Engine Stall in Traffic By Robert Malkin
T
he engine was an incredibly reliable 25-horsepower Honda outboard on the back of our 30foot Gemini 3000 catamaran, Asante. It could easily push the boat at hull speed, started every time, ran smoothly and quietly, and it never quit. Well, it almost never quit. I had been traveling north on the ICW for about a week with my son and daughter, both experienced teenage sailors. We had reached Elizabeth City in northeast North Carolina, a wonderful small town at the entrance to the Dismal Swamp route to the Chesapeake Bay. A couple of days of visiting the museums, enjoying the city’s architecture, restaurants, and hospitality had passed pleasantly by. Now we were ready to depart. I knew that the priming pump for the engine had been exposed to some saltwater and was a bit sluggish. Not wanting to interrupt a great vacation, I just had to pump the choke/prime a couple of extra times to get the engine started every morning. I had tried some WD40 a few days earlier, but that didn’t seem to help. This day was like every other day, so I primed the engine a couple of extra times and turned the key. The engine turned over and roared to life. With my skilled crew, we backed out of the free dockage at Elizabeth City without a problem. I could see a pack of cruising sailboats and trawlers on my left backed up behind the bascule bridge waiting for it to open as I slowly motored out of the narrow channel toward the Pasquotank River. On my right—and seemingly all around me— were people riding Jet Skis to and fro. There was little wind and nearly no current, but a small regatta of sailors was gathering just ahead, probably waiting to move farther down river where we had seen races the day before. With my kids putting away the dock lines and a clear, but crowded path forward, I went to throttle up the reliable outboard. The engine sputtered, choked, coughed—and then stalled. No amount of swearing or
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SOUTHWINDS
cranking would get the engine started again. Jet Skis were whizzing by, and just then I heard the siren indicating that the bridge was about to open. In a few moments, the narrow channel would be full of boats wanting to get somewhere. And there we were, slowly coasting to a stop, right in everyone’s way! As was our custom when we cruised, we had prepared the anchor for quick deployment before departing. I told my son to go forward and get ready to drop the anchor. My daughter had already grabbed the boat hook. Though my son moved forward and grabbed the anchor rode, he was not convinced it was a good idea. He felt that anchoring at that point would have left us right in the middle of a busy channel. We would be stopped and possibly stuck there for some time. We’d be a target for any Jet Ski with an attention-deficit problem and a nuisance to anyone itching to reach the Albemarle Sound before the afternoon storms made it a rough ride. My son’s idea was to use our momentum to move us out of the traffic and toward some nearby docks. I could see that the docks had plenty of shiny fiberglass we could destroy. But, we would be out of traffic. Plus, there was a chance that someone might be able to help us, and if we did it just
right, we might be able to stop at the dock and tie up until we could repair the engine. We only had a few seconds before the boats from the now nearly raised bridge would descend upon us, and our momentum was waning. I quickly called out on the VHF and raised a few people on the docks who said they would help if they could. I judged that our momentum was sufficient to at least move us out of the channel, and we could still drop the anchor at any time, if that seemed like the only option. So I decided my son was right, eased the wheel over and pointed us toward the large, stationary, and expensive objects floating all around the dock. We eased our way forward. Just as I lost steerage way—and was now adrift and out of control—we reached the limits of the 50-foot dock lines I always kept on deck. It was going to be very close. I was pointing toward an opening at the docks, and there was now someone standing there to catch our dock lines. But I was not sure we would make it, and I was not sure we would be going slow enough to avoid some serious pain. The good news was that we were now out of the busy channel. The bad news was that we were hardly out of danger. Even at this slow speed, I knew there was a big risk. A sailboat carries a lot of momentum, and we could really do some damage to the docks, my boat, or other boats. I could imagine the crunching sound my boat would make as it slowly imbedded its bow into the late-model trawler gently rolling at the end of the dock. My son and daughter had practiced throwing dock lines. Without me having to tell her, my daughter had already made fast a long line to the bow cleat, cleared the line and coiled just the right amount in her right hand, with a bit more in her left hand that she could pay out as the line flew. She’d need a great throw to hit that man standing on the dock, now about 30 feet away. There would not be a second chance. See ENGINE STALL continued on page 76
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