Ocean Watch

Last fall, I left my sailboat in a Raiatea boatyard, perched safely on the ground in the company of dozens of others.

This is a trend among cruisers. You sail the tropics during tradewind weather, then haul the boat out of the water and get out of Dodge for hurricane season. Come spring, the roving sailor returns to the boat hotel, checks out and moves on.

Good system, I thought six months ago as I boarded the plane in Tahiti. I don't have to worry about the boat sinking while I'm gone, nor do I risk sailing in a cyclone. What could be better?

Some might say selling the boat and boarding a cruise ship. I'm not quite there yet, but after returning to Raiatea last weekend, I've revised my opinion of leaving a boat alone for months at a time. It's good in theory only.

My boat wizard, Gerard, and I arrived Sunday with four 70-pound bags of gear and three carry-ons, none of which could get wet. It started to rain.

We tied a ladder to the boat, lowered a halyard and cranked those bags aboard in a hurry. The last duffle slid down the ladder just as the skies opened up.

Closing the hatch behind me, I smelled trouble below. Oh, dear. Tahiti's unusually heavy rain had worked its way inside and then smoldered for months in the steamy, closed-up boat. The teak took the hardest hit. Veneers separated, bulkheads blackened and mold pocked doors.

"It's only cosmetic," Gerard said as we surveyed the damage. "A good carpenter in Australia can fix it."

He was right. We had to move on.

Since boats are miserable to live on out of the water, we concentrated on launching. By the next day, we'd unpacked all those bags, installed two neat holes in the hull for my new water maker and removed a seized alternator that had a death grip on the propeller shaft.

With a tractor, the yard men backed Honu's trailer halfway into the water. I started the engine, essential for continuing on.

In seconds it stalled.

"You may have to bleed the fuel line," a worker called from the dock. "I changed the fuel filter."

Now he tells us.

So with Honu's rear in the water, her bow in the air and yard workers waiting to finish the launch and go home, we raced around for tools to remove air from the diesel line.

With sweat stinging our eyes, we got the job done, the engine started and once again Honu floated.

It was then we noticed the remaining two alternators had also packed up. Minutes later, after I backed the boat poorly into the slip, we discovered the engine's stop switch frozen.

First it won't start; then it won't charge; now it won't stop.

"Don't sweat the small stuff," my soon-to-be crew member often says, and then adds smiling, "and it's all small stuff."

I'll remember Steve's maxim as Gerard and I continue to get Honu ready for my trip west.

Yesterday, I stood in my dirty, wet cockpit gazing at the rain when a frigate bird glided by like a dark comforting angel.

I take its appearance as a sign of wonderful things to come.