Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Customer Care

John Deaton cares about customers.
"From a customer's point of view, thanks for making the right decision." I was relieved to be able to say this to John Deaton, the owner of Deaton Yacht Service in Oriental, NC. He had agreed to yank my malingering engine and fix its lingering problems.

He astutely pointed out that it was the right decision from his point of view, not just from the customer's. If I wasn't happy with the outcome of their service, Deaton would make it right. That's the sort of company they are.

Whew. There for a while I was afraid this would turn into a meeting of the checkbooks rather than of the minds. I was already rehearsing scathing rejoinders to hurl as I stalked out. But then suddenly I was totally disarmed. Customer care can do that.

Over the past three years I have called at Deaton Yacht Service twice. Each time with the same problems: oil leaks and hard start. This after paying Deaton once to have them fixed.

Back in November '09 I was headed south and found oil in the antifreeze. I wanted a fix pronto so I could reach the Bahamas before the frost reached me. Deaton counseled that their own mechanics were fully scheduled, so they would subcontract the rebuild to Mack Boring, which is a name familiar to Yanmar owners. Before long my Yanmar was yanked like a bad molar, leaving an empty sump while it traveled to New Jersey for rejuvenation. It came back looking ready to go.

The dribbled results of an unacceptable rebuild
As soon as sea trials ended, I took off. I did make it to the Bahamas but arrived with a growing sense of dismay. Along the way and then as I cruised from the Bahamas to Cape Cod, there have been a series of unfortunate discoveries about the quality of that engine rebuild.

Fixing Aboard includes the gory details of how our trusted Yanmar turned on us to become a dreaded zombie that stalked as we fled from boatyard to boatyard.

Had I stuck around for a year I am certain that Deaton would have responded to my series of unfortunate events with alacrity, but I didn't give them the chance. Sweet Pea's home port is most anywhere warm enough or cool enough, depending on the season. I heard that the '09 winter was particularly brutal and included, of all things, a blizzard in New Orleans, giving new meaning to the phrase "when hell freezes over." The Bahamas saw nary a snowflake.

Sweet Pea slipped at Deaton Yacht Service, again
Now, three years and 750 engine hours after that rebuild, warranty wasn't in question. Mack Boring's warranty against leaks is an astonishingly short thirty days, so no warranty to worry about: zilch, nyetnada.

Besides, warranties only function to limit liability. In contrast, customer care is a much more strategic marketing game, played over a much longer time. I wanted to know whether Deaton Yacht Service cared.

There was no way I was going to pay Deaton twice for one fix. I wanted to know what John Deaton would decide to do if Mack Boring (Deaton's subcontractor) denied any responsibility for making it right. Would he decide to make me whole or leave me broken? Forget the distraction of Mack Boring's response. I wanted his answer now, on the spot.

Having already invested in this gold standard,
I should be cruising rather than tied to the dock.
In my mind, two questions apply to any boatyard's service. First, did they do it right? Second, did they do it right if they didn't do it right, first?

Here I'm using "they" to include the boatyard's employees, subcontractors, suppliers and anyone else invited to the game. But for me, my they is the owner, the general contractor who sits at the top of a pyramid of other "theys."

Complex projects always involve surprises. While it is tempting to believe that the answer to the first question should always be "yes, they fixed it right, the first time", my experience is that it is sometimes "no, not really" even though the most highly qualified resources tackled the job using the best parts available. Stuff happens even to professionals. Projects include risk, unanticipated outcomes that can't always be known in advance. I know that.

Eric, tracking the zombie
From Deaton Yacht Service, I now have a partial answer to the second question. They intend to do it right the second time, by doing it themselves. They have re-assigned their most highly-qualified resource from his normal role as service manager to that of ace zombie hunter.

Eric has already found some underlying contributors to the hard start, having to do with incorrect governor and injection timing settings. I'm impressed by his methodical approach to diagnosing the problems and have a growing confidence in this second fix.

Eric does things by the book. What a refreshing change.
This next winter in the Bahamas I'm sure that I will be asked whether I would recommend Deaton Yacht Service.

I will think of John's answer in yesterday's meeting and my response will be, "Sure. I'd recommend them without reservations, especially if you are a cruiser on the go and may not be back in thirty days. They took care of me." Can't say better than that.



Monday, October 8, 2012

Dress for Dinner

The first sentence in The Riddle of the Sands, Erskine Childers' 1905 tale of espionage and cruising adventure, says it all.

"I have read of men who, when forced by their calling to live for long periods in utter solitude . . . have made it a rule to dress regularly for dinner in order to maintain their self-respect and prevent a relapse into barbarism."

It is clear that for Carruthers, the young English gentleman who voiced that sentiment, dressing for dinner required substantially more than simply putting on a pair of clean boxers and perhaps a shirt with fewer stains. 

I fear that I am in danger of relapsing into barbarism on this cruise. No top hat, no tails, no evening toilet. Just whatever clothes are at hand, canned beans, warm beer and pretzels. Hearty but not terribly elegant.

When Anita is aboard we establish two common denominators: most cautious and least slovenly.


It's always barracuda
In the Bahamas when I want to continue trolling as we enter a narrow cut and she demurs, in comes the lure, no questions asked. Her position is based on having repeatedly endured my trying to deal with some truly annoyed barracuda when I should be paying attention to real hazards. She keeps us off the iron shore by being far more cautious than I, though we do catch fewer fish as a result.

She also raises the bar for tidiness, nutrition and ice cubes. In her presence we have fresh vegetables, meat, lots of cookies and cold drinks. The refrigerator hums away pulling calories out of ice trays and various libations. 

When I'm aboard alone the contrast is stark. The fridge sits open, its silent maw holding cans of evaporated milk, baked beans, an odd assortment of pickle and mustard jars and some beer bottles. In return, the refrigerator doesn't swig down all those amp hours. I can anchor for days without having to charge the batteries. 

Sans butter
Fortunately water, flour, salt and yeast don't mind being at ambient temperature. Going warm even seems acceptable -- I understand that Brits think cold beer an abomination -- though I do miss having a pat of butter to slather on my hot out of the oven loaf.

Between my occasional fits of pickup and cleanup, dust kittens play about the saloon floor and the cockpit accumulates a patina. If Anita were aboard, the social contract would remain intact and Sweet Pea would revel in being continuously clean and tidy.

Single handing makes me realize that, while I am perfectly capable of dressing for dinner, I need to be part of a team to find the motivation. The indolence of being alone might mean more fish, but the risk of barbarism becomes reality.

Sunday, October 7, 2012

Dew Diligence

Before leaving Eastham Creek I diligently wiped the dodger's fogged windshield with a damp chamois. This is a morning ritual these fall days. The chilly nights encourage the previous day's humidity to condense on every exposed surface, providing a fresh water rinse in the salt marsh. It should be wiped away before it evaporates and a chamois is ideal for this little chore.

Fred Roscoe Jones 
When I lean across to swipe the windshield I almost always picture my grandfather's Texaco filling station with a melancholic sense of nostalgia. Grandpa Fred was an enormously important figure to me though I didn't realize it at the time. The filling station was a magic place, full of busy men, exotic equipment like hydraulic lifts, treats of soda pop and peanuts, and the chance to feel important.

Grandpa would occasionally let me wring out a chamois. These fascinating objects lived in the tub of an old wringer washing machine, slithering around like eels in the murky water. My job, when the stars and planets all aligned, was to fish out the corner of one of these strange and slippery things and gingerly insert it between the rubber rollers, all the while heeding instructions to watch out about my fingers. Someone cranked -- perhaps my older brother, I was way too short to reach the top of the handle's arc -- and the wringer spit out a nearly dry chamois. I had helped.

Jones' Texaco in Shawnee, OK
The reward was a nickle for a soda pop. I recall leaning into the red Coke case and studying the bottles, Nehi Orange, Grapette, Dr. Pepper, Coke, and 7 Up, among others that were trapped in an elaborate system of rails with only their necks projecting. To get a flavor you tugged the bottle along the tracks to one end of the case where a special compartment swung open. The system was cleverly arranged so that only one bottle could be pulled out for each nickle. The choice of which flavor was agonizing, but for the life of me I can't remember drinking the soda or even which was my favorite.

When a car pulled in it ran over a hose hooked to a bell. The sharp ding-ding triggered a reaction that was much like tapping a wasp's nest. The staff boiled out to swarm over the car, checking oil, tires, pumping gas, and wiping the windshield with a damp chamois. Grandpa supervised it all and rang up the sale on an enormous cash register that made more noise than a fire engine.

Then to celebrate a job well done he might dole out a treat. His roughened hand would touch my much smaller one to deposit salted peanuts that he got from a machine that stood by the cash register.

Daniel Roberts
Able Bodied Crewman
I don't know what my grandfather would think of me now. But I would love to be able to find out.

I would drive Sweet Pea into the Texaco and hear that bell's ding as her keel ran over the hose. As his crew wiped her down I would ask him whether he thought I was doing as good a job with my grandson, Daniel, who has crewed many times and is partial to York Peppermint Patties.

Friday, October 5, 2012

Messing About on the Albemarle


The wind was barely a whisper, leaving Sweet Pea nearly dead in the water. It had been a forty-mile jaunt across the Albemarle Sound and up the Alligator River in near perfect conditions, until the wind went light and then even lighter. Until then it was one of those two dozen day sails for which I had hoped.

Much of the fleet hustled off the docks at first light, as if there might be free food at the destination as there had been in Elizabeth City.

The town goes all out to welcome boaters and make it easy to decide to do the Dismal Swamp route rather than the alternative, which bypasses their hospitality.

eCity -- in honor of their providing free high speed WiFi at the docks --  even invited all the cruisers into a big tent where they plied the whole bunch with drinks and snacks and talked about a future project to provide a bathhouse while we quaffed wine and lime margaritas and munched on cheese and chips. They do thoroughly understand cruisers.

Plus, dockage at Jennett Brothers, a company that supplies restaurants and the like, was at no charge, other than a pledge to eat at a locally-owned restaurant. What a terrific idea. I looked at it as paying $10 for the slip and then getting an absolutely free meal at Quality Sea Food Market, where they served me an excellent platter of flounder, which I couldn't even begin to finish. So for a very modest docking fee, I got two free lunches. I think that tends to disprove the no free lunch thing.

Being chased prior to being passed
Leaving eCity quite early is a good idea since you never really know what the Sound will kick up. Initially the breeze slept in but by the time we had cleared the Pasquotank River it arrived, ready to go to work: on the beam, gusting to 15. Sweet Pea does love that soldier's wind. I was careful to avoid whistling, since more would have been much more than enough.

That was a day sail to file away in a mental folder that holds that rare confluence of wind and destination. It was a romp on a reach across a notoriously nasty stretch of the ICW. Despite having no current to run against the wind, the relatively shallow Albemarle can kick up a chop that will make your teeth chatter and make the far shore seem impossibly distant. But all was well on this day.

Then, ten miles short of the journey, the breeze pooped out, despite having slept in. It was tempting to reach down and punch the starter, but I was curiously reluctant to end so fine a sail and listen to the engine for a couple of hours. Instead I hauled out my button box and waltzed while Sweet Pea ghosted along, well out of the channel.

Boat after boat growled by, heading for a twist in the river that marks end of day. Getting there becomes irresistible, and rightly so. Hot showers, drinks and dinner beckoned.

I was totally surprised when the breeze returned. Within several puffs it built to its former vigor. I hustled below to stow the buttons while Sweet Pea put down her shoulder and took off after the herd. I won't say I passed anyone who had left me behind, but I did manage to keep most of them in sight.

I must say, sailing that last hour was a pleasure and left me feeling giddy with accomplishment. Ah well, it doesn't take much.

One day-sail and one day-motor closer to Jekyll
I paid for those pleasures, though. Today the engine droned on endlessly as the wind hid its face. Now that I've anchored in distant Eastham Creek, a breeze is starting to waft down the hatch, teasing me with its whisper that really, I could have sailed today's last hour or so if I had only slept in rather than heading out for the Alligator Pungo Canal at first light. Ya just never know.

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Duck Soup

Lots of chunks under the garnish
The Dismal Swamp Canal looked like a hearty green soup, complete with root vegetable chunks that tapped against Sweet Pea's keel. It was a duckweed stew. Definitely not the most appetizing concoction for a day's motor to Elizabeth City, NC.

Sweet Pea was lead boat in a flotilla of four. I had met the others at the North Carolina Welcome Center where we rafted four deep, forming a peninsula that nearly blocked the channel. The 150-foot dock wasn't that crowded. But despite some urging, a number of smaller vessels, who had arrived earlier and were spaced one deep along the rest of the dock, were curiously disinclined to raft up.

I could understand that since we four were leaving early to catch the first lock opening and the rest of the bunch wanted to sleep in. Still, rafting has always been a tradition at the Welcome Center. I hope that graciousness will persist rather than falling victim to using the right of first arrival to cling to the cleats.

Being perfect gentlemen we, of course, tiptoed out at 0700 to avoid any disturbance of slumber. Yeah, right. Varoom, varoom, varoom. Humm, engine sounds warmed up. "HEY, YOU READY? LETS GET A MOVE ON!"

Twitch marks the spot
I set off from the Welcome Center without too much thought about whether being the lead dog was a good idea. The Army Core of Engineers was said to have recently removed snags, deadheads, logs and other chunks, so what could there be other than water?

Well, there might be, perhaps, the odd SUV. Several years ago a boat hit a submerged vehicle that had been rolled into the canal the night before, just for laughs. That could hardly be the Core's fault. They weren't even invited to the party.

Now, for the first time in my four canal transits, I kept hitting things that felt substantial. I suspect it was only my keel doing the knocking but I was concerned about whether more sensitive parts were at risk. After each strike I would twitch the wheel to mark the spot in my duckweed trail and radio an alert the rest of the fleet.

In a previous trip the green soup had also contained a filamentous algae, which clogged an engine's raw water strainer as effectively as stuffing a pillow down a toilet. Every so often the lead boat would radio to announce a pause, punctuated by the scream of a temperature alarm. We would slowly pass the former lead as they threw green stuff overboard, leaving them to ride drag in a choking duckweed dust. Fortunately, this season's chef skipped the algae.

I was pleased that Sweet Pea's engine kept right on chugging until I reached Elizabeth City's free docks. I'll cling to these cleats until I get exactly the right weather to cross the Albemarle Sound.


2005 Crossing the Albemarle in exactly the wrong weather