Stinky

Some may feel that two people, especially if married for decades, might find a 32 foot motor yacht (no matter how well designed) confining. If a months long cruise, many times without the ability for onshore distractions, is added to the equation, then the argument for incompatibility grows stronger.

From me you will find no argument with the above. These tendencies need to be anticipated, discussed, and through negotiations and the occasional mediation, overcome. The fact that Carrie Rose is able to swing at anchor in Maine is a testament to the fact that it can be accomplished.

There are times when continued cohabitation is challenged. It is not like these are planned. They evolve from a series of unforeseen circumstances. This recently occurred on Carrie Rose.

Think of the boat as a high end RV with a propeller. There are numerous mechanical systems and as mechanical systems are prone to do, despite conscientious maintenance, they fail. There are (to borrow a word from past committee work) multiple root causes. In today’s crasser world the phrase that comes to mind is, shit happens. And that aphorism is especially true in this instance.

In the confines of the Great Lakes, it is forbidden to pump black water or effluent or whatever else it is called, overboard. To be caught, as unlikely as that may be, would result in keelhauling by the United States Coast Guard. Most fresh water sailors disconnect the overflow plumbing. That way if ever boarded by the Coast Guard there is plausible deniability. Carrie Rose found herself in this state.

But in the state of Maine, as long as not in confined spaces, our poop may mingle with that of whales and seals and porpoises. But I get ahead of myself. Boats can be particularly stinking places. There are countless offending agents. And many of them lurk and mingle, in dark, humid, and airless crevices.

Engine oil, diesel fumes, antifreeze, molds and mildews, errant holding tank gases ferment with salt and fresh water; it is a potent mix. It is a mark of a true yachtsperson to be able to brag of a dry bilge. Despite Carrie Rose’s numerous virtues, a dry bilge is not one of them.

There have been moments when no offending agents exist in the nether world but faith intervenes and the process of hunting down the source or sources begins anew. This was recently the case.

I feel I must warn, like on the radio when a racy or violent program is about to be aired that the more sensitive listeners turn the volume down for the announced time span. This may be the time to look away from the page.

A decision was made that due to Maine’s lack of holding tank pump out facilities Carrie Rose should have a way to empty her own waste tank. Of course, this would only be done outside the three mile limit of the United States territorial waters. It involved the installation of various new hoses, a Y-valve, and a device worthy of a starring role in a horror movie called a macerator pump.

I considered the task doable and even bought some of the parts, but as the winter progressed the thought of wedging myself into the confined and smelly place brought me to my senses. Thus, it was decided to let the mechanic at Carrie Rose’s boatyard tackle the installation. It proved to be a smart move as I had underestimated the complexity of the connections.

The process was completed with my constant cheerleading. Carrie Rose was now in the water and I was itching to try the new system out. There was only one caveat it needs to be full. Due to our finely honed and frugal head usage, this could require a month. To circumvent the delay I suggested we forgo the usual precaution against a fetid head and flush with salt water.

Understand that salt water is not a benign substance. It is corrosive. It is packed with the denizens, albeit tiny, of the deep sea. And there may be remnants of Maine’s ten common seaweeds. To seal these into an airless tank along with other unmentionables, to use a worn out cliché, is a recipe for disaster.

Now I might have got away with the experiment had I not forgotten that the holding tank vent filter had been done away with several years ago. The instructions state yearly replacement but at a cost of eighty dollars, it stayed in place for a half a decade. When it finally blocked the clear flow of air, I dispensed with it services.

The experiment went well for a few days. It was cold and there had been minimal intake but that was to change. Canada and Maine decided to break high temperature records and we had inhabited the boat for a week to ten days. Without warning, flushing the head enveloped the usually pristine Carrie Rose in a cloud of noxious fumes.

Charlotte, whose nose is not typically that sensitive, called out in fright. I, of course tried to minimize the severity of the situation we found ourselves in. We began to warn each other when the head needed to be used. And though there is no place to run and no place to hide, Charlotte would station herself on the aft deck in anticipation of the oncoming stench.

Our usual docile relationship turned contentious: mine with futile denials of being the causative agent of this disaster and Charlotte’s with demands for an immediate fix. Both were implausible. I immediately tried by phone, Internet, and on foot to procure another filter. All my efforts were stymied.

Out of frustration, I confided in Dave of the famously, on many coasts, pristine Sir Tugley Blue, our traveling companions. He had a solution, that if I could find the correct fittings, he thought it would work. It was a humble RV charcoal water filter. The charcoal provides the barrier from the stinky tank to the outside world.

I searched through my stash. It looked promising except for one adapter. By this time, the unhappy crew of Carrie Rose had made it to Belfast, Maine for the upbeat Celtic Music festival. Belfast is a thriving town with an old fashion hardware store, and a rare owner that knows where every piece of inventory, no matter how insignificant, lives.

I searched the unlabeled drawers and became dejected. Then I enlisted the help of a young sales assistant, who after taking one glance at the mess, mumbled that only the owner would know if the part exists. A stooped but smiling tall and lanky middle aged man appeared, and inquired as to what I needed: ¾ threaded to a one inch hose fitting adapter.

He hesitated for a second; his hand reached into the hidden depths of an outwardly random drawer and came out with the part. The rest was mere mechanics.

Within twenty minutes the part was installed, tested, and pronounced a success by the first mate. Life went back to normal but then I suppose if a normal life is what Carrie Rose’s inhabitants wanted they would not have left the bungalow on Talman Ave. nine summers ago.

Warren Island State Park, Maine