed.
It soon became obvious that we would not reach the Rhine today and after the next lock GELSENKIRCHEN we turned into the marina Oberhausen for the night.
Next morning we tackled the remaining 10 km and two locks and after four hours entered the Rhine at last. We had been warned of the dangers of navigating the Rhine, its currents and heavy commercial traffic, and advised to keep an anchor and a red distress flag handy at all times. But we had checked again engine oil, fuel and cooling circuits only this morning, we felt well prepared, had a whole day’s experience travelling with our boat. Nothing would happen to us. – And yet…
The difference between the docile canal and the Rhine was immediately obvious. A lively water surface let SULINA dance and bob and although we increased the revs to 1150, our travelling speed against the current dropped to a maximum of 6 km/h but went occasionally down to below 3 km/h over ground. And people had not exaggerated when they talked of the horrors of navigating a little sport boat between the commercial traffic of the Rhine. There was hardly a moment when no ship was in sight, often several being visible simultaneously, sometimes a whole line of them, just a few hundred meters between them. An additional problem was the question where to steer. The basic rule is to keep to starboard, that is in travelling direction to your right, just like on the road. But in a meandering river the fastest current is on the outside of every bend and, as maximum travelling speed is desirable, the mounting traffic that goes against the current prefers to travel the inside of every bend, just as the descending traffic wishes to catch the fastest ride on the outside of every bend. The principle applies to private pleasure craft in the same way. This, however, implies a regular crossing back and forth of the width of the river. If a big ship on the Rhine wishes to travel against the general rule on its port side of the river – they call it „starboard on starboard“ as the ships pass each other on their starboard side – it displays a blue board near the steering cabin, with a white flashing light in the middle.
And to regulate this rather bewildering situation, fixed crossing points are marked in the navigational charts. So when we wanted to cross over, maybe 300m, we had to check that no ship coming down was nearer than say 1 km, as well as no ship coming up behind us, usually travelling much faster than us, was nearer than say 200m. A further danger, easily overlooked, is the fact that these monsters of sometimes more than 200m in length often have a freeboard of over 5m rising out of the water and cannot see anything that is immediately in front of them. Any collision with such a beast would push SULINA mercilessly under and sink her within seconds. Once established on one side we were relatively safe from the shipping, as we with our comparatively shallow draught could motor outside of the shipping lane marked by buoys, in fact as close to the shore as possible. There the current was weakest. Half an eye therefore had to be kept constantly on the display of the echo sounder. And when a shallow stretch unexpectedly reached out far into the river, very quick and decisive action had to be taken.
Like that on tenterhooks with nerves as taut as a fiddle string we had been going for two hours when it happened. I needed the toilet and Liz took the wheel. Suddenly there were unusual rumbling noises in the engine room, then the revs went up and an acrid smell of burnt rubber pervaded the boat. Something was dramatically wrong. Already our speed decreased. The engine was still running, but the transmission of power from the engine to the propeller was apparently interrupted. Within minutes or less our travelling speed against the current would diminish to zero and then we would start with ever-increasing rapidity to drift downstream, totally out of control. What was to be done?
Not for nothing had we talked through the emergency procedure for just such a scenario. The very first thing was to drop anchor as quickly as possible. Liz dashed out to the foredeck and wrenched the lid of the anchor box that was quite rusted and very hard to open, up with her bare hands in no time at all. It is just amazing what enormous strength a rush of adrenalin can provide. Out came our lovely stainless steel anchor and overboard it went. But it would not grip. I gave it maybe five meters, still no hold, seven, ten, nothing. Finally, as we were beginning to drift helplessly downstream, there was a jerk and the boat stopped moving. What a relief. But it did not last. We started drifting again; the anchor was clearly not biting the ground properly. More line, a short moment of holding, then drifting again. As the anchor was tentatively gripping once more, we racked our feverish brains for a solution to stabilize our precarious situation. We had two more anchors in the anchor box, but they were not connected to chain and line. A second anchor overboard would certainly be a help, but to get it ready would take time, and time we did not have. And yet, at the moment the light-weight stainless steel anchor was still holding, maybe we could at least try. With all haste we heaved the heavier anchor out of the box and with flying, fumbling fingers started attaching it with carabiners to chain and line. It took all of fifteen minutes and the first anchor still held. If we could get the second anchor as close to the shore as possible, we would be in much calmer water and the danger of the anchor dragging much reduced. Liz tried to push the boat from the bathing platform with a paddle from our little rubber dinghy, but the attempt was utterly futile, not to say ridiculous. What about taking the anchor by rubber dinghy to shore or at least near it? Liz started blowing it up but it was hopeless, it would take far too long.
At that moment the little anchor gave way again. Now something decisive had to happen quickly. So I jumped into my swim trunks and into the ice cold spring waters of the Rhine. Luckily the shore was not too far any more and therefore the water reached only chest high. The boat was drifting again and with panic straddling my shoulders I waded as fast as I could and dropped the heavy anchor only meters from dry land. I pushed it into the mud with all strength and when the anchor line came taut, it held. The boat stopped, missing one of many breakwaters that jutted from the shore into the river, by a desperately narrow margin, thereby escaping a devastating crash.
HUMILITY
Now at least we were out of immediate danger, but still stranded somewhere in the boondocks. Yet luck was with us: As I was wading back towards SULINA, a boat of the water police came in sight, chugging up the river. We had not called it, nor had anybody else; they happened to come past entirely by chance. This was our obvious opportunity of rescue. I stopped wading and waved my outstretched arms slowly up and down, an acknowledged emergency sign, while Liz bolted inside and seconds later waved the red flag frantically in a low semicircle from the aft deck. This is another emergency sign. Would they see us? It took a few minutes but then they clearly changed course in our direction and when they came within shouting distance: „Run aground?“ they asked. „No, engine trouble“ I called back. „Can we do anything good for you?“ „A tow into the nearest harbour wouldn’t be bad“. A sceptical glance at our rusty boat: „Are your pollards strong enough?“ „As long as you don’t go too fast.“ All right. They got a tow line ready and started manoevering towards us. Quite a challenge because they constantly had to hold against the fickle current while getting near enough to throw us the line, but not too near either to risk running aground. How real that danger was became apparent only moments later. The bow wave of the police boat pushed us against an underwater mud bank and we started tipping alarmingly. And the police boat had a larger draught than us. It took a few attempts but eventually we caught the line and fastened it. „All ready to go?“ „No, our anchor is still in!“ „Cut it!!“ What? Our beautiful anchor, that had saved our lives? Just abandon it? I couldn’t believe it. But they were in earnest, kept shouting at us to cut the line, increasingly frenetic. To jump into the water again was out of the question, it would take far too long to retrieve the precious piece. We pulled with might and main but of course it did not budge, I had pushed it much too solidly in. There was nothing for it, and with a heavy heart I took my pen knife out of my pocket and cut the line. And off we went. Not too fast, as they had promised, but steadily up the river into the golden light of the waning day.
As the adrenalin slowly subsided, a jelly-kneed tiredness besides a baffled gratitude took over. Strangely enough, throughout the 7 1/2 km tow I hardly thought about what might have broken in the engine. Instead a rueful regret about the lost anchor would not let go of me. And then suddenly I had the solution: tonight it was too late, but tomorrow morning I would grab my rucksack, walk all the way back to where we had the engine failure and retrieve the anchor. Would I find the place again? Yes, certainly, the picture of the shore at that particular point had burnt itself into my mind.
After a heavy night‘s sleep of exhaustion in the yacht harbour of the Krefeld Segler Vereinigung I got up bright and early at first light and made my way in less than two hours to the spot on the Rhine, which I recognized without problem. It was a kind of bay between two breakwaters, about 50m in length. I must have buried the anchor somewhere in the middle; but how close to the bank? Besides the anchor we had left a 5m length of chain and a considerable length of rope behind, all of which was now of course under water, hidden by the ice cold, murky brew of the Rhine. Nothing could be seen, my only chance was a careful, methodical search by feel with my toes. Again into my swim trunks and again into the biting flood. I decided on a stretch of about 20m, which I slowly waded through , roughly 3m from land and parallel to it – nothing. So back again along a line now maybe 5m from shore – still nothing. Each line took easily 10 minutes and by now I was frozen blue and shivering badly. I knew that in this way I must sooner or later come across with my toes either anchor, chain or rope. But was it possible that I had already missed it? Or that it lay above or below the stretch I had decided to search? Or that I had altogether mistaken the place after all? The one certain thing was that very soon I would have to get out of the water either to warm up again or to give up the whole venture. But I had to find my anchor! So I clenched my teeth and started on a third line, now say 7m out.
And pretty much exactly in the middle of my 20m stretch I hit the chain!
Three or four hours later I was back at the boat, tired and with a bruised back from the heavy anchor in the hardly padded rucksack, but happy.
Behind the clubhouse Erhard, the harbour master, was busy shifting boats with his little tractor and when he stopped for a moment, I told him our story of woe. He looked straight at me with his clear blue eyes through his spectacles and said slowly: „We’ll have a look“. And sure enough five minutes later he was at the boat. It turned out that with Erhard we had stumbled across an expert on boat engines. Within ten minutes he had identified the problem: the oil in the automatic transmission between engine and propeller shaft heats up in operation and expands. A valve allows some of the air above the oil, that is thereby compressed, to escape, but somebody, for obscure reasons, had solidly blocked this valve. The oil pressure in the transmission must have risen to tremendous levels, forcing the oil out through any slightest weakness in the sealed system. And this weakness it had found in the fittings of the comparatively soft copper piping to the oil cooler and back to the transmission again. When Erhard tried to drain the oil, barely a drop came out, the rest was gone. We had run the engine hard against the current of the Rhine, basically without transmission oil, dry, thereby destroying the transmission.
Erhard was 72 years old, a little man, but extremely compact, a bit like a gnome, almost broader than high. He was wonderfully good-natured and unbelievably strong with enormous hands like vises. He found us a replacement transmission and swapped it with the original one, each weighing 85 kg, within a few days, and charged us less than 1000 Euro for a repair that would normally have cost maybe five times that and taken several weeks at least.
Erhard made sure that SULINA was now ready at last to manage the remaining 650 km to Strasbourg without any further mishaps.
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