Osmosis - The battle Begins

Another spell of rain was predicted a few weeks ago, so I was reluctant to pull the tarp back on the boat. Instead I slowly went around the hull (yet again), inspecting every inch very closely. From the very beginning, I'd had no illusions about osmosis in Sentina. Its to be expected in a boat of this vintage. I knew she'd probably have it bad, and boy was I right. She seems to have a very advanced case of the dreaded pox.

As I was inspecting the hull, I noticed a little globule of water just hanging from the propellor aperture. There was no sign of run off on the hull's surface, and it hadn't rained all week. I also noted a bit of a puddle on the ground beneath this area. Looks like it'd been dripping for a while.

Detective that I am, I figured the water was coming out of the laminate. My earlier research into the treatment of serious osmosis cases, led me to understand that the entire gelcoat would have to be stripped off. Then the laminate underneath must be allowed to dry out, before rebuilding with barrier coats of epoxy. Apparently this is a bastard of a job, requiring the use of grinders and/or 'gelcoat peelers' (like an electric plane). When I made the decision to take this project on, I had naively figured I'd get this particular job done by professionals. Of course, in my financial situation, I now realise that this is not an option. I'll have to do the job myself. Since the gelcoat was already popping off in many places (presumably due to the hull shrinking as the water escaped), I decided to see if I could scrape some of it off by hand.

I grabbed an old paint scraper and had a bit of a dig into a blister.

The gelcoat easily came away, leaving the laminate exposed. I kept going along seams of loosened gelcoat. The exposed patch got bigger.

And bigger.

And bigger.

By the end of the afternoon, I'd gone down the entire starboard side of the hull. The laminate was absolutely soaked. I couldn't get it all, but I've made a significant dent in it. At least now the water can get away a lot more easily.

Yesterday I got stuck into the port side of the boat. As I suspected, the gelcoat didn't come away as easily here. I'm assuming that's because it gets a bit more sun on that side, and so is slightly drier. My scraper may have been a factor too (getting smaller and oddly shaped, from bits breaking off). Where I couldn't properly get underneath the gelcoat, I at least worked on opening up the blisters and letting the goo flow.

The blisters were pretty juicy little buggers too. Here's a short clip of the fun. I hope it works ok.

So if you're stupid enough to take on a project like this as well, and the hull is similarly delaminating, then the lesson learned is to make sure you try to get as much off as you can, as fast as you can. 

After the fun and games were over, I swept up all the fallen flakes of anti foul/celcoat from the ground and bagged it up. Then, not quite ready to knock off for the day, I began trying to clean up the compasses. They both look pretty knackered, but hopefully I can salvage at least one of them. 

I don't know anything about the box compass yet. There're actually stalactites hanging off the bowl underneath.

The hand bearing compass is a big old thing, that I've seen being used in a number of older voyaging/cruising books. I did some surfing on the net last night, and found out that its a 'Sestral' hand bearing compass, made by Henry Browne & son in England. Apparently they're a good bit of kit and quite expensive. Hopefully parts are still available, and I might be able to get it restored properly.

For now, I've pretty much drowned them both in WD40 and left them soaking. I'll keep you posted on any developments. 

Getting Sorted - Stage 1

Despite the stress of actually getting her here, I can't describe the joy of being able to look out of my window and see Sentina sitting in my yard. I have to pinch myself when I think about having my very own Contessa 26. I see her everyday. Since she's sitting right next to the car and bike, I pause and admire her curves every time I go out or get home. And every day I dream about being able to go sailing in her.

And she seems to have brought me a bit of good luck too. My work drought broke as soon as I got her here, finally securing a job shortly after she arrived. Its not exactly brain surgery and the pay is crap, but it's local, pays the bills and keeps me pretty busy. An abundance of overtime means that I only really get one day each week to be able to work on the boat (weather and commitments permitting), which really only turns out to be an afternoon per week, since I generally spend the mornings recovering and relaxing with the family. Still, its something, and I'm happy to say that I've been putting even that small amount of time to good use so far.

The first priority has been to get all of the foul water out of her. There was no opportunity to do this before she was transported, so it had been sloshing around inside her cabin all the way here. The stench when I opened her up was overpowering. I had to put a respirator on before I could climb down onto the bunks inside.

Because the water was obviously toxic, I didn't want to just dump it onto the ground. So I collected as many containers as I could and began hand-bailing the water into them. This was a pretty horrible and slow process, but eventually the water level got down to, and then below the floor boards. A few weeks later, and I could finally see the bottom of the bilge. I cleaned up a bit of the oily sludge from the cabin sole, and at last I could actually stand inside the cabin.

Of course there was also the matter of all the accumulated garbage inside the cabin. I spent quite a while removing this rubbish, salvaging anything that I thought would be remotely useable. However, most of it was a mass of oil/grease/mould soaked crap.

It wasn't all muck and gloom though. I managed to salvage a lot of useful paperwork (including items from the original sale to the very first owners) and manuals. There were old charts with position fixes marked, revealing some of her previous adventures. I also found the ship's compass and a big, classical old hand bearing compass (both surely antiques by now). I'm hoping that I can eventually get these last two items professionally restored, and put back aboard some day.

With the interior now cleared enough to be able to move around in, I turned my attention to above decks. The boat had a distinctly ratty, derelict appearance, and I wanted her to look a bit more loved. I went around and removed the lifelines and stanchions, as well as some deck hard wear. I also removed the anchor and about 25 meters of chain. At least she looks more presentable now.

I purchased a cheap pressure cleaner from Aldi, and then proceeded to blast Sentina's hull. The cleaner did a great job, removing the bits and barnacles that the boat yard had missed earlier. I was even able to get a few of the osmosis blisters to pop.

Next, I explored the dubious wonders of the lockers. Starting in the cockpit and working my way forward, I removed another conglomerated mass of wet, greasy 'God-knows-whats'. I was glad to have gotten that bit done, because there was a lot of sitting water in those lockers as well. The underneath sides of the bunk boards in the cabin were covered in a wet, clear, glutinous, phlegmy goo. No wonder the poor old girl is so water logged.

Sentina's cockpit floor is at/below the water line, so it drains into the bilge. That meant that I had to bail her out again every time it rained, which annoyed  me. With a predicted period of heavy and prolonged rain forecast, I bought a heavy duty tarpaulin and, using the boom as a ridge pole, secured it across the cockpit. I was glad I did this, because we really did cop a lot of rain afterwards. I enjoyed watching the water pour off that tarp during the week, but there was still some water sitting in the bilge when I got back aboard a couple of weeks later. I'll have to find where its still getting in.

Oh, and I also got all of the sails together and checked them out. Its a rag-tag collection of seemingly cheap, second-hand sails. All buggered, of course. I may be able to salvage a spinnaker or two, but it looks like Sentina will be getting a new suit of sails made one day (somehow).

Check out Scott Dierikx's Sentina's Arrival album

http://www.slickpic.com/s/0MONjZUZDMhjUN/SentinasArrival?preview

How She Became Mine

Life rolled on over the years. All of life's usual distractions, challenges and commitments came and went. Sentina remained in her marina berth and I would virtually burn holes in her hull with my eyes as we passed. I'd dream of the day that Paul would decide to sell her to me, and that it would be my turn to go sailing in her. Occasionally I'd passed her in Mossman Bay, tied up at the Sydney Amateur Yacht Club pontoon, awaiting maintenance. Paul would usually be sitting in the cockpit, happily smoking. We'd give each other a wave and I'd text him to see if he needed a hand. He never took me up on the offer. Eventually, I changed shifts and found myself out near Sentina's home waters less and less. After a while of not seeing her at all, I figured Paul must've found another berth somewhere else. I hadn't heard back from him for a very long time, and began to wonder if he'd sold Sentina to another.

Fast forward many years, and I was sitting in yet another wheelhouse, this time on a Rivercat going up the Parramatta River. I was doing my usual thing of chatting whilst scanning the various moored boats, and 'BAM!', there she was again. It was Sentina, lying to a swing mooring, just before the Gladesville Bridge. At first I figured that Paul might've moved her to a cheaper mooring, but as we got closer I realised that something was amiss.

Our skipper kindly slowed as we got near her, and I could take stock of what I was seeing. I didn't like what I saw. Sentina was looking decidedly down on her luck. Her once sexy, glossy, dark blue hull was now dull and scratched. The white topsides and decks had become dirty and scuffed, while her lifelines were loose and hanging. The boom was missing and the rigging saggy, and seemingly hastily tied off where it had broken free. The bow rail had obviously sustained a heavy hit, and was a mangled mess. Large sections of the teak rail capping was also damaged and missing. I was shocked and appalled. How could this be allowed to happen to such a thoroughbred? Did Paul know? My head reeled.

I decided that something had to be done. I assumed that Paul mustn't be the owner of Sentina any more. He had always kept her in great condition. From the looks of her now, her new owner(s) didn't spend much time on her. Perhaps they'd be open to the idea passing her on. Maybe I could bring her back up to scratch again? Just how I could do that was a puzzle. We weren't exactly rolling in money, and my wife just rolled her eyes when I came home and told her my troubling news.

Undaunted, I started asking around. By coincidence, a work colleague (also afflicted with an interest in boats and sailing) had a brother who worked at the marina where Sentina was now moored. He made some enquiries, and discovered that poor old Paul had passed away. The boat had passed to his son, who was not a boat-nut like us. But he had hung onto the boat, out of respect for his Dad. I felt sorry for the guy. The loss of his Dad, plus the unexpected commitment of a boat on a Sydney mooring. Each would be a crippling burden on its own.
Using my newly acquired grapevine, I passed on my condolences to the son and said that I may be able to buy Sentina if/when he ever decided to sell her. I wasn't sure how I would be able to do that at the time, but I figured that I'd work out a way if it eventuated.

Some time later I heard back that they may be interested in selling, but it was during another financially tight period for us, and I just couldn't find a way to raise the funds needed. I was gutted. So close, yet so far. I had to reluctantly decline the sale, and strived to put the image of a decaying Sentina out of my mind. What a terrible shame.

                                                                  *****

Fast forward another year or two, and I found my life swirling around in larger than normal tidal currents. Big changes were afoot in my career. Visions of exciting opportunities elsewhere arose. Strong urges for drastic change could no longer be ignored. Tempting alternatives taunted and teased from a distance. I took the plunge. Accepting voluntary redundancy from my job, I spent about nine months in a complete re-assembly of my working life and world view. I did some significant retraining in a completely different field (earthmoving), and aggressively went in search of all these proposed opportunities that had seemed to be just waiting for me.

Unfortunately, the world seemed to have been making some changes of its own along the way as well. Despite my strong resume and glowing references, the offshore industry wasn't exactly doing cartwheels over my knocking on their hallowed and heavily fortified doors. My contact in the mining industry broke the ironic news that their sector was suddenly scaling back and even letting experienced people go, just as I was completing my retraining for that field. Even my pursuit of what I call 'chimp' work was proving to be depressingly fruitless. These were dark, scary times. So I did what any sensible person would do. I took my family on a holiday throughout Europe for a couple of months.

As soon as we were back home, with the financial noose ever tightening around my neck, my frantic job-search was interrupted by a call out of the blue. It was from the executor of Paul's will. They knew of my interest in Sentina, and wanted to know if I would be interested in taking her off their hands for a reasonable price. Of course the idea was ludicrous. How could I? My bank and creditors seemed to have the silly notion that I should pay them their money back, and the cost of living here had risen so much that people were clambering over each other daily, to extract the last vestiges of funds from my bank account at every opportunity. To take on a project like Sentina at this time would be idiotic. Financial suicide.

Ah, what the hell. Maybe just go take a look. What harm could it do?

I made the trip to Sydney one drizzly morning, finding the marina without difficulty. A guy there kindly ran me out to the boat in the tender. I felt more and more uneasy as we got closer to her. It looked like she really had fallen on hard times. The tender went alongside and I clambered aboard. The marina worker said to just call him when I wanted to be picked up, and then slowly puttered away. Alone on Sentina, I took in the scene of desolation. My heart sank. She really was in a state. I mentally ticked off each job that would need to be done, as I scanned the decks and rigging. I didn't need to tally up the costs to know that I was looking at a pretty expensive and time consuming undertaking.

Then I opened her up to look below, and my jaw really fell. The interior looked like a bomb had gone off down there. She was half full of black, rancid, stinking, oily water. Things that had fallen were floating around on the surface, along with doors that had become dislodged. Various flavours of thick mould adorned the bulkheads and work surfaces. Light fittings hung from the ceiling and junk was scattered across the bunks. I slowly sat down on the cockpit seat and just stared at the shambles.
[NB: See the link to the 'How I Found Her' album below, for photos of what I found]

"Oh crap" I thought, "I'm too late."

This changed everything. What was previously impossible, was now just plain ridiculous. There was no way I'd be able to take on a project of that magnitude at that time. I simply didn't have the resources. It was heartbreaking. To see such a capable and purpose designed machine in its death-throes, and nobody caring. What a waste.

But as I sat there staring, I felt like she was staring right back at me. It was crunch time for her. If I walked away, she'd probably be sitting on the bottom of the harbour within months. After a period of mental static, my mind started to calm down a bit. I began playing the 'What If' game. What if I did decide to try and save her? What would have to happen? I ignored the financial barriers for the time being and focussed on the priorities. Where I could keep her? How she would be transported? What would I have to do to prepare her for the trip? What would the logical order of tasks be to bring her back to sailable condition? Each item on my list seemed like a big challenge, and would be a significant hurdle to my own little personal struggle for survival.

I called the marina and the guy came out to pick me up again. As we motored back through the other moored boats, my mind was spinning. Sentina and I were a lot alike. We were both down on our luck, and the stakes were high. But we're both pretty capable and neither of us was finished up just yet. Against my better judgement, I decided to see if I could find a way to take her on.

Over the ensuing weeks I did some brain storming and made a heap of enquiries. Then an incredibly helpful individual stepped forward with the offer of a loan (if you're reading this, this you know who you are, and many thanks again mate). I spoke with Paul's son. A deal was struck and my fate was sealed.

Whilst frantically running around doing day-labouring type jobs, I put 'Operation Sentina Salvation' into effect. She was towed to a different (cheaper) marina, where the mast was pulled and her hull pressure cleaned (probably lucky that I wasn't there for that). Then she was taken to an appropriate boat ramp, where a boat transportation guy waited. He managed to pull her out and tow her up the coast to my home, where we rendezvoused with a Franner crane. I'd made careful preparations for her arrival, and I fretted that I'd covered all my bases properly. After a bit of fiddling around, Sentina was lifted off the trailer and then set in her new home on proper boat stands. The crane driver said that the boat weighed 3, 600kg (she's supposed to weigh around 2, 500kg).

Anyway, mission accomplished. Phew! Now the real fun starts.

[NB: See the link to 'Sentina's Arrival' album, for photos of the big event]

How We Met

My relationship with this boat goes back a bit of a ways. I'd spent many years reading about all the different kinds of boats available, and about the adventures that intrepid people were having in them. I wanted in.

For my own boat, I wanted something that was a proven seaworthy design. Not too small, nor too big, and she'd have to have nice, classic lines. My extensive research came up with one inescapable conclusion: The Contessa 26. Unfortunately, since she is an old English design (also built in Canada), they are a bit thin on the ground here in Australia. I found one in Tasmania back in 2004, when I was there studying for my maritime tickets, but for many years I could find no sign of any others. I had a 23' Hood for a time, but it just wasn't the real thing and I found myself still pining for a CO26. I was starting to look into the process of buying one in England and shipping it here in a container. 

Then one day, I was sitting in the wheelhouse of a ferry on which I was working as a deckhand, idly staring out of the wheelhouse window and pondering on how I might secure my Contessa. Wherever we went on the harbour, I would subconsciously check out each yacht as we passed by and try to figure what she was/could be (S&S34, Ranger, Colin Archer, etc.). On this occasion, my eyesight had locked onto a little blue hull about half a kilometre away. My mind just went blank. I stared at it for about half a minute, dumbfounded. It couldn't be. Here? No way! 

But it was. Slowly motoring up the harbour, toward to Harbour Bridge was a real-life Contessa 26. Frustratingly, we still had to stop at Cremorne wharf, and I reckon it was the fastest that I'd ever tied up the boat and loaded passengers. In no time, we were under way again and closing on my prey. Our skipper kindly steered to about a boat length away, so I could call out. There wasn't much time, since by then we were at the Opera House and had to turn into Circular Quay. The Contessa's skipper confirmed that she was indeed a CO26, and gave me a knowing, nodding smile as I blubbered something about how beautiful she was. 

And then it was over. As we peeled off to port (much to my frustration), the object of my obsession continued straight on under the bridge and up the Parramatta River. Still not believing my good fortune, I resolved to find out exactly where this beauty was moored.

As it turned out, it didn't take very long to find her hiding place. My work routinely took me to various parts around the harbour each day, and I found her graceful hull within a week, tied up in a marina opposite Birken Head Point. Every time we went out that way, I would stare at her as we passed; absorbing every detail. I imagined what she'd be like to sail. The places we could go if she were mine. It was driving me nuts. I had to get a closer look.

I live over an hour's drive from Sydney, and because I was working most days in the city, I usually resented going back into town in my time off. But I happily made the journey one day, when I drove down to the marina to try and get up close and personal with this Contessa. Parking in this neighbourhood is notorious, and I had to hike a fair way through the rat's-nest maze of streets, but eventually I was standing on the shore by the little marina. And there she was. She occupied a berth on a finger closest to the shore, and I could've poked her with a broom handle. It was such a buzz to be so close to an actual Contessa 26.

The security gate to the pontoons was locked, but in another miraculous turn of events, someone soon came along and propped it open before heading toward a boat further along the pontoons. Not needing to be invited, I immediately walked through the gate, and came to stand alongside her. Now I could actually touch it. Her name was spelled out in a concise, clear font: SENTINA. It seemed to fit. I paced up and down the pontoon, closely inspecting everything. Every line. Every inch of Teak rail capping. The hull, deck fittings, deck mouldings, rigging, winches, everything I could see from the dockside. I could see that she was old, but still in great condition. She's obviously been well-used but also well-loved.

Even though it seemed harmless enough, I just couldn't bring myself to actually board her. It felt like trespassing. So, once I'd finally finished drooling all over her, I wrote a quick note to her owner. In it I outlined who I was and about my borderline obsession toward his vessel. Then I tucked the note under the dodger over the companionway, before reluctantly backing away and heading for home.

A week or so later I got a call from 'Paul', who was the owner of Sentina. We talked for a bit, before he kindly offered to show me over the boat sometime. Back I went to Sydney, even happier than on my previous visit. Paul met me at the boat and welcomed me aboard. He turned out to be a pleasant, amiable and very knowledgeable guy. He patiently chatted away and answered my multitude of questions, as I explored every inch of Sentina's deck and interior.

It was a buzz to finally be aboard a CO26, and she confirmed pretty much everything I'd imagined them to be. Not overly spacious, but she exuded a sense of seaworthiness. The cockpit is small, but deep, sheltered and comfortable. There are the little bulwarks along the decks, wide enough to stand/walk on if the boat's heeled right over, and capped off with a beautiful teak rail cap. This particular example was fitted with twin headstays, so you could hank on the next sail that was needed, drop the existing head sail, swap the halyard/sheets and just hoist away. It also gave the option of running goose winged with the headsails and no main, which should ease the yawing when running downwind.  Timber hand rails ran the lengths of both sides of the coach house, both on deck and below in the cabin, so you have plenty to hang onto when things get bumpy. And then there's the characteristic 'blister' companionway, which eliminates leaks and boosts headroom aft (I'm 5' 10" and only had to stoop slightly). The little aft deck is a great idea too, since it occupies the sector swept by the long, elegant tiller anyway, and would otherwise be a crap place to try and sit. It makes much better lazarette storage.

Although the interior would be considered quite cramped by modern standards, it was amazing just how much room there actually was (even for a tank like me). There were two decent, full length settee-berths immediately inside the companionway, which are really comfortable places to sit/lounge. The navigation station and opposite cooker are small, yet big enough for their purposes. The forward part of the boat has the usual V-berth, which is extremely snug, but for cruising one or two up it provides excellent stowage possibilities. We didn't have the opportunity of taking her out for a sail that day, and it was very calm in the marina pen, but the motion caused by passing boat wash was quite gentle. Much nicer than my Hood 23.

With her large wetted surface area, she may not exactly sail rings around modern racing machines nowadays, but she wouldn't be a slouch either (as evidenced by race result around the world over the years). Her sleek, low freeboard may mean lots of spay finding it's way back to the cockpit when things got rough, but I believe she'd comfortably keep bowling along happily in worsening conditions, long after a lot of the competition had given up and headed home. These boats have numerous circumnavigations to their credit, Sentina having sailed out from England herself.

In short, she seemed like an extremely well thought-out craft. Everything purpose designed to provide maximum efficiency, with minimal fuss. And yet she somehow managed to avoid the utilitarian/stark atmosphere that I feel other 'efficient' sailing boats tend to possess. Sentina felt like a home. She felt.....(I know this sounds wanky, but)....alive. This wasn't just some highly-engineered sailing machine. I got the sense that she was a living entity, that would look after you when everything turned into shit.

It was unfortunate that we couldn't go for a sail that day, but I was well pleased with the visit. We sat and chatted for ages, and I learned a lot from Paul. Quite a cluey chap. Eventually we adjourned to a cafe up the hill in Balmain, and continued to talk boats and sailing for a long time.

I finally (reluctantly) had to tear myself away, and head for home. We said our goodbyes, and I implored him to let me come and help whenever he had to slip Sentina, or needed crew. He wasn't interested in selling her any time soon, which was perfectly understandable, but I said for him to keep me in mind if the possibility ever arose in the future. We shook hands and went our separate ways, and I continued to worship Sentina from afar. 

Check out Scott Dierikx's Sentina - As I found her album

http://www.slickpic.com/s/DDmD,NyDuUO5WT/SentinaAsIFoundHer?preview