Retina Display Updates for Computers that Don’t Support Retina Displays?

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Really, Apple?

Fellow author Jeff Carlson recently commented on Twitter:

The Retina Display is a new feature of certain Macintosh computers announced the other day at Apple’s World Wide Developer Conference (WWDC). While it’s nice to know that my next Macs will have a better display, there’s really nothing wrong with the displays on my current Macs: a 27″ iMac, a 11″ MacBook Air, and a 13″ MacBook Pro. The oldest of these computers (the MacBook Pro) is only about two years old and I have no plans to buy a new Mac for at least a year. Indeed, my desktop Mac, which is less than a year old, probably won’t be replaced for at least 2 years.

Unfortunately, in order for the folks who buy these new Macs to take advantage of their hot new displays, Mac OS applications have to be rewritten to support them. Apple, of course, is leading the pack by updating its apps. Jeff, who writes about iMovie, was pointing out the size difference between the old and new versions of that app.

Wow is a pretty good way to sum up the 179% increase in the app’s size.

Software Update Woes
Great! Now I can use iMovie in Thai!

I wondered whether the update would be pushed through to all Macs, regardless of whether they supported the new Retina Display. My answer came this morning, when I ran Software Update. If I wanted to update the Mac OS apps on my iMac with the software announced at WWDC, I’d need to download almost 2 GB of updates — most of which would not benefit me in the least.

Really, Apple?

This is the best way you can come up with to roll out updates for new hardware features? You can’t create an “HD” version of your apps and let the folks with new machines upgrade to that version? You can’t have Software Update distinguish between computer models and roll out the updates specific to that model?

Really?

I’m on the road this summer. I get all my Internet access for my desktop Mac through a hotspot connection to my New iPad. It’s 3G here and I pay roughly $10 per gigabyte of data. That means these “free” updates — which will not benefit me at all — will cost me $20.

Ouch.

And if I don’t update, I won’t be able to take advantage of new features in those apps as they’re rolled out.

I’m fortunate that I can take my two laptops to a nearby coffee shop for updates. At least the $20 I’ll spend there will buy me lunch. Still, a portion of the limited disk space on my MacBook Air will be gobbled up with assets I don’t need.

Thanks, Apple. You might not have as many updates as Microsoft does for Windows, but yours certainly hurt more.

Real Life Flying: Planning and Executing a Complex Helicopter Charter Flight

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It’s not all fun and games.

On Wednesday, the assistant for one of my new clients called. She wanted to know about my availability the following Monday. Her boss wanted to take two companions with him on a flight to seven off-airport landing zones within 100 air miles of his office.

This wasn’t the first flight I’d done for this client. The previous Monday, just the two of us had gone flying to two off-airport landing zones. Two days later, he’d added a companion for a flight to one of those landing zones but had added off-airport pick up and drop off locations. Now, it seemed, he was putting me to the test by filling the helicopter with people for a whirlwind tour of a bunch of properties.

The first two flights were relatively simple, but this last one required some serious information gathering, planning, and math. And that’s the part of real world flying that the flight schools kind of gloss over in their sales presentations and training.

In this post, I want to dissect the planning required for this trip to give folks an idea of what they really need to know to become commercial helicopter pilots.

Feasibility with a Weight Limitation

The very first question that had to be answered was whether or not the flight was possible with my equipment. I fly a Robinson R44 Raven II, which is a remarkably capable helicopter. But every ship has its limitations and I knew as soon as I heard “three men” that I might be bumping up against one of them: weight.

My helicopter, with its new bladder fuel tanks installed, now weighs 1517 empty. Max gross weight — which must include me and the fuel I need to fly, along with my passengers and their stuff — is 2,500. So the first thing I needed to do was calculate the total weight of my passengers plus me, some under-seat gear I usually bring along, and the helicopter and subtract it from the max gross weight.

I asked how much the passengers weighed and got the following information: W: 180, D: 190, A: 240

Normally, I’d add 10 pounds to each person’s weight because everyone lies, but in this case, I knew the numbers were reliable. These folks often fly in a small airplane piloted by my client and I was confident that he got accurate weights from them. I could also weigh them before taking them onboard, but at this point, I wanted to see if the flight was even feasible before I hung up the phone with my client’s assistant.

I did the math on a piece of scratch paper. Me + gear + passengers + helicopter = 2,327 pounds. That’s less than 2,500, so we can fit.

But, of course, we still need to take on fuel — and it has to be enough fuel to get us where we’re going, as well as an airport where we can get fuel if we need it. So more math: 2,500 pounds max gross weight – 2,327 pounds payload (without fuel) = 173 pounds available for fuel.

100LL fuel weighs 6 pounds per gallon. How much could I take? 173 pounds ÷ 6 pounds per gallon = about 28 gallons of fuel.

How long could I fly with 28 gallons of fuel? The helicopter burns 15 to 18 gallons per hour, depending on load. I assumed we’d burn a lot since we would be heavy and I’d be flying at maximum cruise speed. So 28 gallons ÷ 18 gallons per hour = about 1.5 hours.

How far could we go in 1.5 hours? I felt confident that I could maintain an average cruise speed of at least 100 knots. 100 x 1.5 = 150 nautical miles.

Was there fuel available within range? Yes. (After all, it isn’t as if we were flying in the wastelands of Nevada or the Navajo Nation.)

So after all this math, what did I know? I knew that the flight was possible. I could book it.

Planning the Flight So I Know Where to Go

The next challenge was knowing exactly where I had to go. For the previous two flights, we’d had lots of fuel on board and no time issues. I planned the flight based on estimated waypoints, then let my client point me in the right direction to our destinations and guide me to the desired landing zone. Although this worked, it wasn’t the most efficient way to plan and execute a flight. (I can assure you that having a client point in the right direction and say things like, “Do you see that poplar tree?” when you can see about 200 poplar trees within the next five miles is not a very good method of homing in on a destination.) I needed more data in advance.

Although the assistant had initially identified the properties with their names and general locations, that information was pretty meaningless to me. I wanted GPS coordinates that would get me to the property so we could minimize flight time by flying direct. So I did what any computer-literate pilot would do: I asked for addresses.

She sent me a list of the property addresses. One by one, I plugged them into Google Maps. I dropped markers and wrote down the GPS coordinates. I then created waypoints in Foreflight on my iPad and plotted the route. It came out to a total of 205 nautical miles. Clearly, we’d need a fuel stop, but if I planned it right, we’d only need one.

Here’s my thinking on this. I was going to be making several off-airport landings into landing zones I’d never seen before. They could be confined spaces, like the location where I was supposed to pick up my client at the start of the flight. (More on that in a moment.) In a confined space, I’d need to make a steep approach and steep departure. This could be difficult to do with a heavy ship, especially as the day warmed up and performance started to decrease. To maximize safety, I wanted the minimum amount of fuel on board when I needed to make these landings and departures.

The First PlanThe plan I came up with (illustrated here) was to visit the first four properties, which would take us to our farthest point from home. While my clients tended to business at that last property, I’d buzz over to the airport to get fuel. Then I’d come back to get them and we’d hit the other two properties on the way home. This fit in well with my client’s plan.

This assumed, of course, that I did all my fuel calculations properly and we could go that far. By staying on course throughout, I’d have a much better chance of making it work. Otherwise, we could refuel at an earlier stop — most of the landing zones were near a few airports with fuel.

Knowing When to Say No

The First Landing ZoneOf course, the very first landing zone was going to be a problem. It was in truck loading zone on the side of a hill. There were various obstacles in three directions and a steep approach/departure was required. This was my client’s workplace (or near it) and he wanted me to pick up him and his companions there.

I didn’t feel comfortable taking off from that landing zone at max gross weight. It was just too tight with no room for error. So I did something some pilots think you can’t do: I said no to the client.

And the client did something that only the best clients do: he said okay. He asked if I could pick him up there and pick up his companions at the airport nearby, which was on the way. Since I knew I’d have no trouble departing from the big ramp area at the airport at max gross weight, I agreed. Problem solved.

Calculating CG to Determine Passenger Seating

So now I knew that the flight was possible and I had a flight plan to make it work. Next, I needed to know where my passengers had to sit to keep the aircraft within CG.

An R44 helicopter is not easy to load out of lateral CG, but longitudinal CG is another story. Unfortunately, I’m not a small person. Put another very big person up front with me with other folks in the back and a light load of fuel and you’ll get an out of CG situation. (This is just one of many reasons why it’s important for a helicopter pilot to stay slim.)

Out of CGNow, I like to be able to put the biggest person up front with me. Big people usually need more space, including more legroom, and the front seat has more legroom. But when I put 240-pound A up front with me, the CG plot points were outside the envelope. That means that I might not have enough aft cyclic to arrest forward motion. In other words, I might not be able to stop.

In CGSo I recalculated with the big guy in the back. The plot points slipped back inside the envelope. Problem solved.

I do want to point out here that in most cases, it really doesn’t matter where passengers sit in my helicopter. It’s just when we’re heavy with a big person up front that there’s a possible problem.

Getting the Fuel Right

Before I conducted the flight, I needed to fuel the helicopter. (I have a fuel transfer tank on my truck that I use when I’m in Washington.) And I needed to be very precise about how much fuel I added. I wanted to add as much fuel as I could to wind up with no more than 28 gallons on board when I picked up the client’s companions at the airport.

More math.

I figured that between warm up (twice), shut down (once), and travel time to the client and then to the airport from his LZ, I’d run the engine about 30 minutes. At 16 gallons per hour — a good estimate for burn rate during solo or otherwise lightweight flight — I’d burn 8 gallons. So when I left my base, I should have 28 + 8 = 36 gallons on board.

Unfortunately, my helicopter does not have precise fuel gauges. Although they’re pretty accurate, they don’t tell you how many gallons are on board. You have to “guestimate” based on the gauges and your knowledge of how the helicopter operates. I’ve been flying this helicopter for 7-1/2 years now, so I have a pretty good handle on it. I figured I had about 6 gallons on board. That means I needed to add about 30.

Another unfortunate thing is that the fuel meter on my truck’s fueling system is inaccurate. It always understates how much fuel is being pumped. I figure it was understating fuel pumped by about 10%. So if I wanted to add 30 gallons, I needed to measure out 33 gallons with the meter.

I can’t make this stuff up.

And yes, if I were smarter, I’d have an accurate stick for the tanks. But I simply haven’t gotten around to making one.

Conducting the Flight

I was due to pick up my client at 7:00 AM at the first landing zone, which was 20 minutes away. I like to get there early whenever possible — it’s never a good idea to make the client wait — so that meant I needed to leave my base at 6:30 AM.

I needed to remove the blade tie-downs, add fuel — I’d gotten back after dark the night before and was too tired to do it then — and preflight. Then I needed to start up and warm up. So after slugging down an excellent cup of coffee, I walked out of the mobile mansion at 6:10 AM.

(That’s another thing flight schools don’t mention — clients don’t usually have bankers’ hours.)

At the Ag StripIt was a beautiful morning — cool with calm winds. I’m based at an ag strip and I was very surprised that the pilot wasn’t flying. After all, the sun had been up for over an hour and the conditions don’t get any better for spraying crops.

In addition to fueling and doing all my usual preflight stuff, I also cleared every bit of unneeded equipment out of the helicopter. As I loaded this stuff into my truck, I realized that I’d probably been underestimating its weight for quite some time.

The flight to the client’s LZ was uneventful. I arrived right as planned, at 6:50 AM, and shut down to wait.

My client arrived right about 7 and climbed aboard. A short while later, we were picking up his companions. My reading of the fuel gauges had me right around 28 gallons.

Mattawa

Benton City

Ice Harbor

Saddle Mountain

We started with the two landing zones I’d already visited with the client. Because they were working at one property, we landed in a slightly different location nearby. But rather than hit the third landing zone, my client asked to skip over it to the fourth. He suggested that we get fuel after that one and, while I was refueling at the airport, he and his companions would drive to the other property. Because they normally fly in a small plane to that airport, they keep a car there.

Using Foreflight for guidance, I found the next property and then followed my client’s directions to a suitable landing zone. It was another tight spot at the bottom of a hill, surrounded by trees and fruit boxes. I was glad I wouldn’t have to take off at max gross weight from that spot.

But as I shut down the engine and they drove off with the man who’d met them there, I started wondering whether we’d actually make the next airport. It seemed that our fuel consumption was higher than I expected. It could have been the added time for the cool down and warm up at each destination. I studied the gauges and didn’t like what I saw. The airport was 15 miles away. I should have enough fuel to make it with the reserve, but would I? Would I see the dreaded low fuel light?

Of course, I worried for no reason. We made it to the airport with fuel to spare. The biggest challenge was finding the FBO ramp at an airport I’d only been to once before — and that time, from a completely different direction. They drove off in their car and I shut down, then went inside to place a fuel order. Then I had lunch: a granola bar and a bag of cookies.

(Yep, that’s another thing the flight schools don’t tell you about: the joys of finding a meal (or a clean bathroom, for that matter) when on a job.)

By the time they returned, time was short. My client had to be back at the office by 1 PM for a meeting. We had enough time to visit one more property, then headed back home. I dropped my client off first, made an easy departure from that confined space with light fuel and just the two bigger men on board, and then dropped them off at the airport.

When I lifted off solo with only about 10 gallons of fuel on board and no extra junk under the seats, the helicopter seemed to leap into the sky, tilting backward at a crazy angle. But that’s only how it seemed after being so heavy all day long.

I was back at my base by 1:30 PM.

Looking Back

I’d flown a total of 3.1 billable hours and had landed at five different off-airport landing zones, two of which I’d never been to.

This was not a difficult job, although planning did require a lot more effort than most of my jobs do. Just figuring out where I was going based on street addresses was a chore that took at least 30 minutes to complete.

But most of our flight time was spent over farmland with very little time over “remote” areas. That takes a lot of stress out of the flight. In the event of a problem, I could always set down at a farm for help. Not so with many of the flights I do in Arizona — some of which are in areas so remote that aircraft have been known to disappear for over a year.

My client and his companions also made the trip very enjoyable. Although they talked business most of the flight, they also joked around with me and answered my few questions about some of the farms and orchards we flew over. After years of flying in Arizona’s desert, it’s quite refreshing to get a view of a whole different world from my seat. Having passengers who can help explain what I’m seeing really makes the flight enjoyable for me.

But I like this client for a more important reason: he understands the value of the service I offer with my helicopter. On the way back, we talked about how much time it would have taken to drive to the same places. They agreed it would have taken at least 7 or 8 hours just do do the driving. We did it in six, including stops as long at 30 minutes in some places. And although my client could fly faster in his plane, he can’t land at each of the properties. He has to spend additional time driving between them and the closest airport. A helicopter can land onsite — that saves time, too.

For people who know that time is money, money spent flying is money well spent.

Sometimes, I REALLY Love My Job

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I experience a “magic moment” in the course of doing my summer job.

A little backstory…

Cherry drying (or blowing) is one of those things most folks don’t know about. The short version is this: in the two to three weeks before the cherries are ready to harvest, if they get rained on they can split or rot, making them unmarketable. If a grower loses 50% or more of his crop to splits or other water damage, he won’t bother picking at all and the entire crop is lost.

So to protect the crop from this kind of damage, growers hire helicopter pilots with helicopters to stand by during the period before harvest. When it rains, they call us out to hover low over the trees. Our downwash blows the tree branches and shakes the water off the fruit, “drying” it. It’s tedious work that requires a good bit of concentration to deal with wind and obstructions. And it can be dangerous — in fact, there were three crashes in the area last year, one of which took a young guy’s life.

This is my fifth season doing this kind of work.

It was late afternoon on a day with drifting storm clouds. I was on call for cherry drying and had already gone out once, earlier in the day.

When I wasn’t flying or prepping the helicopter, I’d spent a good part of the day watching the weather radar on my iPad. Various colored blobs were drifting across from the west, after a gradual shift from their southwest to northeast direction earlier in the day. Rain varied in intensity from a light drizzle to torrential downpour. Every time a storm hit or missed an area, there would be another one right behind it to possibly do the same. Sometimes the rain was so intense that the storm would drain itself and the colored blob would fade as it tracked across the screen.

I was only on contract with one orchard: a 30-acre block of mostly very mature trees near the Columbia River. The grower was very careful about his orchard and, during the vital period, normally spent all day just about every day among his trees. Sometimes he’d mow the long strips of grass in the aisles between them. Other times he’d tinker with the tractors and other equipment he needed to care for his crop. Still other times, he worked on his shop, patching insulation, repairing a roof, adding a wall. Smart phones and good cell service — not to mention a good pair of eyes — had made it relatively easy for him to track the weather throughout the day. But he occasionally called or texted me at my base seven air miles away, where I had a better look at the sky and a bigger screen to watch the radar blobs.

I saw the storm coming on radar and confirmed it with a look outside. It was across the river to the west, heading right for the orchard. While there was a chance it might rain itself out before it arrived, I suspected it might not. Already still suited up from my flight a few hours before, I headed back to the helicopter to pull off the blade tie downs and prepare to fly.

Low CloudsThe sky was intensely dark out toward the river and the storm was definitely heading in my direction. But what was even scarier was the low hanging cloud near me that seemed to be swirling gently like something from a Weather Channel tornado special. I watched it for a while, wondering whether the storm was really intense enough to get a tornado going. It didn’t seem to be.

My phone rang. It was my client. “Work your magic,” he said.

It took me a second to comprehend his words. “It didn’t even start raining here,” I said.

“It poured like hell on the orchard,” he told me. “It’s stopped now. Come on out and dry.”

I hung up and moved my truck out of the way. By the time I was hurrying back to the helicopter, big raindrops were falling on me. The swirling cloud was gone.

I started up and began the warm up process. It wasn’t until I was pulling on my helmet that I realized I’d forgotten to take my door off. This could be a problem if the sun came out and it warmed up; the helicopter would become like an oven every time I faced the sun. But the sky was dark and that didn’t seem likely. Ah, little did I know…

By the time I lifted off the pad, the rain was dumping on me. The cockpit bubble was wet with a million drops. I pushed the cyclic forward and accelerated into my climb. The drops ran off the sides, clearing the window enough to see. I turned to the west and flew right into a wall of hard rain.

When I flew at the Grand Canyon back in 2004, we had a sort of mantra for dealing with heavy rain: if you can see through it, you can fly through it. This rain was so intense that I could barely see brightness in the sky beyond it. I was flying at about 200 feet off the ground — just high enough to clear the local power lines but probably not high enough to clear the high-tension power lines I knew were up ahead. The air was remarkably calm, so at least I didn’t have to deal with turbulence. I climbed cautiously, heading west, flying at 110 knots, focused on reaching the orchard quickly.

The sky brightened. The rain lessened. Then I was through the storm, on the other side, flying into what looked like a beautiful day.

A really beautiful day.

Ahead of me, the sun was shining brightly, sending patches of light through broken clouds onto the yellow-green hillsides beyond the Columbia River. Some low-level clouds were floating at my altitude over the river and beyond. Wisps of clouds were wrapping themselves around hilltops like winter scarves around thick necks. The sky had a kind of three-dimensionality I rarely get to see.

And over my right shoulder, back in the dark storm I was passing, was a double rainbow.

There are times that I can only classify as magical — times I wish I could bottle up and save, just so I can open them up to re-experience them when I need a little magic in my life. This was one of those times.

I realized, in a flash of clarity, that I really loved doing what I do.

I call myself a writer, but in all honesty, there’s no way I can express, in words, the feeling I get when I experience one of these moments. I can try to describe what I see. I can try to paint a picture for my reader to see something similar in his own mind as he reads my words. But in truth, there’s no way to share this kind of experience after the fact. It’s a moment in time and space — something that becomes part of me. It’s like a happy little secret I’m forced to bear, unable to share it with anyone else.

It’s moments like these that make my life worth living.

I cleared the big wires, reached the edge of the plateau, and lowered the collective almost to the floor to start a steep descent down to the river. The water was smooth, reflecting the clouds in a magnificent sky. Everything below me looked fresh and clean and wet. I descended at 1200 feet per minute over the river, then pulled the cyclic back gently to slow my airspeed and descent rate. Coming in over the orchardI came in over the orchard in a grand, swooping arc, settling in at the southeast corner in a hover over trees nearly as old as I am.

And then I got down to work, hovering back and forth, up and down the rows of trees, performing the tedious task I was paid to do.

From my seat only a few feet above the treetops, I could clearly see the bright red fruit and the droplets of water clinging to them. I could see my downwash shaking the tree branches all around me. Everything was very wet, but with only one pass, most of that water was shaken and blown down to the ground.

Sunset Cherry Dry

Golden Light

I stole glimpses of the river and sky and cliffs. It was early evening on a Washington day when the sun would set well after 8:30 PM. The sun played peek-a-book with thin strips of clouds. The sunlight illuminated the cliff faces in a golden light.

On the ground out on the road in front of the orchard, my client stood outside his truck, snapping photos with his camera. Inside the front passenger seat, I saw his mom. She waved once but, with both hands fully occupied, I couldn’t wave back. Later, the truck was in the orchard, near the shop building. The photos started arriving on my cell phone, which was docked in a cradle within reach, a while later. I wouldn’t be able to see them until much later.

It took over an hour to do the whole orchard. It always does. It’s a tough dry, with trees of varying ages and heights, a gentle slope, a deep gully, and some nasty wires right at rotor height along one side of the orchard. I spend a lot of time flying sideways so I can keep low on a downhill stretch without getting my tail rotor in the trees behind me. But finally I was done. I did what I think of as my “victory lap,” a fast, low-level flight diagonally across the orchard, gaining speed before pulling the cyclic back to start a steep climb up the cliff face.

At the top of the cliff, thin clouds were thickening, forming a fog layer that would soon be too thick to pass through. I squeezed through a gap in the clouds and pointed the helicopter east, toward my home base.

—
Note: Many thanks to Patrick, my client, for providing the in-flight photos that appear in this post and on Facebook.

UPS Package Invoice Scam

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Yet another email scam to be on the lookout for.

UPS ScamToday, I got an email message from UPS Quantum View . On the surface, it looked almost legit. There was the from field, which certainly looked legit and a subject of “UPS Delivery Notification, Tracking Number CDE31400FCA9E1A9.” That didn’t sound right to me — I’ve never had a UPS tracking number that started with the letter “C.”

I first saw it on my iPad, so that’s where I opened the message. When I read the contents, I knew something was wrong. It was a plain text message that said:

You have attached the invoice for your package delivery.

Thank you,
United Parcel Service

*** This is an automatically generated email, please do not reply ***

I’ve never received any communication from UPS that wasn’t in HTML. And I’ve never received one with poor English (note first sentence). And finally, I’ve never received any communication from UPS that included an HTML attachment — this one was named invoiceCDE31400FCA9E1A9.html.

Of course, to verify my suspicion that this is some sort of scam, I had to open the attachment. I wanted to do that on my Mac, but not with a Web browser. Instead, I used a plain text editor, TextWrangler. Inside, I found the usual collection of HTML code that would display UPS-looking text and graphics. But most of the links inside the document were to the domain www7apps-myups.com. A quick Whois lookup revealed that the domain is registered to someone in China.

Not UPS.

Other than a bit of javascript at the end of the message that appears to be some sort of counter, the attachment looked harmless enough. I can only assume that clicking the links within the attachment is what triggers whatever this scam attempts to do.

I can imagine someone more gullible than me getting this email message and wondering what package UPS was telling them about. They open the linked file, see what looks like a legitimate UPS communication, and click the link to learn more about the mystery package. Their computer then becomes infected with some sort of virus or perhaps the page itself attempts to get information that the scammers can use for financial gain. I don’t know. I’m not about to try it. You shouldn’t either — not on a computer that isn’t quarantined for this kind of work.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Don’t open file attachments you aren’t expecting, especially from people you don’t know. Don’t click links from strangers.

Oh, and if you get one of these, forward it to fraud@ups.com.

Adventures in Boating

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The truth can now be told.

My Boat
Here’s Pete and Linda helping me do a pre-purchase inspection last fall.

For a while, I was doing a lot of tweeting and Facebook updating about my little boat. It’s a 1995 Sea Ray Sea Rayder F-16. Sounds hot, huh? Well, it’s just a little old 16-foot jet boat that can take up to 750 pounds of payload spread among five seats — about the same capacity as my helicopter, with one extra seat.

The Mobile Mansion in Tow
The mobile mansion at one of two overnight stops on the way back to Arizona last October.

I’d bought it in Washington State last autumn, just before going back to Arizona for the season. Because I had to tow my “mobile mansion” back to Arizona, I had to leave the boat behind. The folks I bought it from kindly agreed to store it form me. I regretted not taking it home; I didn’t use the mobile mansion in Arizona over the winter, but I sure could have used that boat.

Taking Possession

In the spring, I returned to Washington for cherry drying season. I came back early, mostly because I like it up here so much better than Arizona. In fact, I’m seriously considering relocating.

I finally took possession of my little boat early in May. I towed it back to the campground where I was living.

Boat in Tow

My Boat at the Campground
Here’s my little boat, parked at the campground where I’m living right now. That’s my mobile mansion in the background, with the windsock.

The boat needed some work, but not much. The bumper around the edge of the boat was cracked in front and I wanted to replace it. The grip stickers on the engine lid were half peeled off and I wanted to replace them, too. The wires for the trailer lights were frayed and patched and needed to be fixed up. The trailer wheel bearings likely needed repacking with grease for the long drive back to Arizona. And the bimini top had two broken parts that had to be replaced before I could use it. I set about taking care of these things, making an appointment at a boat dealer for some and ordering parts for others.

I also bought a river anchor and some line for it, just in case the engine decided it didn’t want to run when I was out on the water. I didn’t want to end up at the next dam.

The Planned Test Run Doesn’t Go as Planned

The weather warmed and the winds calmed. In mid-month, we had two consecutive days forecasted with unusually warm weather and light winds. It would be a perfect opportunity to take the boat out for a test run.

I admit that I was nervous about taking the boat out by myself. I had plenty of confidence in the boat’s seaworthiness — its previous owners had taken good care of it. But it had been a long time since I’d ever launched a watercraft — jet skis at least 5 years ago — and I’d never done it alone. I asked my friend Pete to accompany me to the boat ramp and advise me while I launched the boat.

Pete’s schedule was tight, with just an hour-long gap between appointments, so my goal was to prep the boat and get it all ready to launch before we met. I hooked it up to the truck and stripped off the boat cover. I got all my gear together, including a bag of goodies to snack on. Then I hopped in the truck and started the 15-mile drive to Crescent Bar, stopping to fill the boat’s gas tank with gas along the way.

Crescent Bar from the Air
Crescent Bar from the air. You can see (and buy) a larger version of this image here.

Crescent Bar is a resort area near Quincy, WA. It’s right on the Columbia River — a narrow strip of land stretching downriver. Half it it is an island, connected to the mainland with a little bridge. There’s a boat ramp and a handful of slips near the bridge. This is just one of a few access points for Wanapum Lake, the stretch of Columbia River between the Wanapum and Rock Island dams.

It’s an interesting body of water. I’ve seen it as smooth as glass on a windless day. But I’ve also seen it whipped up to whitecaps when the wind howls down the river between the cliff faces.

This is where I’d do most of my area boating.

To reach Crescent Bar from Quincy, you have to drive down two hills. The first, on Route 28 is a steep 60 mph road with one lane downhill and two uphill. It’s relatively straight and very smooth. The second is the side road that winds down the cliffs to Crescent bar.

I was doing about 55 miles per hour down that first hill when I caught a flash of white in my rear view mirror. I didn’t see anything when I looked — at least at first. Then I noticed the car behind me, which was about 10 car lengths back, was taking evasive maneuvers. And then I saw something white skidding across the road.

I knew immediately what it was: the engine lid from my boat.

You see, the engine lid opens from front to back (consult first photo on this post) so you can access the engine compartment while you’re on the water. It was held down with two latches. I thought they’d been latched. The boat cover, which snaps over the front part of the engine lid, also helps to hold the lid down by preventing air from getting under the lid. But I’d removed it to speed up the launch process.

I stopped the truck on the side of the road, shut down the engine, and put on the emergency flashers. I looked back and could see the engine lid in the left uphill lane about 1000 feet away, just lying there. I could imagine a semi truck running it over and shattering it into a million pieces. So I ran.

I didn’t know I could still run. I didn’t do it very well. I certainly won’t be signing up for any races soon. But I got up there before any uphill traffic. Then I grabbed the engine lid and carried it to the side of the road.

It was awkward and heavy. But it was also in one piece. I examined it when I reached the safety of the roadside. It had hit the pavement in one corner and slid on its top. The fiberglass was slightly smashed in the corner and scratched like hell on the top. The big hinge had been ripped off the back; I assumed (correctly) that it remained on the boat.

I began the long walk back to the truck, glad it was all downhill. I was winded. I was able to carry my burden by grasping it from two round cutouts in the bottom side. Still, I could only take about 50 steps before I had to rest. The damn thing was heavy.

A car stopped just past my truck and a guy got out. He walked up the hill and met me when I was halfway back.

“Looks like you can use a hand,” he said.

Who says there aren’t any Good Samaritans anymore?

It was easier with each of us grasping the lid by one of the round holes. He helped me lift it into the bed of the pickup. We looked back at the boat and the gaping opening over the engine. The hinge, which was attached to a piece of wood, was still there. So were the two hydraulic lift arms. But the damage was extensive — not something that could be fixed easily, like with duct tape.

I thanked my helper and watched him go back to his car and continue down the hill. I made a U-turn and headed back to Quincy. I stopped at my friend Pete’s house, where he was just finishing up with one of his appointments. We fitted the lid back on the engine. It fit nicely, but wouldn’t stay on its own. Pete gave me a strap to hold it down. I went home, feeling very stupid.

Repairs

I worked the phones. The local boat shops weren’t interested in helping me, but one of them recommended an auto body shop that does fiberglas work.

A few days later, I got an estimate at Earhart’s Collision Repair. The initial estimate, which would make the engine lid “good as new,” was $1,500. Ouch. I asked if there was a way to make it less. He redid the estimate without painting and managed to cut it in half. I considered that my “stupidity tax.” I left the boat with them.

It was a week before the boat was done. In the meantime, I’d gotten the bimini top parts I needed to repair the top. The boat dealer got the parts they needed to do the rubber bumper.

I picked up the boat at Earhart’s. It looked great. The repair was very well done and the lid was fully functional. Well, except for one of the latches, which had broken and was on order with a Sea Ray dealer in Arizona.

I took the boat across the river to the boat shop and left it with them for the rubber bumper and trailer repairs. I told them that since the lid was scratched up, I wasn’t interested in the no-slip stickers. I offered to pay for them — since they’d been a special order — but they said they’d put them on the shelf for others to buy.

The next day, I picked up the boat and brought it back to the campground. I was back to square one.

Boat with Top Up
Still on dry land, but at least the top works.

I spent a few hours repairing the bimini top’s frame and installing new hardware on the boat for it. I put the top up. It looked and worked great.

Second Try

I watched the weather carefully. Memorial Day weekend was pretty good, but Crescent Bar gets crazy on weekends and I wasn’t interested in making my first outing an ordeal. And then I had to wait until Pete or Linda (who had sold me the boat) was available to supervise. Schedules were tough.

I almost went out on Thursday afternoon by myself. But I chickened out.

On Friday, Pete and Linda were both busy, but Pete could pull away if he had to. I decided to give it a go by myself and call him only if I needed help.

So once again, I made the trip down to Crescent Bar. This time, with the lid firmly strapped on, I had no mishaps. It was about 3 PM when I got there and there weren’t many people around. I prepped the boat by stripping off the straps and cover. I loaded a canvas bag with a bit of extra gear — towel, long-sleeved shirt, bottled water, phone in a zip-lock bag, etc. I took my time.

Because I was by myself and the launch area was very small, I’d have to cast off from the dock while sitting at the wheel. I’d fastened a length of line to the steering wheel — the boat doesn’t have any cleats! — and secured the long end of the rope to a cleat on the dock. I didn’t want the boat floating off without me once it was off the trailer. Then I backed the boat trailer into the water on the right side of the wooden dock. I did it slowly and stopped gently just as the trucks back wheels touched the water. The boat floated slowly off the trailer.

I got out of the truck, walked out onto the dock, and used the rope to pull the boat to the dock. Then I used the short end of the rope on the steering wheel to secure the boat tightly to the end of the dock.

So far, so good.

I pulled the trailer out of the water and parked it. I locked the truck and went back to the boat.

By this time, another couple had arrived with their boat and were launching it. They had some trouble getting it started. But not as much trouble as I had. The reason: I had forgotten how.

I’d only been out in the boat once and I admit that I hadn’t been paying close attention to the starting process. I knew I had to stick in the key and I knew I had to attach a safety clip designed to shut down the engine if the driver falls out. (Jet skis have these, too.) But what else?

Fortunately, I had downloaded the boat’s Operator’s Manual from the Sea Ray website. It was a PDF created from a scan, but it was perfectly legible on my iPad. I zipped to the instructions and followed them. After running the blower for a few minutes, I turned the key and pushed the starter rocker button. The engine cranked. It took five tries before it caught. Then it idled noisily like most boat engines do.

And that’s when I realized that “idle” on my little boat didn’t really mean idle. Even though the boat’s throttle was in neutral, the boat was trying to move, pulling hard on the rope that attached it to the dock’s cleat. I was able to get some slack in the rope and disconnect it. Then the boat motored slowly toward the bridge.

Driving a boat isn’t like driving a car. You must have motion — forward or backward — to steer it. On a jet boat, motion isn’t enough. Because there’s no rudder, you must have powered motion. It’s the thrust of the engine that steers the boat. So the slower you go, the harder the boat is to steer.

The steering wheel on my boat doesn’t have much movement. It only goes about 30° in each direction. When I didn’t get an immediate response, I assumed the steering wasn’t working right. But that wasn’t the case. It just was very slow to react. So I just kept overreacting.

One of my Facebook friends compared it to trying to hover a helicopter for the first time. He’s right, but backwards. In a helicopter, you over control because the controls are just so damn sensitive. In this boat, you over control because nothing seems to be happening.

I nearly hit the rocks on the opposite side of the channel. I used reverse throttle to get myself out of there. Then forward a bit faster than I should have to get away from the dock area.

Out and About

I headed out toward the river. The wind had kicked up and there were waves 1-2 feet high. I puttered out, trying to drive at the No Wake speed I was supposed to be at. Then I cleared the No Wake area and gunned it. The boat bounced along in the waves.

I was still having trouble with steering — and that’s because of the way jet boats steer. They fool you into thinking that they’re just like any other boat, but, in realty, they steer like jet skis. When you steer a boat, boat turns kind of like a car, leaning into the curve as it moves. When you steer this jet boat, however, it kind of slips into the curve with very little body roll. It’s extremely disconcerting — at least at first. With the bumpy water, it wasn’t a very good feeling.

I decided to head across the river to calmer water near West Bar, an undeveloped piece of land on the inside curve of the river. I got there quickly, slowed down, and then idled down, pointing upriver.

My phone rang. It was Pete. I got it out of its zip-lock bag and answered. He was down at the dock; he’d come down to see if I needed help. I asked him if I needed to run the blower while the boat was running. He told me I could shut it off. He also told me that the wind was kicking up and the water was rough upriver. He suggested that I go on the other side of the island where the water was calmer.

Good idea. I thanked him, hung up, and stowed my phone. Then I headed back across the river again. It seemed even rougher. The boat jumped on the waves. The water came up and splashed me in the face. I was glad it was a warm day.

I slowed to No Wake speed, passed under the bridge again, and continued to the narrow strip of water between the island and the cliffs. The water was dead calm. I experimented with different power settings. At first, I thought the slowest I could go while remaining in control was with the engine at 1600 RPM. But I played around some more and soon got good controlling the boat at “idle” speed: 1000 RPM.

I went all the way out to the end of the island, past the leased homesites and golf course. I shut off the engine and drifted in the still water, enjoying the sudden silence and hearing, for the first time, the birds and frogs in the cliffs and water around me. I also spotted a family of Canada geese, feeding along the island’s shore. I could imagine spending hours drifting like this, maybe with the stereo on low, the top up, and a book in my hand. There’s something about being out on the water…

But I was thinking about what would come next: docking the boat and getting it out of the water — by myself. I realized that to pull it off, I’d have to come in slowly and be able to put the dock’s cleat right next to my seat at the steering wheel. With the wind blowing, I wasn’t sure whether I could do it.

So I decided to practice before going back. I restarted the engine — it came to life immediately. Then I picked various points along the shore and pretended that they were my docking spot. I’d aim for them, compensating for the wind. Just before I reached them, I’d put the boat into reverse and bring it to a stop. Then I’d back away and do it again at another point. I did this four times and got better with every try.

It was time to go back.

Docking

Before heading in, I fastened a long line to a round tow point at the front of the boat and secured the line, neatly wrapped, in one of the grab handles up front. Then I fastened a much shorter line to the steering wheel.

I motored in slowly. Several times, I was tempted to pick up the pace, but somehow I knew that patience was the key.

Understand that I’ve been on various boats and water craft many times in my life. My parents had a series of small motor boats for Hudson River excursions starting when I was about 10. When my mother remarried, she talked my stepdad into getting a boat; their last boat was a 28-foot Bayliner with a cabin. I’ve driven all of these boats. I’ve also driven various watercraft from dinghies to houseboats.

During that time, I’ve seen plenty of bad docking. I remember one trip across the Long Island Sound from Kings Park to someplace in Connecticut when my stepdad came in way too fast and gunned it in reverse just in time to prevent damage to either the dock or our boat. Spectators really enjoyed that. Another time, one of my companions nosed a houseboat into a dock at Lake Powell’s Dangling Rope Marina so hard that I thought the dock might break loose. In each case of bad docking I could remember, the problem had been speed: too much of it.

So I was going to take it slowly.

I was glad — at least at first — that there was no one around to witness my approach and docking. I floated forward, right on target the entire time. I pulled back on the throttle until I was at idle speed. Then the cleat was within reach of my hand. I nudged the throttle to reverse to stop the boat, grabbed the cleat, and secured the line around it.

It had been a perfect approach and docking. The best I’d ever seen. Certain the best I’d ever done.

Where were the witnesses when you wanted them?

I stepped out onto the dock, took the rope fastened to the bow, and tied it to a cleat halfway up the dock. The boat was now secured in two places. Time to get the trailer.

I think the hardest thing I did that day was back the empty trailer down the ramp. Trouble was, because it was so low, I simply couldn’t see it. It took about 10 tries to get it in position.

Then I walked back down the dock, unfastened the rope at my seat, and then unfastened the long rope. I walked around the dock to the front of the trailer and pulled the boat in. I got it close enough to attach the hook for the crank and cranked it the rest of the way. Easy.

I pulled the boat out of the water and away from the ramp so I wouldn’t block others. Then I took my time fastening the boat back down to the trailer and putting the cover back on.

Mission Accomplished

My main purpose in going out on the boat yesterday was to develop some kind of procedure for launching and later docking the boat by myself. I knew there would be special challenges that crews of two or more don’t have to deal with. I wanted to make sure I knew what needed to be done and come up with a way to do it all alone.

I honestly didn’t expect it to go as well as it did. The launching and docking went better than I could have imagined. Starting the boat and driving it out had been the big challenges — but by taking my time and working hard to do it right I’d been able to rise to those challenges. I now knew exactly what to expect — and how to deal with it.

Pete nailed it when he pointed out, later in the day, that it had been a confidence builder. The next time I go out, I’ll likely go farther and enjoy myself even more.