July 4th, 1999
Submitted by Peter Mann of the Victoria 18 Forum
Updated 07/23/99
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Victoria 18 ForumThe Launch of the Nom du Jour
What follows is the true account of the first launch of the Nom du Jour; the Vic 18 recently acquired by Nancy and Peter.
This all began about a month ago, when we were out in our 13 foot Boston Whaler, the Mighty Minnow. We often go tooling around the marinas on the Sassafras River, where we live, to see who’s new and what interesting boats have appeared. The Sass is one of the northern most rivers emptying into the Chesapeake Bay, so we get everything from monster yachts to working tugs.
We were admiring the sailboats at mooring, when we saw a 17-foot Vagabond (small cabin boat made in California) for sale and I said, "You know it would be cool to get a little day sailer to keep out here." Nan had owned big boats in her previous life and I knew she didn't want anything big, but the idea of a small boat that we could sail on the river and maybe take out into the bay occasionally seemed like a good idea.
We called the fellow who owned the Vagabond, and looked it over and went for a sail. It was nice, but there was quite a lot of water in the bilge and cabin, so we decided to pass on it. But the bug had bitten. We needed a sailboat.
Nan started working the Internet, and came up with a boat down in Annapolis. She went over to look at it one night after work, and called me, all excited about this Victoria 18 she had seen – the classic lines, the full keel, the long cockpit, what a cute boat it was – well you all know the feeling when you first saw your Vic. She was excited. I knew that we had bought a boat. She was called the Entropy. We started thinking about a new name. How about Our Secret?
She had been out of the water for 3 or 4 years. First we had to replace the axle, so we could trailer her from Annapolis to the Sassafras. New tires and bearings on both sides. And we had to replace the wiring harness. The trailer is as old as the boat and things wear out. We got the new axle back, remounted it on the trailer, and bingo – one of the brand new tires went flat as we jacked the trailer down. So we bought another wheel (and a trailer jack as long as we were in West Marine), and we were on our way. We thought we might name her Bertie’s Mum, with a play on the Queen Victoria aspect, but after a few blank stares decided that was too esoteric.
But before we could actually launch, there were just a few things that needed to be done. The boat was in great shape, but she had been a bit neglected, since she hadn't been sailed much. The standing rigging was new, if a bit out of tune. The running rigging seemed to be mismatch of whatever lines were around at the time. The anchor rode had gone wandering (we did have an anchor). The bilge was filled with a substance that was nominally water, but may well have been the original recipe for primordial soup. There was a mast-mounted antenna and a VHF radio, but the battery was an old Delco automobile battery that was flat dead. The mainsail was original (with the Victoria decal), but the jib and Genoa were later additions. She came with a 2 hp Evinrude that was definitely older than the boat, and looked like it was probably built by old Ole himself. Another possible name was the Pair of Docks, since we were both veterinarians – too cute. Or 2,2 More Docks, since we work in cancer research – oops only one of us (Peter) does, so that is a stretch.
Nancy started on the bilge problem. Since the boat (still unnamed) had been on land for the last several years, we were fairly confident that the water came from rain, through leaks in the upper cabin rather than from below (the dreaded thruhull problem). Both deck plates were frozen shut and had to be drilled out. She pumped and cleaned and gagged, and pumped some more. We ripped out most of the carpeting on the walls of the cabin since it was wet and moldy. After a few days of constant vigilance and open airing, the cabin became a whole lot better. Since Nancy is a charter member (self-appointed) of the Apostrophe Police, we toyed with the idea of Apostr’phe, F’ricktown, MD (her new hailing port is Fredericktown, MD), but threw that out as too visual.
Next step was a new coat of bottom paint. We thought about doing it ourselves, and decided we could do it, but if we wanted to get the boat in the water before the end of the century, it made more sense to take it over to the local marina. By now we had discovered the Victoria 18 Forum, and had read several long threads on aging thruhulls and original drain hoses, so we decided to have new brass thru hulls and hoses (with clamps that tightened down, unlike ours) installed at the same time. The bottom paint was Micron black – we went for the 2 year version) which went well with the brown hull color. We still hadn't been able to decide on a name.
By now we were getting closer to the 4th of July weekend, which had become our goal for launch. We dropped off the motor at the boat dealer who works on our Whaler. When they got around to working on it, they said that the good news was that they had been able to get it started. The bad news was that they couldn't get it to idle. It's the old style with slow and fast – no neutral, turn the motor around for reverse. When we picked it up, the fellow at the boat shop said, "We had that carburetor in the cleaner for three days, and we still couldn't get all the gunk out. That’s why it won't idle. But it runs ok at slow and fast speeds. It may last for years. When it finally breaks, come and see me and I'll sell you a new motor. And he charged us $150. I was disappointed, but Nancy was more sanguine. She said, "I figured he would call us up and say it was hopeless. If it works for a season or so, we haven't lost anything."
While the boat was being painted and the new thruhulls being installed, we went looking for a home for our still nameless boat. We live less than a minute from the public boat launch, but the launch is short and there is a big hole at the end (is this a requirement of all public launches?), and we didn't want to have to step the mast every time we sailed. There are 6 marinas in in the greater Fredericktown area, so we went shopping. The marina that did the bottom painting had a 40-foot slip left for $1400 for the season. Seemed a bit high. The local sailing marina had a few moorings available for $1100, but they wanted us to supply our own dinghy to get out to the mooring. Somehow, the idea of a dinghy for an 18-foot boat seemed absurd. We went across the river to the other big marina that had mooring buoys in the river. They were around $350 a month, and they had a motor launch that would take you out to your boat, but it only ran during peak hours and not at all after September. Since some of the best sailing on the Chesapeake is in the late fall, that didn't seem ideal either.
There was one last option. The West End Dock. It's old, rickety and narrow, and only holds about 20 boats. Most of the boats are owned by locals. The amenity list includes electricity and water. It's run by two aging hippies, who will rent to you if they like you, and will be all full up if they don't. We must have passed the test (Nancy went over by herself first and by the time they met me it was too late). The cost was $72 a month. We had a home.
By now the name issue, or rather the lack of name issue had reached a feverish peak. We were going to launch soon, and we had to have a new name. We seemed unable to decide. Every day we had a new name or two new names, or three. So we decided to make a strength out of our weakness. We could have a new name every day and make it seem like an intelligent choice. Out boat is now named the Nom du Jour. Some days, she has a temporary name of the day if it appeals to us, and some days she is the Nom du Jour. It works for us.
The Fourth of July Weekend dawned hot hazy and humid. The entire East Coast was under a heat advisory, and it was going to 95 degrees on the Sassafras all weekend. We had folks coming over on Saturday and Sunday. We still had to make a run to the marine store for a few last items (anchor rode, sail stop, fenders, a battery – the list never ends, does it). We decided that rather than worry about getting the boat ready, we would kick back and enjoy the weekend with our guests and if the boat happened on Monday then it would happen on Monday. Otherwise, we would just enjoy the weekend. We didn't really want to take people out on our first trip when we didn't know the boat, and what if it sank at launch? Postponement seemed the wisest course of action.
We spent most of the day Saturday and Sunday on the Minnow, towing kids and their parents all over the river on the tube we have. We swam, we grilled, we did all the things one does on the 4th. We watched the annual boat parade from the end of our new dock, even though the boat was still on the trailer in the driveway. Finally, everyone left. We still had all day Monday, and no more excuses not to launch the boat.
We had decided to use the launch at one of the marinas, since it had a long deep ramp. We attached the trailer to the jeep and drove down to the marina. It was another really hot day. So hot that we couldn't touch the mast with our bare hands when we were stepping it. But we got the mast up, backed down the ramp, and she floated right off. And didn't sink! She looked great in the water. What a cool boat. Nan took the jeep and trailer back up to the house and I attached the motor to the motor mount. By the time she came back, we were ready to begin our very first sail.
So I sat on the stern and pulled on the cord to start up the Evinrude. And pulled. And pulled. And pulled again. And cursed. And played with the choke, and pulled. And adjusted the throttle, and pulled. And pulled again. Nothing. Not even a suggestion that the motor was interested in catching. The day was hot and humid, and I was getting hotter by the second.
And then Nancy tried to get it started. She pulled until she was bordering on heat exhaustion to no avail. So I pulled some more. Still nothing. By now I was cursing the mechanic who worked on the motor and his brother and all their issue.
What could we do? We didn't want to take the boat back out of the water, but we didn't think we could sail out of a busy marina in a boat we had never sailed before. Our brains were fried from the heat and the attempts to start the damn motor, so we decided that we could paddle out of the marina over to our dock – it was only a ¼ mile or so. Nan started paddling and was making a little forward progress, when I decided that I could probably help by jumping overboard and pull and push to help guide the boat along – or at least keep it from knocking into the pilings and docks in the marina. After a couple of minutes, we realized something very important about the Vic 18. It is very difficult to get back in the boat from the water without a proper ladder.
So there we were. Nan is paddling away. I'm bobbing around like a cork in the water, unable to figure out a way to get back into the boat, thinking that this is going to be a very long afternoon. The temperature seemed to have gone up another 50 degrees or so. Our tempers were frayed. Neither one of us was having as much fun as we had imagined for our first cruise in the Nom du Jour… When the dockmaster came out and said, "Captain, what are you trying to do there?" I said we were paddling to our marina around the corner. Nan explained that I couldn't get back in the boat. The dockmaster said, "Why don't you bring it over here to this floating dock and you can get on from there." It seemed like a good idea. Certainly it was better than my only idea at the moment which was to spend the rest of my life swimming along side my boat.
We paddled stern first toward the floating dock. I was under the motor, helping to pull the boat to the dock, when I happened to glance up. And there on the underside of the motor, in the back corner of the motor housing, as far away from the pull rope as one could possibly get, in a spot that it was almost impossible to see unless one was in the water looking up at the motor as I was at that moment, were the words "Fuel Valve". And next to the words was a fuel valve. And it was closed. The mechanic had carefully closed the valve so that the motor wouldn't leak gasoline all over the car on the way home. The same mechanic who I had been cursing for the last half-hour.
I opened the valve. Climbed on the boat from the floating dock. Pulled the cord twice. Of course, the motor fired right up. The dockmaster said, "Hey, I've done it myself". And off we went. Motoring, if not into the sunset, at least into the heat and humidity. And had a great sail. But that is another story altogether.