Should you have to pay for rescue?

So I was watching CNN the other day and they were running a story about some folks in Spartanburg, South Carolina who experienced a small kitchen fire, and decided to fight it themselves because of a previous CNN story reporting on a neighboring jurisdiction in Cherokee County which had passed a law that would allow the local fire department to bill the insurer of victims to recoup the costs of fighting the fire. The law, as I am given to understand it, is not particularly onerous and doesn’t affect uninsured victims in the least (which, at least in Washington, would seem to make it unconstitutional), but the news being the news and people being people, that apparently wasn’t communicated effectively. Nor was the fact that the law didn’t affect the town in which these folks lived. The message that got through was “If the fire department shows up, you’re getting a bill.”

Of course they then had the local fire chief on, explaining that had some neighbors not called when they saw the incident developing, the whole house might have burnt to the ground due to extension through the attic, and the gentleman inside with the garden hose would likely have died in that event.

I bring all this up on a sailing blog for a couple of reasons. The story about American sailor Keith Carver, ship-wrecked in BC this past month, has illustrated how the foolhardy or inexperienced sometimes get themselves into places where they require rescue through bad decisions. This isn’t news; if you trace the web of events leading to any rescue scenario, you’ll likely find a trail of bad decisions along the way, and it is really only in the degree of badness that any distinction can be made between experienced and inexperienced sailors.

But the fact that some obviously bad decisions are sometimes involved has lead to a movement of sorts leading to laws of the sort that Cherokee County passed (and since repealed) seeking to compensate rescuers for coming out and saving the damn fools that made those decisions. This is more common in wilderness than urban rescue, but with many jurisdictions both urban and rural scratching for funds with their tax bases hard hit by the recession, it’s an attractive trend. New Hampshire’s Fish and Game Department has billed survivors of rescue attempts regularly for the past three years, while eight other states have laws on the books allowing such billing but only do so sporadically.

What has surprised me is the degree to which many sailors support this concept and even advocate its adoption by the Coast Guard. A case involving a German crew rescued two years ago from a dis-masted vessel in the Gulf Stream off the Atlantic Coast resulted in a firestorm of debate on some sailing boards over the rescue of people who put themselves in harm’s way or mis-judged the severity of their situations in calling for aid.

This surprises me for a number of reasons. First, that the concept has a chilling effect has been long posited by serious rescue organizations, who are generally forthright and clear in telling people that they should call freely and early if they are in any doubt as to their situation. People who do search and rescue for a living don’t expect victims to be thinking clearly; they would rather you allow them to make the decision whether or not rescue is necessary. Introducing pay-as-you-go rescue will result in more deaths, and paradoxically, more danger for rescuers, who won’t get calls early enough to effect easy rescues, but instead will hear from victims only when the situation finally becomes desperate. This is not a unanimous view, of course, but my own observation has been that people who are full-time professionals are more likely to hold it than, say, a game warden who gets roped into the role.

Second, it betrays a tremendously simplistic view of how bad things happen at sea. I was surprised more sailors weren’t aware of the so-called decision funnels that generally lead to a disaster. It’s human, perhaps, to latch on to information that seems obvious from an armchair after the fact and say “I would have done this differently!” but most disasters result from a slow accumulation of minor decisions, few of which seem serious or controversial in isolation, but each of which restricts subsequent options, eventually funneling the victim toward danger. Some environmental impairment of cognitive function is also a common factor; you can see things there in your comfy armchair which might not be so obvious on a pitching, slippery deck in the dead of night.

The flip side of this is that, should the chain of events be interrupted early in the process, it can appear that the call for help was frivolous or needless. If you call for a tow with a dead engine in calm conditions it can look a little histrionic; should the wind pick up, a freighter bear down on you, or the tide shift you toward a rocky shore, you can bet that whoever comes out to get you will be wishing you had called when it was still calm and easy to resolve the situation. Discouraging people from making those calls is simply going to make things more dangerous and more expensive in the long run.

Third, we (sailors) already have pretty robust and time-tested traditions for dealing with these situations. When lives are in danger, anyone capable, consistent with the safety of their own crew and vessel, is obliged by law and custom to render assistance. To deal with the possibility of frivolous calls for assistance, salvage law provides for the compensation of the rescuer in situations where the rescued vessel is not, in fact, lost. The intricacies of Admiralty Law on these points is far beyond me, but the principles are clear and historic: aid is rendered when asked for without expectation of compensation. Compensation may, however, arise from property recovered in the course of rendering that aid… an implicit hedge against those who might cry wolf.

Of course, it is still frustrating for tax-payers to see their money going toward saving people in foreseeably avoidable situations. Last week, a kite-surfer near Tacoma had to be rescued by firefighters when the wind died, stranding him far from shore. The wind being what it is, one has to wonder why this possibility, and making contingencies for it, didn’t enter the surfer’s mind ahead of time.

Even more frustrating are those situations in which the contingency plan seems to be calling emergency services. The advent of reliable modern communication equipment has lead some adventurers to skimp on safety gear and training and rely on a cellphone and rescue service helicopters in case the going gets tough. Local author Jon Krakauer in his book “Eiger Dreams” describes just how seductive this can be when he describes a rough day ice-climbing in France. There, rescue bills seem more common, but so does insurance covering them… making it less “rescue” than “retrieval,” more on par with our Vessel Assist subscriptions than with emergency services.

Personally I am a fan of the existing maritime rescue system, flaws and all. I don’t think the Coast Guard or other emergency services should be in the business of sending out bills; I think it creates negative incentives all the way around, both within those agencies and among those who might need their help. The price of bailing out the occasional idiot (a group among which I unreservedly include myself; perhaps that’s a bias!) is something that we should collectively agree to bear, because any of us may be the idiot (or be worried about being seen as the idiot) next time. The thing about emergencies is that, by definition, you don’t see them coming, even if someone else does. I suppose there is some perfect person out there that is better than all the rest of us and would never get caught unaware; for everyone else, it seems to me we should chip in without enmity until our time comes.

Bracing for winter

Three Sheets posted a good article last week about winterizing your boat.  It struck a chord because as the temperatures have dropped and the rains begun, rigging our boat to provide a safe and warm place to weather the winter has been at the front of our minds.  Winterizing as a live-aboard is a bit different, however, particularly if you don’t plan to entirely leave off on going cruising during the cold season.

In one respect, living aboard is a blessing for the boat during the winter months.  One of the best things you can do to preserve the interior in good shape, we’ve found, is to simply be there using it regularly.  Having the heat on, compartments opened regularly, making use of pumps and electrical systems, all serve to keep them dry and in good working order in inclement weather.  We’ve been fortunate that Insegrevious has historically been well-served in that regard.  She has been a live-aboard vessel before, and the previous owner had regular card games aboard her year round which ensured a good airing and warming up at least weekly.  Last winter, in fact, was probably the first in which she simply sat without anyone aboard for long stretches, and the wear during that season was as bad as all that had accumulated before put together.

We learned our lessons from last year, or at least some of them.  Here’s what we’ve done, or will be doing, this year to make sure she is ready for cruising as soon as good weather hits (or a little before!):

  • Fixing, not tarping.  Most boats have leaks to greater or lesser extent in the upper decks.  A lot of people tarp up over the winter to keep the water out, and we have done so in the past.  This year, though, we’re tracking down what comes in and fixing it at the exterior.  Why shred another tarp when we can fix it so it won’t be a problem either tied up or out sailing?
  • Keeping it warm.  A $60 electric heater from West Marine can keep the interior of our 33 footer pretty toasty, and with warmth comes evaporation
  • Keeping it dry.  Heat only would just turn the interior into a sauna without ventilation.  We crack vents and storage compartments at least part of the time while we are heating up the interior, allowing the warm, moist air to escape
  • Keeping it running.  Using water and bilge pumps regularly helps keep them from getting corroded or crudded up, and constantly draining and refilling the water tank keeps it flushed and clean.  Having the lights on and off all the time keeps the contacts from corroding.  Finally, starting the engine up once a month or so both forces you to check and maintain the fluids (always a plus for long engine life) and keeps the mechanical systems working and rust-free
  • Circulating the air.  We have pretty good natural ventilation, but lazarette compartments along the hull are both extremely susceptible to forming condensation and difficult to have open while you are aboard.  We’re getting some small metal vent grids to install at either end of our settee compartments and midway along the v-berth compartments to allow air in and out even when we’re laying or sitting on top of them
  • Insulation!  We’re planning on insulating the hull both above and below the water line (where it hasn’t been done already; and perhaps re-doing some of what is already there, as it is not as effective as we might like) to keep condensation from forming so easily and to keep in the heat

I’ve also been liberal with the Boeshield T-9 this year protecting any electrical systems not within the warm interior of the vessel (those in engineering spaces or hard-to-reach lockers).  Places I sprayed last year survived the winter without any corrosion to speak of, while I wasn’t as lucky in other places.

On deck we haven’t done very much.  I pulled in the cable to our wheel-pilot; no sense in leaving it out in the weather.  We secured the halyards to keep them from beating themselves toward replacement time, but we generally do that anyway.  I bungee’d the headsail on the roller furler; blasting winds can catch at little edges that might work loose and pull the sail out to flap.  We’ve also bungee’d our sail cover in place, in addition to its built-in snaps, after watch our neighbor’s cover slowly unzip itself over the course of a windy day.

We also stole an idea from a boat down the dock and coiled and secured our jib-sheets at the bow rail.  This keeps the sheets easily accessible for quick rigging when we go out, but up off the deck where they inevitably start to stew along the toe rail and grow things.  I also swapped them end for end, as I do each season, to distribute wear more evenly.

So that’s the plan this year.  We’ll see how it goes!

Guarding One-Six

Everybody's favorite channel
Everybody's favorite channel

Few things come to grate as much on cruiser’s nerves as listening to the incessant chatter on the international VHF hailing and distress frequency, 156.800 Mhz on your FM dial, or channel 16 on marine VHF sets.  In many parts of the world, the frequency is used and abused to capacity, with transmissions by users expert and amateur alike crowding it during daylight hours and often well into the evening.

You are forced to endure this by law and custom if you can stand to have the radio on at all; FCC regulations require any vessel with a VHF set turned on (and vessels over 20 meters, or those in commercial use, must leave their VHF on) and not otherwise in use to monitor (or “guard” in radio parlance) channel 16.  The reason for this is simple; it dramatically expands the number of stations and coverage to pick up distress calls, VHF being a relatively localized (within line of site, give or take, which generally isn’t over 40 miles at any point on the gentle curve of the ocean) technology.  Moreover, since everyone is required to be on the channel, its secondary use as a hailing frequency is almost a given.  If you want to contact someone, or vice versa, you know where they will be listening.

The problem generally arises with users forgetting that the channel is only supposed to be used for making initial contact, or for emergencies.  Rather than making contact and then switching to a less populated frequency (since 16 is a simplex frequency; only one station can understandably transmit across it at a given time, crowding out anyone else who may need it) they will carry on their extended conversations there, subjecting the rest of us to generally boring drivel and blocking others trying to make contact… or, god forbid, who need help in an actual emergency.

Still, it’s a fascinating snapshot of the world if you have the patience for it.  I take a certain arcane pleasure in observing expert users over the air.  A Coast Guard officer using the obscure “ordinal” for “degree” when relaying a transmission; a particularly polished securite call from a surveying vessel.  Maybe I’m excessively nerdy, but I think those are cool, and I count radio watch as one of the more entertaining aspects of watchkeeping.  We’ve overhead two plane crashes, two vessels go down, and any number of minor medical dramas in addition to the more mundane “…the Coast Guard has received a report of an overturned kayak…” calls.  It’s just like reality TV!

But unlike reality TV, you have to put up with the mundane in addition to the interesting.  My observation has been that usage patterns and expertise vary with locality.  In the heavily populated waters of the lower Inside Passage, amateurs dominate, with spurious calls, over-frequent hails, and clumsy techniques that waste air time.  On the West Coast of Vancouver Island, and further north up the Inside Passage, more professional use predominates.

It’s a bit hard to define this but you know it when you hear it.  Consider this classic example of a hailing call:

“Why Knot, Why Knot, Why Knot, this is Sailaway, Sailaway, Sailaway on channel one six, over.”

“Sailaway, this is Why Knot, over.”

“Why Knot, let’s go to channel six eight, six eight please, over.”

“Sailaway, Why Knot moving to channel six eight, out.”

It’s textbook, right out of Chapman’s, and neither the FCC nor the Coast Guard will call you to account for it.  And yet, to ears familiar with the clipped brevity of conversations on disciplined radio nets, it’s maddeningly inefficient.  Compare to this:

“Why Knot, Why Knot, Sailaway on one-six, over.”

“Sailaway, Why Knot, go ahead.”

“Go six eight.”

“Six eight, roger.”

Which accomplishes the same end, but takes half the time.  Truly familiar users get it down to two lines:

“Why Knot, Why Knot, Sailaway calling, over.”

“Sailaway, six eight.”

And Sailaway might simply acknowledge with two quick mike clicks, if that.

It’s a pleasure sharing the air waves with such considerate and professional users.

On the other hand, few things are more disturbing than overhearing, as I did last summer near the northern tip of Vancouver Island, the voice of a grizzled older gentleman announcing the following:

“Sea King, Sea King, Sea King, this is Boy Toy, Boy Toy.”

Sometimes maybe it’s better to just turn it off.

Spot the hazard to navigation!

Kayakers, or a reef awash?
Kayakers, or a reef awash?

If I had a fancier camera, or if Insegrevious were a more stable camera platform, I would make a regular feature of comparison photographs of nautical objects taken first from far away and then from up close. I find identification difficult and wonder how many other people share my curse. It’s not even a vision thing; my wife has much worse eyesight than I do, yet she can often spot and identify objects before I can. It’s something about how my brain is wired that it can’t decide what it is looking at.

Is it a floating flock of seagulls ahead? Or crab-pot hell? An indistinct white dot against the shoreline; breakers over a rock, or an idling Bayliner? Two masts appear on the horizon; a tame and friendly ketch crossing, or is it a fishing trawler coming at you on autopilot? Is that a line of kayakers, or a low-lying reef? Then there is the always popular game for kids and watchkeepers, “How many sportfishermen can you find in this picture?” You’ll always miss at least one!

The issue is exacerbated in a stern cockpit sailboat, where the helm is situated at the worst possible place to see anything that matters most, ie, ahead of you. You’re often lower than the bow by some few feet, and there is the whole mess of sails, masts, ventilators, hatches, lifelines and pulpits ahead of you. It would amaze wildlife biologists what size of whale you can effectively hide behind a one inch lifeline stanchion, and it’s a phenomena that I feel should be further researched as it almost certainly holds vital keys to the preservation of the species from the depredations of whalers.

Then, on our boat and many others in the chilly Pacific Northwest, you have the dodger with its plastic windows that distort and hide objects on the other side. I often spend my watches huddled beneath the warmth of the dodger and amuse myself with the manner in which it turns all sorts of obstacles into rather poor Van Gogh knock-offs. While a boon to the arts community, this probably isn’t exactly in the finest traditions of seamanship.

So, partly of necessity and partly through my own cowardice, I spend many watches in fear of running down whales, kayakers, and fishermen in Zodiacs (well, I’m actually a little encouraged at the prospect of running down sportfishermen, savoring the possibility of the tables being turned for once, but you don’t exactly get to choose), enjoying the fine vistas off the beams and stern and then realizing with a start that I haven’t had a good look dead ahead in some time now. It’s amazing what leaps out at you in those moments of panicked clarity and, as if through some sort of adrenaline-driven super-power, I have yet to nail all manner of deadheads, crab pots, and aquatic mammals, but I am sure it’s only a matter of time.