R E T R O S P EC T I V E Under sail then, under power now
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ordhavn is in an area (between Acapulco and Panama) that gave us great misery during our family cruise on Malabar VII in 1971. I brought the logbook with me to read and have been reminiscing about that epic cruise. While the basics of seamanship have remained unchanged, so many other things are different that it is difficult to remember how primitive it was three decades ago. Malabar was primitive partly because of our tiny budget, but mostly because the gear and equipment that we take for granted today simply were not available for yachts. In 1971, we departed Salina Cruz, Mexico, on a non-stop run to Puntarenas, Costa Rica, a distance of 750 miles. We had spent the previous five days in Salina Cruz waiting for a Tehaunapecker to blow itself out. Ten days later we finally dropped Malabar’s anchor at the island of Jesuscito across the bay from Puntarenas. Before departing Salina Cruz, we took on fresh water (of course, no watermaker) which was a laborious process of lowering five-gallon glass bottles down into the dinghy from the commercial pier, rowing out to Malabar, hoisting them onto the deck and pouring them through a funnel into the tank. We loaded four bottles per trip and the process took several sweaty hours. Nordhavn has a washing machine and dryer and a wonderful large stall shower. With the Spectra watermaker, we have essentially unlimited amounts of fresh water. On Malabar, we constantly worried about fresh water. Dishes were washed in salt water and rinsed in fresh. Clothing was washed in a bucket on a washboard and hung out to dry (the loss rate from blowing away was about five percent). Showering was a bathing-suit shower, which took place on the small area aft of the cockpit. On Nordhavn (or any Nordhavn), one has complete confidence in the structural integrity of the boat. Not one second is spent worrying about the hull, the bulkheads, the rudder, engine mounts or windows. On the 45-year-old wooden Malabar, I had constant anxiety about the boat breaking up and sinking from under us. The swollen and rusty steel chain plates, the mysterious leak in the garboard seam that got worse and worse, the hogging deck and the questionable rudder. One never knew if the creak, groan or snap that you heard would be the last. If Malabar had broken up and sunk, we would have tried to get into the Avon dinghy, but probably we would have drowned. I cringe when I think back to the danger and risk that we subjected ourselves to on Malabar. Nordhavn, on the other hand, is a tank which will almost certainly never sink due to simple structural failure. If she should sink due to collision, fire or some unforeseen chain of events, we would (if we had time) call Mayday on two kinds of radios (SSB and VHF), make telephone calls on two kinds of phones (Iridium and Wavetalk) and then launch and enter our Switlik life raft bringing our abandon-ship bag, survival suits, EPIRB, the Iridium phone, handheld VHF, and the
handheld GPS. We would probably be rescued within a few hours and then start thinking about the insurance settlement. Malabar had no insurance and represented the entire net worth of my parents. On Nordhavn, we always know precisely where we are, down to the nearest 15 feet. We have two GPS units and three different navigation programs, which display on the Raymarine plotters or the computer monitor. We have two radars which can overlay on the plotter to verify landmarks. On Malabar, we almost never knew where we were unless we were sitting in port. We navigated by dead reckoning, shore landmarks, light beacons and the occasional radio beacon using our Bendix RDF. We had a sextant, sight reduction tables and an Accutron watch, but our skills at celestial navigation were minimal, and anxiety about our position was constant. On Nordhavn, we sit in a pleasant pilothouse protected from the elements. Our screens, computers, radios, telephones, electrical panels and instruments are arranged in logical order on the upper and lower consoles. One has a sense of security and feels in command of the vessel. On Malabar, we sat in an open cockpit and hand-steered the boat no matter what the circumstances. We had an awning for protection from the sun, but in rain, or worse yet, salt spray from beating to weather, we had to wear the hated foul weather gear. On Nordhavn, we are IN the boat, staying within the protection of the Portuguese bridge. On Malabar, we were ON the boat protected only by the lifelines. Trips to the bucking foredeck to change sails were always a time of high risk. On Nordhavn, we are nearly always well rested and clean. On Malabar, we were nearly always tired and often times delirious with fatigue, and seldom as clean as we wanted to be. One of the overlooked safety benefits of a cruising powerboat versus a sailboat is that on the powerboat you are going to be less fatigued and therefore have better judgment at those crucial times when you need it. Back to Malabar’s passage from Salina Cruz to Puntarenas. Nearly all of the deprivations described above occurred on that passage. We motored in blazing sun until our fuel was nearly depleted. We got hit by a Papaguyo, which is the evil twin of a Tehaunapecker. Our main, jib and genoa were all torn. We were lost for two days when Punta Guiones did not appear as we expected. We nearly ran out of water and had to severely ration. And, we had to lay ahull for 12 hours in winds estimated to be over 50 knots while poor Malabar issued forth death groans and her leak increased in volume. As I read the logbook and diaries of that passage (and other passages just as horrendous), I marvel at the optimistic spirit and lack of complaining. Yes, some of the misery was due to our ineptness and poor planning, but most of it was accepted as the norm for that time—only 32 years ago. — Dan Streech 2003 CIRCUMNAVIGATOR · 93