Syzygy Sailing

Bought a boat, fixed a boat, sailed to Australia, sold the boat.

Category: preparation

  • Getting our hands dirty

    Let’s start with some basics: Like most sailboats, Syzygy has a whole bunch of holes in her hull below the waterline. Syzygy has 8 of ’em. Two of em hold instruments that measure depth and speed. One of ’em lets exhaust out of the engine. The remaining five have seacocks (aka valves) on them, so that we can let water in or out of certain pipes and go about our lives like normal civilized people. One lets water into the galley sink. One lets water out of the galley sink. One lets water (as coolant) into the engine. One lets water into the toilet (so we can flush it). And then there’s the last one, the most glorious seacock. It lets shit out of the holding tank.

    So our first task, here in San Carlos, was cleaning and, for lack of a better term, “servicing” the seacocks. It’s a task you can only do when the boats on land, and it’s a task we wanted to do before putting Syzygy in real water, since you’re essentially screwed if the seacocks leak or don’t properly close. It’s also a chore. The seacocks are big old bronze things, with short stubby arms that rotate 90 degrees. Let me be more precise: if they’re in good shape the arms smoothly rotate 90 degrees. If they’re old and corroded and full of caked-on, calcified shit, they rotate most of the way there, with a lot of force.

    So Jon and I rolled in to San Carlos after midnight Sunday night (Matt’s flying/bussing in tomorrow), and slept on the beach, which turned out to be much frostier than we expected. We slept well after 15 hours of driving, and woke at first light, eager to finally start getting our hands dirty with all kinds of satisfying repair jobs. After quick breakfast burritos, we headed over to the marina office, arranged to have Syzygy moved to the work yard, and immediately set to removing the seacocks. Three hours later, at 2pm, the marina closed, since it was Christmas eve. Jon and I had only removed 3 of them.

    The next morning — marina still closed on account of Christmas — Jon and I got to work cleaning the seacocks on the beach. We discovered that sand + rags + muscle = kinda-like-sandpaper, and polished up two of the seacocks pretty good, greasing up the open/close mechanisms until they were smooth.

    The shit-laden seacock was another matter. Its inside looked like a giant clogged artery, and it took an arm and a leg to close it all the way. We scrubbed and scrubbed with bronze wool and a couple of bronze brushes, but to little avail. Then we improvised. We poured hot water into a cut-open milk jug (Jon brought a propane camping stove), dropped the seacock in, and scrubbed the inside with pieces of coat-hangers. Voila: if you’re looking for a gallon of piping hot shit broth with a full-bodied shitty aroma, there’s no better way to go. And, lucky for us, if you’re looking to take 10 years off the life of a seacock, our method’s not so bad either.

    So here it is: the priceless shot of Jon, getting his hands dirty, making memories that dreams are made of.

  • Bought and Paid For

    We bought the boat, and I am pleased to be in the happy excited phase of ownership. It feels really good to be able to tell people that we bought a boat. It gives legitimacy to our plan. I don’t get those infuriatingly skeptical looks anymore, and people actually pay attention when I tell them we’re going to sail around the world.

    The boat is a 1978 Valiant 40, hull number 201. The Valiant 40 is one of the most solid blue water production boats ever designed. Valiant 40’s are heavy and solidly built and can survive anything, yet they are respected for their sailing ability as well (a rare combination).

    We are naming the boat Syzygy (she was Sunshine before we bought her). Syzygy is an astronomy term referring to the alignment of three or more celestial bodies. There are three of us, aligning our plans and aspirations to make this happen, and our circumnavigation will be a once-in-a-lifetime event, so the name seems to fit.

    Syzygy is currently on the hard in San Carlos, Mexico, waiting for us to return this christmas and start fixing her up. We’re going to replace the standing rigging and much of the bilge/scupper hoses so that we will feel confident about sailing her up to San Francisco sometime this spring. We’re damn excited to work on the boat. Let’s just hope we get our first order of supplies before we have to leave!

  • post sea trial

    She was parked in this slip after we finished the sea trial, waiting to be hauled back out of the water the next day. Even though she was only sitting there for a night, I still worried and had momentary nightmares of her sinking right there in the marina (there are some old hoses!), and even asked our neighbors if they would watch over her. Our neighbors had been living on their boat for years, and I think they had a laugh at my expense when I explained in detail where the manual bilge pump was.

    Another photo of her in the slip. Jon took this photo just as I was saying goodbye to the old owners, telling them that we have grand plans to show their old boat a great new time.

  • Into the water she goes!

    Here it is, the big moment. She’s been on the hard for a few years, and finally, at long last, she gets a little splash in the Sea of Cortez, in San Carlos, Sonora, Mexico.

  • From the Masthead

    I took this photo while measuring the rigging for replacement purposes. The yellow thing is my tape measure. It rarely rains in San Carlos, but it was raining hard this day–hardest just when I decided to go up the mast.

  • the adventure is ON!

    Matt, Jon and I returned to Mexico to take Sunshine for a sea trial (aka test drive) before buying her last week. While there, it rained like gangbusters in Sonora, so the whole experience felt tinged with a sort of foreboding element. In those two dreary days we had to fix ‘er up and get ‘er seaworthy (since she hadn’t been in the water for 7 months), we had a small part of her keel re-fiberglassed and her engine taken apart, while we scuttled to figure out why there was water sloshing around in her bilge and why the bilge pumps wouldn’t pump it overboard. (We found a very leaky hose and a disconnected Y-valve, and also found out that we’d need to replace those bilge pumps.) Welcome to boat-ownership, right?

    Once things were sufficiently fixed (albeit temporarily), we started measuring parts we planned on replacing. Jon and I hauled Matt up the mast (in a downpour) so that we could measure the standing rigging. After that, we got intimate with the boat’s plumbing (aka toilet), and figured out how we’re gonna rebuild it. We measured the lifelines, the diameters of the holes in the stanchions, deck fittings, and anything else we could approach with the caliper. We flipped through manuals, turned on electronics, crawled through lockers, and poked around the galley.

    In the evenings, we met up with Capn’ Bob, a vibrant 72-year-old Valiant-40 owner and spinner of fine sea tales, and Mark Schneider, a similarly spirited owner of another spiffed-up Valiant-40. After somewhat hectic days, these two confirmed that we were making the right decision. (The beers might have helped, too.)

    Of course, on the day of the sea trial, the sun came out, but the winds vanished, so we sorta bobbed around in the sloshy water until sufficiently queasy, then motored back in to the marina. While we technically raised her sails, they never filled with wind, so I can’t really report that she sails like a beauty, or that she slices through the water, or make any other even mildly poetic statement about her agility/speed/grace/elegance. But I can say this: she floats.

    So now it’s on. The money has changed hands, and our dream is becoming reality. Here’s the easiest way to tell: for a few nights there I’d wake up terrified of expensive boat parts that I’d probably have to pay for, aware that my bank account alone couldn’t do it. Somehow, though, we will.

  • the Backstory

    We’re two weeks away from owning a boat! So now seems like a good time for the back story . . .

    There are three of us: Jon Waldman (Jonny or J5), Jon Haradon (Jon), and me (Matt Holmes). We’ve been friends for at least a decade, mostly getting together for outdoor adventures. None of us had seriously sailed before ’05. (Jonny went to sailing camp when he was like 12.)

    The sailing idea sorta formed in the summer of ’05, when I started crewing on race boats in the bay. In the spring of ’06 we committed to ourselves and to each other to sail around the world starting in the summer of ’09 (when Jon becomes free of his teaching obligations). It seemed like the most natural departure date.

    We knew hardly anything about sailing. I kept racing boats on the bay and reading books.

    Jon and I took two OCSC courses to learn how to sail, fall ’05 and spring ’06. I continued racing on the bay and reading books.

    In January of ’07 we sorta formally agreed to save $10k every six months. We figured we’d need $100k for the boat, plus more for refit/repair costs, as well as $15k each year for living expenses. So we figured $130k, or $44k each, should take us around the world. I continued to read books.

    In the summer of ’07 we started looking for boats; in July we got serious about it. I created a spreadsheet that included all the features and gear we’d need on the boat and what it would cost to add each thing, including the hidden expenses of transporting the boat and paying sales tax. Each time I looked at a boat listed on yachtworld.com, I went through the spreadsheet and calculated how much money we would have to spend for the refit. Subtracting that refit cost from our 100k ceiling, and we had a rough idea of how much we could offer.

    The first boat we looked at was a Tayana 37. Jonny and I went together to Sausalito to see it, and we didn’t have a damn clue what we were looking for. I felt ridiculous, like I was kicking the tires of a car trying to assess its worth. I went back and did more reading. A month later I looked at a Valiant in Alameda–again I felt like I was clueless. I did some more reading. I met three Seattle guys who had just circumnavigated on a boat called SohCahToa –super great guys who not only gave me good advice, but offered to come look at a boat with me. I went back with the Seattle guys and looked at the Valiant in Alameda again–six months after the first time I had looked at it–and this time it all made sense. We spent three hours taking the boat apart, peering into every dark hole, under every floorboard and examining every piece of equipment. I felt confident that I understood how much work it would need, and how much it was worth to us. According to my spreadsheet, we could offer $50k for it. It was originally listed at $80k, was lowered to $60k, and then someone else snatched it up. I drove down to Ventura to look at another Valiant, and decided that it needed far too much work to justify an offer. We made an offer on a repossessed Valiant in Florida, sight unseen, but we were outbid by some Scottish dude. I inquired about two other Valiants, a centerboard model in Florida and one in Virginia.

    I have an admission: I had already decided that I wanted a Valiant before I ever looked at the first boat. I had read about what makes a good blue-water (read: ocean-worthy) boat. I knew all the features we wanted. The Valiant has them. The Valiant’s reputation is badass. It is a proven hardcore bluewater boat, and it isn’t slow as hell like lots of heavy ocean boats. I knew that they were plagued by blisters; and I had decided that blisters were ok with me. Blisters (little air bubbles in the paint) wouldn’t sink the boat, and they would lower the price so we could afford it.

    In the beginning of September ’07 we found Sunshine, a Valiant in San Carlos, Mexico, originally listed at 80k. When I put it in our spreadsheet, I was surprised to discover that we could potentially offer $70k (on account of all the additional gear on the boat, the condition of the sails, etc.) We had originally discussed Jan 1 as the earliest that we were willing to purchase a boat–that was our $20k each deadline, allowing us to offer $60k. But it’s hard to maintain willpower when you think you’ve found a deal on the perfect boat. There’s an amount of irrational emotion that comes into play, which is OK, because that’s the only way you end up loving your boat. Just as long as you don’t make a financial mistake. We decided to offer $60k and no more. Writing that email was scary, and exciting. The sellers came back a week later with an offer of $65k. It was close. We were close. But we decided we just couldn’t quite afford it. We declined it. Two weeks later, the broker called me back to say that the sellers would take $60k. We accepted the offer.

    It took three weeks or so to iron out an offer agreement that we were satisfied with–the sellers wanted us to buy the boat without a survey and without a sea trial, and we were having none of that. In the end, we got the survey and sea trial by agreeing to a $3k non-refundable deposit.

    Jonny drove to Mexico with Jeff Purton to look at the boat, and make sure it didn’t have any deal-breaker-type problems. He brought back many pictures, and a green-light report. The boat was a go.

    Jon and I flew down to Mexico two weeks later to look at the boat for the first time and get the survey. The survey was acceptable; there are a few issues with minor delamination that we are trying to resolve before signing, but it is not yet a reason to walk away.

    The sea trial is scheduled to happen on December 1st. All three of us are going down a few days early to help the sellers recommission the boat, since it’s currently up on stilts in a dry-dock. So it looks like it’s really going to happen this time.

    And how do I feel? Excitement tinged with trepidation and flavored with a bit of anxiety. I’m excited to find the boat that we’ve wanted all along, in good condition at a good price. The anxiety comes from knowing all too well what we’re getting ourselves into. I shouldn’t know already, because I’ve never owned or even worked on a boat and none of us has any experience. But I do know. I already have a list of all the things that we will need to do to the boat, and have checked on all the parts to complete those jobs, and have read how to do those jobs. And before we even start the work, we have to get it out of Mexico up to San Francisco. And I know that the sail up the coast in March may be the hardest passage we make during our entire circumnavigation–right out of the gate, with little experience and no knowledge of the boat. We don’t know how to use the systems in the boat, we don’t have much time to do any work, and the boat is not safely sail-able in its current condition (at the very least we need to re-rig it). I will feel much, much better after the boat is sitting in a slip in the bay–until then my excitement will be tempered.

  • thar she is

    Tharr she is, sitting in dry-dock, in San Carlos, Sonora, Mexico.