Monthly Archives: February 2015

We spent another day driving all over San Salvador looking for hose barbs and diverter valves with no luck. Our best bet store had all manner of hoses in many sizes but not one hose barb that would fit them. 

Here’s the old rusted leaking watermaker manifold. Every hose goes into the manifold and comes out somewhere else. We’ve been fighting leaky valves since we moved aboard. We know that eventually we will want to replace the watermaker but the major parts — the big ticket items — are still working fine. It’s been suggested to us many times to decouple the manifold and send it to a watery grave, then hook up the hoses and valves directly, where we can keep an eye on things. 

Our watermaker guru in Ft. Lauderdale sent us this diagram of how to hook things up. 

All we need are 14 hose barbs, four diverter valves, three nylon tees, some new hose, a big pile of hose clamps and various and sundry bushings and adapters. In three days of scouring San Salvador we came up with the hose and the hose clamps.

When we got back to Bahia del Sol about four o’clock I was about ready to explode. Can we live without a watermaker? Of course. But we know from our experience over the past three years that being able to anchor in a remote bay, or do a load of wash, or hose the salt off the boat after a passage are the reasons we don’t want to live without it. Life is so much easier when finding fresh water is off the worry list. 

So what to do? Bill, our host here in the estuary, just arrived back today from a stateside family visit and his wife Jean will be flying in from California next week. “You’ve got a couple of days, get your parts ordered and Jean will bring them down,” he suggested. 

We feel that we impose on people enough, but I’m at the end of my rope and I’ll take him up on it. I called our man in Ft. Lauderdale who suggested I call a distributor closer to where Jean is to expedite shipping. And as the various boat crews ordered up more beers, I moved to another table and skyped Anders at Swedish Marine in Pt. Richmond, CA. He loaded the same diagram I have and we went through the parts we need. He was systematic and thorough and by the time I hung up I was starting to get my mood back. Anders promised to put together a bid and email me as soon as he can. 

A few hours later I had the bid and I emailed back that I will call in the morning with my credit card info. Jack and I sat back to watch a couple of episodes of Homeland, feeling hopeful.

This morning I watched the clock until I thought it was late enough in California to call Anders. Huh. No internet. I checked the available networks and our access point was not listed. I waited a half hour and tried again. Nothing. Shit. We dinghied in to shore and found a squad of cruisers at the bar. 

“Is the internet down?” I asked. 

“Yep,” said Judy. “I figured that’s why you were coming in.”

I marched up to the office to check on the Internet, only to find that they had a signal, while the routers for the restaurant and the beach were down. I sat down to make my skype call but I’d left my wallet back at the bar. So I did another lap around the hotel grounds to retrieve my wallet and Jack came with me to the office where I successfully gave Anders my billing info. He assured me the parts would be sent out today. Whew! 

Back at the bar as the rest of the crew settled in for the afternoon, Jack and I decided that since we can’t make any headway on the watermaker until Jean arrives with the parts, we may as well do the thing that makes us happiest — get moving. The boat is stuck where it is for the moment so we’ll do the next best thing: road trip!

I’ve been worrying about this much longer than it deserves. The same could be said about many of the parts on Escape Velocity, it’s just that some seem to rankle more than others. It turns out that I’ve been chasing an elegant, inexpensive solution to the problem for more than three years, really ever since the previous owner (PO) said look, don’t buy Volvo Penta anything, their prices are insane and they don’t make anything, they just rebadge everything. As an example he showed me a just purchased Volvo air filter inside a black plastic box. The catch is that the box is sealed and one simply buys a whole new black plastic box which conveniently has a new five dollar air filter glued into it. He looked up at me and after a dramatic pause for effect he said, “that five dollar air filter costs $100, and you’ll need two.”

I was gobsmacked. I mean really shocked. You must be joking. That’s when he planted the seed of discontent in my life. It seems the PO just discovered that a certain motorcycle manufacturer actually makes the air filter and can be had for one third the price that Volvo charges. Well, I felt better already. Cutting Volvo Penta out of the equation would become my new hobby, as if Volvo hadn’t already thought of this.

The good news is that I run a clean engine compartment so I figured they ought to last quite a while but eventually a solution would need to be found. The bad news is that Volvo are world class obfuscaters. How they can keep our particular engines out of all the online cross reference sites is beyond me. I’ve been chasing this phantom motorcycle air filter for years now and I’ll admit it’s gotten under my skin.

On our recent US trip I had a “miracle list” featuring things that might be considered if our needed list turned out to be cheaper than the
amount budgeted. Yeah I know, we can dream can’t we? Near the bottom of this list I’d reluctantly entered 2 Volvo #3809924 air filters. After all, a clogged air filter could be causing some of the port engine’s RPM problems and I’ve grown weary of asking for a universal clamp-on air filter that would fit. Having said that, just writing it down still stings like defeat.

Santos, mi nuevo amigo that I recently met at the chicken bus stop, listened attentively to my sad tale, smiled and said no problema, let’s all go up to San Salvador tomorrow and he knows a guy. We started by cutting the front off of the black plastic box revealing a very dirty filter but no elegant solution to the problem. I asked Santos if he knew the saying “let’s not reinvent the wheel.” He said no, he did not know this saying but he liked it. It was time for plan C which had its miracle moment when we’d find a universal clamp on filter of approximately the same size as the Volvo intake. After a half dozen repuesto stops all over San Salvador we gave up and reluctantly bought two cheap can filters trading a “reinventing the wheel” problem for a plumbing problem. So it was back to the machine shop where Juan would machine a block of aluminum to my specs, or rather Volvo’s, and it’ll be done…wait for it…mañana.

So, as I was saying, I might have been better served just spending the $200 at every change but with any luck at all we will have cut Volvo out from this cash cow.

Now, about those $20 Volvo oil filters! Yes $20, it’s nautical robbery.

We went back to the drawing board on the watermaker. The feed pump side has been completely disassembled and once we acquire some valves and a bit of new hose we can reassemble it outside the annoying enclosed manifold — in fact discarding the manifold completely — and we should be up and running again. Both feed pumps have been cleaned, inspected and tested and we fully expect a functioning watermaker in a few days.

Meanwhile, the few critical parts we need to install the new 500-series Racor fuel filters will be arriving by private mule in a couple of days and we’ll be able to scratch that one off the list too. And what that means is that we can drop the mooring and motor around the estuary for a couple of hours to test the port engine and see if we still have our diminishing RPM problem. The other cruisers here in Bahia del Sol have offered to accompany us so I think we will have a floating picnic some time next week. I’d better start tidying up.

On Wednesday, local expat Lou offered us a ride up to San Salvador where we tried (and failed) to get some hose and valves.

But we did make a stop at PriceSmart, the local version of Costco, and I put a dent in my provisioning list. Loading up the boat for a Pacific crossing is challenging no matter where you are, but I’m finding it especially difficult here. There are no cheeses to speak of except the ubiquitous Central American queso fresco. It’s possible to find small pieces of imported aged cheeses but they are prohibitively expensive. Other items that I like to have on hand — for example tofu, tahini, heavy cream for cooking, dried fruit beyond raisins, frozen vegetables — are hard to find and require store to store searches, tough to do without a car.

I’m resigning myself to buying just whatever happens to be here and making the best of it. We won’t starve, that’s for sure. We just may have some more creative meals. Central America will have its hooks in us long after we sail away because our diet will consist of variations on rice and beans for a couple of months, or at least until we arrive in Tahiti. And that’s not a bad thing; it’s just that we like a little more variety in our meals.

When our shopping was done, Lou stopped at his favorite pupuseria for lunch.

Not related to the delicious pupusas, but I’ve been fighting intestinal distress ever since we got to El Salvador. Whether it’s from water or food who knows, but the consensus among the cruisers and locals is that it’s parasites. In fact the complaint is so common here on the west coast of Central America that most people keep a stock of their favorite antiparasitic meds on board. Jeff and Judy from Island Mistress gave me a course of nitazoxanida and after three days I’m doing much better.

Note the cartoon parasites on the box. It’s the friendly complaint! What cracks us up is that in every other cruising ground the talk among boaters centers around electrical and plumbing projects, equipment repairs and weather. Here the conversation almost always gets around to nausea, cramping and diarrhea. Cruisers have no pride.

After about an hour I went down to check on the watermaker and the output was down to a negligible gallon or so an hour. Not good. Jack heard the news he didn’t want to hear. The feed pumps would have to come out. We were due at the weekly cruisers’ potluck so we put it off until morning and I polled the other boatowners for advice. None of them has a watermaker but they did say we could test the pumps in a bucket of water before we tore into them.

The next morning that’s what we did, after much contorting and cursing getting them out of the enclosure in the first place. Each one seemed to pump fine in the bucket, so we looked elsewhere for a problem, rechecking the hoses for obstructions and the connections for leaks. By the time Jack got the pumps back in we found that in the process the toggle switch for pump two had broken off. So now we’re down to one pump until we can replace the switch.

I fired up the system and we were still at near zero output so I wrote to Spectra, the manufacturer, as well as our friend George, boat guru to the stars. George suggested a pump problem and Spectra sent a few diagnostics to perform. By this time it was near four o’clock and we knocked off for the day and dinghied to the hotel pool to cool off with some other cruisers.

This morning we did the flow test and the Clark pump troubleshooting and I reported back to Spectra. In about a half hour the tech emailed back that we have a flow problem and it’s either an obstruction in the intake or a failed pump. So out come the pumps again and Jack is not amused. With some difficulty due to stuck screws we got the head off pump number two, the one that isn’t working at all. Aha! A little bit of plastic wrap was stuck inside, and there was a lot of other crap in there too. It reminded me of what our friend Ron told us two years ago, that a tiny piece of wrapper from a new membrane can screw up the whole system. I don’t know where the plastic came from, but it certainly doesn’t belong there. We put the pump back together again and did the bucket test. Seems fine.

Unfortunately, the other pump has several screws that will not budge. I think we’re going to have to take it to someone with better tools and more determination to get it off and check it.

Meanwhile we bought water to fill up our tank, a first for us. It cost $20 to have a panga bring the water — at least we didn’t have to schlep it — but the thought of life without a watermaker, especially as we plan to sail to some fairly remote islands, makes us very determined to get our system back up and running again.

We have three more hours before our pool date at four o’clock. Back to work.

We planned to have breakfast at the hotel buffet this morning and started the watermaker before we left. Here in the estuary we can only make water on the incoming tide because there’s too much crap in the water when the tide turns.

When we got back to the boat after breakfast I could tell from the sound that something wasn’t right down below. The watermaker pumps were running but the Clark pump wasn’t shifting. Damn. I shut the system down and told Jack he’d have to dive on the intake thruhull to make sure it wasn’t clogged. We had the bottom cleaned yesterday and I forgot to close the seacock so it’s entirely possible some barnacle bits or seagrass made its way into the system. Jack was a little resistant, so I figured we could check from inside first. He pulled off the strainer and opened the seacock. Just a little dribble came out. Ok, this is good news. There’s only a short hose and the seacock between the strainer and the sea and the problem is there, and presumably not with the pumps.

Jack took the short hose off and brought it up to me in the kitchen where I ran some water through it. Yikes! Two short fat fishes came out, still very much alive and indignant. They made their way down the drain and, I hope, back to the estuary. We reamed the hose and declared it free of obstructions, but when Jack opened the seacock again — without the hose attached — there was still only a trickle coming into the bilge. Now what?

A wire coat hanger would have been the perfect tool for this operation but we don’t have such a thing on board EV. We scrambled around for a suitably firm but flexible implement. Eventually I plumbed my beading supplies and handed over some 14 gauge wire to use. Alas, the inside of the seacock was clear. Jack would have to dive after all.

He donned his mask and fins and went overboard. I waited inside at the seacock for the high sign to open it up and check the flow. I could hear major crunching sounds as he scraped the inlet and I knew it was pretty clogged. Finally he tapped twice on the hull, and I reached down and opened the seacock. Seawater spurted into the boat and I reached under the equipment bay to feel the flow. Good and strong. I closed the seacock and tapped twice from inside.

“There was a fish stuck in there, and a lot of barnacles.” Hmmm, I’m thinking. I gotta tell the guy who cleans the bottom to check the thruhulls while he’s down there.

Jack reconnected the hose and strainer while I changed the prefilters. We fired it up and waited for the system to pressurize. Woo-hoo! We’re making water again. Unfortunately I can tell that the number two pump isn’t pulling its weight and I think we’re going to have to find a replacement pump head before we head out again. This is one of those spare parts we knew we should have on board but it kept sliding down the list and now we’re sorry. It only affects the volume of our output, but it also means we don’t have a backup if number one craps out.

We can’t complain. We’ve been making delicious clean water for nearly three years with a minimum of maintenance and repairs so if our ancient Spectra wants a new pump head, a new pump head she will get.

Ahhhhhhhhhh, relaxing Sundays.

The local building crew is making forms for concrete steps down from the dock. There is much pounding and laughter and as far as we can tell only two men are actually working. The others are “supervising.’ Just like PennDOT, Jack says.

Every couple of weeks the local expats organize a trip to the village of La Colorada, where an American started two women’s collectives so the members can learn skills and earn their own money. Jack was busy with the rigger so I joined the others in a rented panga for the long ride across the estuary and up the river.

The village is on another island and more than 300 people live there.

We walked first to the sewing collective, where the women were having a meeting about future projects while we looked at the totes, purses and backpacks they made.

Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) they didn’t have any available stock for sale, only the order that was being picked up to be sent to Seattle for sale in shops there.

Jean brought some fabric she found in San Salvador and ordered a few bags, and Jeff ordered a backpack made of deerskin.

The women get their supplies of fabric, leather and thread from outside El Salvador but even so, their work is beautiful and the income is a great benefit to them, their families and the village.

We walked to another building where a group of young women make beaded jewelry.

Just like for the bag collective, the materials are brought in by various people but the work is lovely. They pulled out what they had available, again mostly packaged up to be sent to the states for sale in shops.

The women are obviously proud of their work and were happy to have us visit. As always, I feel privileged to be able to experience a world so different from my own.

Here in Bahia Del Sol, El Salvador, you can kinda choose your world. Beach or bay, or more accurately estuary. It’s a long peninsula, or as Marce would say a long stick-out with a little macadam two lane more or less down the center and that’s been my area of expertise. Chicken buses, that is. You might have a long wait so the trick is to get out of the brutal 98 degree sun and preferably find a place to sit down. Shade and a seat. To that end I’ve modified my modus-operendus and now I Cat Nip over to a restaurant on stilts called Mar Y Sol which is a bit closer to Escape Velocity, tie up to the floating dock, not the pylon due to the ten foot tides, and slog up a dirt alley to the “chicken road”, a spot of shade, with a scrap of wood to sit on. Perfect.

A funny thing happened today while I was waiting for the air horns to announce the presence of a bus. A guy named Santos — there are many of them down here — pulled in front of the tienda where I was waiting and struck up a conversation. This is rare because my Spanish is nonexistent but his English was passable and I soon learned that he had fixed our Yamaha outboard after M. got the fuel tank really clean by squirting a hose at it, and he knew about Escape Velocity and it turns out that he is also the guy that hauls the American propane tanks up to east San Salvador. He likes to have at least four tanks to make it worth his while but if we get stuck he’ll help out. Next he knew of a small farmers produce tienda that is much closer than the Super Mercado and has fresh vegetables and fruit. So our next adventure will be to find the produce market in Playas Del Blanco, but today it’s the Super Mercado and the reward of a Pops ice cream right next door. You can’t imagine how good ice cream tastes In this heat.

After I finished I walked across the chicken road and looked for a bus. No such luck so it’s the small covered metal bench beside a dirt floor restaurant with an open sewer running right under it. But wait, there’s a white and brown spotted cow tethered to the bench. I wondered if he’d mind sharing?

The last time I waited on this bench, there was a cow directly across the road and he clearly didn’t like the cut of my jib and let me know it by starring at me nonstop and bellowing at me…frequently. I’m not fond of cows. So it’s right away with the mind games. Every time I look up it’s starring right at me, but this time it couldn’t be more than three feet away. It’s chewing something but there’s nothing around it but dirt, and I make up my mind that if it’s tail goes up, I’m out of here.

It was at about this time that a herder on a bicycle towing a donkey brings his crowd of twenty or more huge cows up on the road to dance with the chicken busses and general traffic. Yep, you guessed it, right down the middle of the road. All manor of chaos ensued. My cow apparently felt left out and started to bellow not three feet from my ear. Sadly no one came for it and finally the chicken bus showed up scattering cows everywhere. This one was already bursting at the seams but I know how this works now so I just squeezed in because there’s always room for one more.

I’m listening to the men’s final streaming on Australian Open Radio as the roosters crow ashore. The coffee’s on, sun’s coming up.