The Great Bilge Leak

Following a lazy Christmas in Luperon, we made plans to leave Strolla and strike off into the Dominican countryside for a little land-locked exploring.  However, in order to leave Strolla we first had to repair her to the point where she was able to be left.  Strolla had been struggling under a steadily worsening water leak since leaving Florida.  By the time we limped into Luperon, there was water streaming into the boat at a rate of just under two gallons an hour, 45 gallons a day, or about 360 pumps of the hand operated bilge pump.

The drawback wasn't that we had to be continually checking and pumping out the bilge.  There were four of us to share that work load.  The drawback was that if we forgot to do it or, weren't around to do it, the boat would sink.  We'd been able to put up with the leak for so long because we'd physically been on the boat.  It was easy to keep ahead of the leak when we spent most the day sitting next to the pump handle.  That was, of course, as long as the bilge pump didn't break.  Now, we wanted to leave the boat but couldn't.  The time had come to fix the leak.

The inboard diesel motor on Strolla was located directly inside and below the companionway.  There was a varnished, wooden engine box that covered it and served as the companionway stairs into and out of the cabin.  The engine box was held in place by cleats attached to the cabin sole and could be completely removed in order to service the motor.

 

(View from the galley looking aft at the engine box and companionway)

With the engine box removed, the polished propeller shaft was visible, emerging from the backside of the engine and running to the stern.  This rare area of wasted space aft of the motor was formed by the flat floor of the cockpit above and the molded groove of the hull curving down into the depth of the bilge below, with the propeller shaft suspended between.  About halfway back, the propeller shaft passed through a vertical stabilizing board fiber-glassed into the hull of the boat.  Now out of sight behind the board, the shaft continued the last few feet from there and exited through the hull to the propeller outside.   

 

 

(View of engine with engine box removed)

(View of engine with starboard quarter berth in background)

The water was coming from somewhere on the back side of that stabilizing board.  This made the leak impossible to see from the cabin by looking through the gap over the engine.  There were two small, circular access ports in the cockpit sole looking down into the crawlspace but these were forward of the stabilizing board as well.  The only way to physically reach the problem area was to wriggle over the engine and into the cramped crawlspace behind.  At its entrance, the gap between the top of the motor and the bottom edge of the companionway was just big enough to allow access, provided that arms, head and shoulders were threaded through in the proper sequence.  

 

Despite the oven-like heat inside the uninsulated cabin, I donned an old soft shell jacket as a protective layer over my bare chest.  Then, with pipe clamps and screw heads tearing at the coat fabric, I slithered my way in.  Very quickly, I got stuck.  I exhaled, planted my feet, pushed, gained a few inches, got stuck again.  I retreated back out into the cabin to recalculate.

It took several attempts before I finally figured out a winning sequence.  I had to enter left arm outstretched in front of me, head cocked to the side, shoulder shimmy a few more inches, then raise my legs so that I was balanced on my stomach on top of the engine like a see-saw and wiggle forward from there, pulling myself along with my arms.  

In as far as I could go, my thighs braced on the engine, my hands on the sloped sides of the hull, body suspended over the bilge in kind of a push-up position, horribly taxing, impossible to sustain for long.  Mark stood by picking his cuticles, offering the occasional word of encouragement, ready to help.

From this vantage point, I was able to gain a slightly deeper understanding of how hard the leak would be to fix, and not much more.  The tropical heat in this cramped space was suffocating. Tensed muscles began to tremble.  Sweat beaded on on every surface of me.  It dripped from my face, made my hands slippery.  Satisfied that I had seen everything I could, I began the laborious process of wriggling my way back out.  The first few inches came easy.  My bare, sweaty thighs slid smoothly over the motor casing.   

After my thighs had cleared the top of the the engine I got stuck.  Braced awkwardly, arms trembling, sweat stinging my eyes, I paused to think.  I was trying to remember the entrance sequence so I could now reverse it.  Sweat dripped steadily off the tip of my nose to mix its salt with the rising water in the bilge.   My arm strength was failing.  I tried to back out again, and then again with without result.  I was getting desperate.  I exhaled and pushed.  I could hear the fabric of my coat tearing.  Something sharp was pressing hard into my ribs, just below the breast.  I couldn't move.  Forcing down a rising panic, I called for Mark to help.  Taking firm hold of my ankles, he braced his feet on the base of the engine, arched his back, and pulled.  I continued to push with my arms and wiggle.  Slowly, I began to move backward again.  

Finally I was free, breathing hard, bathed in sweat.  Mark was sitting beside me.  I drew him a diagram of what I'd seen and where I thought the leak was coming from.  We discussed what to do.  It was obvious.  We'd have to borrow a saw from someone and cut a larger access hatch down from the cockpit.

We took the rest of the day off with the resolution that we'd start looking for a saw tomorrow.  The next morning, however, Mark suggested an alternative.  He would try crawling in to the leak.  He was somewhat smaller and slighter than I was, not much, but it might be enough.  I rubbed the bruise on my ribs thoughtfully.

"Have at it," I smiled.  "I'll even stand by to pull you out when you get stuck."  Mark stripped down to his bathing suit and I handed him the soft shell coat, blackened with accumulated grease, diesel fuel, and grime.  We reviewed the entrance sequence again, and in he went.

(Mark prepares to enter the crawlspace)

It was easier for him, but only a little.  After I'd helped pull him out, he had the same painful bruise on his ribs and in the same place as mine.  We figured out it was a pipe clamp causing the bruise and rotated it out of the way.  

(A view  of Mark entering the crawlspace)

The leak, it turned out, was at a fitting on the forward side of the stabilizing board.  The water was then backing up through the board to dribble out the hole on the other side.  After lengthy discussion we came up with two options:

The right way - Take Strolla to a marina and have her pulled from the water.  Cut the access hatch as planned.  Detach the propeller shaft from the back side of the engine. Detach the rudder from the back of the boat.  Slide the whole propeller shaft backward to create enough room to rework or replace the fitting.  Reassemble everything.

The wrong way:  Send Mark back in over the engine with a small screw driver and some strips of plastic made from a grocery bag.  Jam as much plastic bag as possible into the hole on the backside of the stabilizing board with the screwdriver.  Fashion a stopper out of some strips of rubber and a pipe clamp and snug it up against board to keep plastic bag strips from working their way out.

(View from the cabin.  A cushion over the motor protects Mark's sensitive bits)

I started shredding grocery bags while Mark selected a screwdriver.  He had the leak stopped an hour later.  We let the boat sit the rest of the day and then checked the bilge.  No water.  We ran the engine at idle for an hour and let the boat sit overnight.  No water.  We put the engine in gear and ran it in reverse, pulling against our anchor for half an hour and then let the boat sit the rest of the day.  Still no water in the bilge.

(Mark places the plug)

The next morning, we walked into town to catch the first of a series of little vans called "guaguas" (gwa-gwas) that would take us away from the coast and up into the mountains for New Year's Eve.