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"Lightning Does Strike Twice"
A little cruising story. Location: Key West, the wandering cruiser's southernmost rest stop. (c2006rebeccaburg)
Routine haul outs, when a boater simply plans to apply a fresh coat of bottom paint, usually end up as something more. My cruiser was no exception.
"Your sailboat's bleeding," Bill said, pointing to a dribble of thick, red fluid oozing out of a spot below Angel's waterline.
"No kidding?" I said, gingerly poking a finger at the sticky substance. Feeling squeamish, I pushed on a swelling nearby and more of the dark fluid squirted out. Why did it have to be red? "She's not supposed to have that problem!" I said, on the verge of panic.
The original intention was to do a simple bottom job. Haul out, sand and clean bottom, slap on fresh paint and plop her back into the sea. Oh yeah, did I mention that routine haul outs usually end up as something more? After careful investigation, I found that Angel had developed about two dozen blisters. Appearing in different ways, blisters range in type from tiny pimple-like things in the paint or gel coat to large fluid filled ones like Angel's. A few of hers were over an inch and a half in diameter. Angel's blisters had formed behind the cosmetic "skin out" layer of chopped fiberglass mat. It appears that areas of chopped mat weren't completely soaked in resin at the factory and, according to the guys in the boatyard, had drawn in moisture over the years. A chemical reaction somehow takes place and creates a reddish fluid called glycol. The gathering fluid forms into pockets, or blisters, behind the fiberglass skin out layer.
This is the most common blister problem that many boats endure and it's a cosmetic issue as long as the boat owner takes care of the situation. If neglected, the slowly growing blisters may possibly affect the structural layers of fiberglass. It takes some time for that to happen and the alert boater is quite able to stay on top of the matter. I've never heard of a sailboat sinking because of blisters. Defiant had been treated for blisters and every so often a new one would crop up, which Bill would quickly repair.
When I'd first bought Angel, I was told that she had a barrier coat, which is supposed to guard against blisters from forming. The Bayfield really didn't have a barrier coat and all those years I'd been sailing around in the tropics and assuming that Angel was properly protected. I hadn't thought of checking to see if the boat's previous owner was truthful or not. Eager to right the wrongs, I faced a lot of work. I'd have to strip away the thick layers of old bottom paint and reveal the bare gel coat underneath. The blisters would be repaired and the entire bottom sealed with a barrier coating system. On top of that goes a fresh coat of bottom paint. As if that wasn't enough trouble, another secret reared its shocking head. It was spotted after the thick layers of bottom paint had been removed by a gel coat and fiberglass-safe marine stripper.
Angel had been struck by lightning. I had no idea when it happened and I wasn't onboard. As far as I knew, Angel could've had those freakish wounds for most of her life. After some detective work, it appeared that the lightning had traveled along the keel-stepped mast and into the lead ballast, and then blasted its way through the fiberglass and into the sea. In the upper middle of her keel and about seven inches in diameter with an oblong "tail", the wound was a series of spider webby cracks radiating from a single pin point center. The cracks were so fine, that they didn't leak, thus the injury never gave itself away until now. The fiberglass around the cracked area was discolored, probably due to the high temperatures that lightning could reach.
Immediately, I set about repairing the area with new layers of strong, cross woven fiberglass cloth and epoxy resin. Bill, a better finish sander than I, helped fair and feather the repair into the hull for a smooth appearance. Missing Angel's presence, he was anchored nearby and visited or lent a hand at any opportunity. Used to doing things alone, I was overjoyed by how quickly a task was completed when extra hands were present. When Bill and I took a lunch break, he told me about his own encounters with lightning. A professional captain (and shark bite survivor) with over 30 years at sea, he always had a riveting story to share.
Bill was aboard Defiant and resting at anchor in Florida when a dark thunderstorm rolled overhead. It wasn't an ordinary summer squall. This thing was a super cell and the outflow from it was violent with electrical activity. Curled up in the corner of the cabin, Bill hid in what he felt was the safest part of the boat. In the middle of the storm, an electronic gizmo sitting on the nav station unexpectedly activated. A black plastic cube, the gizmo was one of those sophomoric gag gifts that would say rude things when you pushed a button. Out of the blue, this black cube blurted out, "You're an asshole!" Then, BAM!! Lightning struck Defiant's main mast.
Bill jumped about a mile high. He was unharmed and it appeared that the lightning had discharged through Defiant's external bilge-mounted grounding plates. The storm was far from over. Bill continued to huddle in the corner and was much more alert this time. Even a bit jumpy. Then it happened again.
"You're an asshole!" said the cube. Bill cringed. POW! Lightning cracked at the mast. Legs drawn up, Bill tried to make himself as small as possible. He guessed that the lightning's leader was activating the cube. He was happy when the black cube remained silent for the rest of the storm and no more strikes picked on poor old Defiant. Well grounded, the boat was okay. Amazingly, the boat's electronics were unharmed as well.
All those years at sea had provided Bill with a multitude of unwanted encounters with lightning. One time, he'd actually been zapped by it. He was out on a deep sea fishing excursion off the Florida Keys when a summer squall caught up to the boat. As the vessel's captain, Bill was on the upper deck working to safely maneuver through the storm. The crackling and rumbling thunder was getting closer and louder. Rain poured down. The next thing that Bill remembers is lying, in pain, on the floor and with the first mate slapping him in the face.
"Hey Billy, are you okay?" Slap. Slap. "Hey, Billy!" Slap. Dazed, Bill slowly got up, his muscles sore and uncoordinated. The mate told him that a lightning side strike had zapped through the boat's metal steering wheel, knocking Bill senseless and onto the floor. Ever since then, Bill wore gloves when helming a vessel at sea and a storm was brewing.
Soon, I finished Angel's repairs and grounded her mast with the same external, below water hull-plate system that Defiant had. The grounding plate, with enough area contacting the seawater, is supposed to allow the lightning to find its way to ground, the sea, without damage to the vessel's hull. The plate is connected to the base of the keel-stepped mast with straps of copper and regular checks have to be made due to the disparity between the metals. (galvanic corrosion) After all the hard labor and repairs I'd done, I hoped that the system would work for Angel. Impatient to see me back in the water, Bill helped me roll the barrier coats on Angel's bottom. Resembling spacemen, we wore white paper suits, respirators, goggles and gloves. Though important for safety, those outfits were not easy to wear in the tropics, even in the winter.
"Watch for holidays," Bill said, voice muffled in his mask.
"Huh?" I said, rolling paint on Angel's keel while Bill covered the waterline.
"Holidays," Bill repeated. "Missed spots." He pointed to a small area that my roller had missed.
"Oh." I nodded. Bill had some unusual painting language up his sleeve.
"Hey," he called out a bit later. "Angel had sex!"
"Whah?" I stopped rolling and froze, blushing. I loved my sailboat, but Bill was a getting a little personal.
"Look, globs of fuzz," He said innocently, pointing to the boat's bilge. "Fuzz is starting to come off the roller and stick on Angel." I found a new roller and hastily handed it to him.
That night, on the water across from the tiny boatyard, Steve had a party on his houseboat, Aquarius. He invited us over. A film crew was there, taping scenes for an upcoming HGTV show about houseboats. With colorful murals painted by Steve's talented partner, Sherry, and authentic nautical decor, the two-level houseboat had attracted media attention.
Angel was ready to launch a day after the houseboat party. An expected week of renewing the bottom paint had morphed into a month of nonstop, daily work. Sailboats are so full of surprises. Angel, in the usual passive and comatose state that she adopts when stuck in a boatyard, seemed to take a while to come back to life after launching. Before she'd splashed, as was tradition with my native ancestors, I "fed" her spirit and put food and rum on her bowsprit. This is supposed to make the boat's spirit happy. I wondered if this was similar to today's tradition of hitting a new vessel with a Champaign bottle before she's launched. Not wanting to anger or traumatize the spirit, I'd be afraid to smash a glass bottle on a boat's bow. It seemed a lot easier to gently sprinkle the offering on her instead and I had the sense that Angel seemed to like food over booze, and mostly, she liked sugary desserts.
Repaired, clean and renewed, Angel finally came to her senses after I raised one of her sails. Like an anxious lover who's been pacing a hospital waiting room for much too long, Defiant rushed up and trailed alongside, escorting Angel back to the anchorage. Here, we'd rest and reprovision for our next move. Shortly after, both cruisers jumped across the Gulf Stream and sailed, side by side, heading into the Atlantic for another adventure.
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