ENGINE FAILURE IN CONFINED WATERS
‘I’ve put the dinghy pump back in the car,’ said Chris. ‘We won’t need it again, will we?’ We’d just inflated the dinghy to row out to Nimrod and transfer her from her summer mooring at Weir Quay, on the Tamar, down to her winter berth in Plymouth. Since we were going to the luxury of a walk ashore berth, we wouldn’t need the dinghy at the other end, and could deflate it en route. ‘Well,’ I hesitated, not wanting to be too pedantic, ‘you just never know.’ We were both unconvinced by the rationale, but he returned to the car to fetch it.
It was a glorious autumn day, bright-skied and light-aired, but Storm Ciaran was lurking out in the Atlantic, and I was anxious to move the boat. Having insisted on fetching the pump, I prepared the boat with extra verve, thinking I’d better maintain the level of diligence. By the time we slipped the mooring Nimrod was completely ready for sea, let alone a short passage down river. The ebb was running hard and it would be a quick trip.
As Chris cast off I put the engine into gear and pushed the tiller hard over for the tight turn between the moorings. Nothing happened. I could see the top of the rudder stock, everything seemed well-attached. I checked the throttle, brought it into neutral and tried again. The reaction on the helm was painfully slow. Meanwhile, we were being swept down through the moorings. I increased the revs. There was a slightly better response, but even at 3000rpm, the speed through the water was pitiful.
There wasn’t long to decide what to do. Continuing would have been foolhardy, although given the impending weather,
I did briefly consider it. Weir Quay is a long way from anywhere, and there was no hope of summoning outside assistance in time.
There were three other options: try and grab a passing mooring; anchor in the channel; or sail back to the mooring with what little breeze there was.
Lassoing a passing mooring whilst being swept past on the tide was going to be nigh on impossible. Worse, it would have distracted us from better options. Anchoring would secure us where we were, and we could have waited for the wind to fill in, which it was due to do, before sailing back to the mooring. But with the limited swinging room and a 4m tidal drop, we might run out of water before the wind arrived. I was also worried that the gypsy might not have run freely, since the boat had been sitting about for a while.
The best outcome would be to return to the mooring if we could, but there was no way the engine alone would cope against the tide. Meanwhile, we were drifting towards another yacht. Perhaps we should just get the fenders out and try to grab it? A few zephyrs of wind appeared. I pushed the tiller and unfurled the genoa to help her round and to my huge relief she responded. Sailing downwind under genoa, combined with full throttle, was just enough to gain steerage and hold station. We prepared the anchor in case we needed it, but
I was hopeful that bit by bit we’d make it back to the mooring. We did. It was the slowest 300m I’ve ever sailed, but eventually we got there.
It was a huge relief to be back on the mooring, but I was dismayed not to have moved the boat. Chris graciously reinflated the dinghy, but I was too despondent to manage an ‘I told you so’ about the pump. I blamed myself for having neglected her for so long. A week later, Nimrod had survived her wild night out on the Tamar and a haul-out diagnosed the problem: it was barnacle karma. The propeller was choked up with sea life.
‘You know, there’s an excellent lesson in this,’ said Chris a few weeks later. It was true, sailing onto a mooring buoy, having your anchor ready to drop and sails ready to hoist, not neglecting your boat for weeks on end… you learn far more when things go wrong.
‘No,’ he said, smiling, ‘the lesson is to always bring the pump.’