6: Shakedown

Shake down: a testing under operating conditions of something new (such as a ship) for possible faults and defects and for familiarizing the operators with it.
 
High winds, head winds, becalmed, beam reach, close haul: we experienced a range of sailing conditions. Despite that initial recommendation that we leave the boat yard and head straight to a dock and tie up, we went to sea and spent eleven days roaming the San Juan Islands. The transmission powered through head-on 50-knot gusts and rough waters without a stutter. The only rattle was when idling while pulling up anchor. A moment when Kent, upon leaving our first anchorage, dead calm morning and Kent muttered dead calmly, “oh by the way, the anchor chain battery may be dead.” As I prepared to literally haul the anchor, I watched the chain slowly recoil into its foc’sle chain locker as we rattled backwards, then we hoisted sail, and left Roche Harbor.
 
Hoist the mainsail, unfurl the jib, set the halyard brake: we got a feel for Rapport and tested her systems. Remember the blistering bottom paint? Remember the water running down the mast into the main cabin in high winds? Remember me being left alone in the cockpit so he could go below and radio the harbormaster? Remember the shit spray? (I do.) We learned the holding tank is not 40 gallons but 25, and an electric head continually running water diminished that smaller than expected capacity to brimming full. All the motions of our days roaming the islands had a cause and effect that led to the revised list: forward head, anchor chain, transmission, bottom paint, VHF in cockpit, mast boot. (Oh, this is only a partial list.)
 
With a boat, I would expect it to work—not a process. When stuff stutters, Kent doesn’t see it as failures, but as a conversation. This boat isn’t a moment, but a long-term commitment. The discovery is part of what makes it engaging.
 
Shakedown: a thorough search of a person or place.
 
In training my horse, I work to understand motivations and abilities and forge a training partnership based on how the mind and body of the horse tick. It’s a commitment, an on-going process, and it’s trial and error. I understand the questions I want to ask, and I may not quickly understand the replies, but I gain a bit with each conversation. The discovery is part of what makes it engaging.
 
In engaging with the shakedown, I learned the following about myself:

• Stand in the bow when the holding tank is emptied, or at least immediately behind the hose.
• Dramamine and wristbands make a difference when taken before anticipated rolling seas.
• Fear can be medicated, and not at expense of function, for a better experience for all aboard.
• Don’t be ambitious when jumping to the dock: giveway to younger crew members when possible. (Would my knee give out on landing or would I wet my pants? If I ran on landing to reduce impact, could I arrest motion before running off the slip into the water.)
• Sailboats are a good night sleep—until our final stop across from the Bremerton shipyard where the smell of oil and diesel wafted through the hatch, the orange light came through the portholes, and reveille played, of course, at the crack of dawn—but the islands had been peaceful, providing weeks of good nights. Very unusual.
• I can effectively hold a course. (There’s a lot of room for improvement here.)
• Cold sailing isn’t like cold weather Vermont. I didn’t move much, especially with electric winches, but by dressing wise I stayed warm.
• My competent staff runs the shop better without my interference and worked with me on what meager communication I could manage. (Thank you, Nicole, April and Lisa, for letting me “text it in” most of the time.)
• I manage well away when I know my animals at home are happy and well-cared for. (Thank you Megann.)
• I wrote more than expected and really enjoyed sharing and receiving responses to relating my journey. I think it helped keep perspective and gratitude to be in conversation. Thank you, friends and family.
• I couldn’t pull off the podcast, even though I had a sound editor and musician on board.
• People prefer to read about high winds and not being becalmed.
• Riding turned out to be a relatable experience to guide me.

 
Above all, I have no clue what’s going on. On our return to LaConnor, we had to navigate the ominous Deception Pass.  We had been under sail the whole day with a good wind and traveling at 8-9 knots all day, tacking in Rosario Straits, and making good time. We were going to hit Deception Pass with an incoming tide, and then motor through Swinomish Channel to the LaConner marina ahead of schedule.
 
“How lucky!” I exclaimed, as if the wind gods were on our side, blessing us with tides. I got a stunned look from Kent, and a dark shadow passed over his face.
 
“Not lucky!” I recanted, “great planning!” I revised. He was always up hours before the rest of us, with charts, looking at the course, the depths and tides, the weather, and telling us a specific time to pull up anchor. Although really, the tide gods were on my side because favorable conditions didn’t occur before 9am.
 
Shakedown: a process or period of adjustment
 
We are just beginning. We test the boat, but we test ourselves, individually and together. Kent tests his skills both mechanical and navigational. I test my ability to coexist on a boat, to remain even-keeled, and my ability to learn. We have completed the shakedown cruise, for me, every cruise may be a shakedown.

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Mount Rainier visible through the masts in the distance, and seal visible swimming in the foreground. Rapport tied up at Elliott Bay Marina for a few days in Seattle while we made wintering over arrangements. (Great bike path around Elliott Bay to Seattle!)