Dark Side, with a Twist

Oh good grief, I’ve done it again. All those good intentions to blog frequently, and it’s been seven months since my last post! But I have a good excuse, and it has something to do with the Microship that I spent a decade building, ignored for a decade, then launched last summer. That, and chronic back pain… along with a few other profoundly life-changing things that add up to Nomadness looking for a new home (lots of tech details at that link).

It’s a lot to cram in, but first, here’s a bit of fun from those mini-voyages.

Spike Africa FlybyI had a pas de deux with Spike Africa one September afternoon, after turning my back on pressing projects and taking the boatlet on an impromptu sanity sail to the northwest corner of Shaw Island. North of Parks Bay, I heard a rushing noise and looked over my shoulder to see this lovely 80′ schooner gaining fast, doing a fly-by. As they passed close to leeward, all the guests called in unison: “Hi, Steven!”  I hollered back, “Careful! You are in my wind shadow!” Laughter all around, a sweet moment. They did a broad tack around me and headed back south to Friday Harbor, the salvo of grins delivered, mission accomplished.

Microship Jaunts 2013It was a treat to take the boatlet on micro-voyages, a welcome “return on investment” after the decade of development that ended 12 years ago. There were a few burps, of course, but that’s to be expected… this is, after all, just a long-delayed beta test, and it didn’t take long to start a to-do list that included a design flaw in the rudder hydraulics, power system refinements, comfort issues, and a few other things. Still, the stress level was low, since I was just doing day trips (not gearing up for a 12,000-mile expedition as I was in this video from the construction phase). I got to know the local waters fairly well, and by fall I was fantasizing about a Mothership that would let me explore farther afield… dropping anchor, deploying the boatlet, and heading off to explore while streaming a datawake of telemetry. “Scaled Technomadics,” I called it one day, sailing across the San Juan Channel, savoring the moment.

Windstorm dock sterntieThis was pretty much the languid flavor of the whole summer, although rudder hydraulic leakage eventually became enough of a problem that I lost a few weeks doing a fiddly on-water Amsteel bridle retrofit, taking the dinghy between Nomadness and Microship for every little step in the process. The to-do list was growing… but seeds had been planted! As the days shortened, I decided to get ready for haulout and moved her from the port to a slip near Nomadness where she lay for a couple of weeks, the occasional focus of a show ‘n tell, putting off the physical challenge until I was prodded by a nasty northerly that lashed the exposed marina for over 24 hours. I still shudder at the memory of bronco-busting the walkway in 60 knot gusts and breaking seas after midnight, trying to add fenders to stop the starboard ama from diving under the dock, and running a line to the next finger in the hope of saving the rudder. The boat was being vigorously thrashed, the mast swinging through a fore-aft arc of about 80 degrees. Scary… but the extra line held and no damage was done (and thanks to Dan Ward for helping in the peak of the storm).

It was the end of October and clearly time to get this baby out of the water for the winter. The following day, a stalwart crew of assistants (my pal Rebecca, plus Paul and Seth from s/v Phoenix) met me down at Shipyard Cove, and after a bit of fiddling with the creaky landing gear we hauled her up the ramp. The barnacle-encrusted slimy bottom was evidence that I should have applied some proper anti-fouling paint over the original gelcoat, but this was the first time she had ever spent a season in the water. We wrestled her into the mobile-lab trailer and parked beside my building, then Rebecca and I got busy with hull-scraping, squirming in a pile of redolent biology under the boat, working overhead with numb hands long into the freezing night. Ah, boats…

Microship haulout
She (Microship Wordplay, not Rebecca!) has been folded in the mobile-lab trailer ever since, but the experience of having the boatlet afloat, at first just a playful distraction from Nomadness projects, turned out to be pivotal. There are a few jobs that must be done for it to be reliable, but they are of human scale and are on a deeply familiar substrate. I often forget that a decade of my life went into this little ship…

NRL Store LogoMore to the point, there is something about this that was like coming home. Some parts may be absurd, and others need fine-tuning, but there was a startling familiarity in the mini-adventures… heading out on a home-built high-tech gadget, attracting interesting passers-by, cruising along while brainstorming hacks and additions, and dreaming of more. Like the bike, it’s a deeply personal bit of geekery.

Of course, it is impractical, and only carries one person. Gear stowage is inconvenient, it’s wet, going forward underway requires gymnastics, and dancing between cockpit and dock is dangerous enough that I’m surprised I didn’t end up falling between the hulls and dying of hypothermia (got damn close one stormy night, slipping on wet fiberglass in the dark while foolishly trying to rig a boom tent to reduce the next day’s bailing). Serviceability is a pain, she makes too much leeway under sail, the pedal drive unit is broken, and I never finished the solar array that would give the electric drive more range. But it’s home, in a twisted sense. I spent ten obsessed years building this, and the term “return on investment” isn’t just about money.

Jim Guy Nomadness masthead

Self portrait by Jim Guy from the masthead of Nomadness, after climbing aloft to install the new LED anchor light.

I started gazing at Nomadness and brainstorming. How could I incorporate little Wordplay into a technomadic lifestyle? An open-ended camping expedition would be too hard… and I shudder at the idea of creaking into my dotage with an annual ritual of trailering to the same dock from a dusty garage, making little crossings and dreaming of the Epic Circumnavigation of Lopez Island (E. Coli). If only she could fit onto the dinghy davits at the stern of Nomadness… but no, the scale is wrong.

Mothership Dreams

Noodling around local waters last summer, I conjured an updated technomadic fantasy consistent with the realities of chronic back pain, relationship changes, and other personal issues (subjects I have resisted discussing in this public forum, but which have become increasingly significant in recent years). Imagine a spacious Mothership that can deploy the Microship via hydraulic crane from an upper deck, allowing a lifestyle of slowly exploring coastal and inland waters with occasional forays via micro-trimaran. From a purely practical standpoint, this could be done with a dinghy and a couple of kayaks, but a big part of this is that quirky blend of art and engineering about which I love to rhapsodize… I’m not ready to give up the passion that drove that project.

Aerostatlinedrawing

(Just kidding – this is the Coast Guard’s Sea-Based Aerostat surveillance platform)

Such a vessel would have to be largish… 12×20 feet of clear deck space with a crane isn’t easy to find, and the ship would probably be in the 60-70 foot range. Large power boats, in general, have never turned my head, and my budget would limit me to older ones with potential hull or mechanical gotchas (not to mention fuel costs that quickly become prohibitive)… so I am being extremely careful researching unfamiliar territory. But it’s an interesting line of reasoning, and not entirely absurd. A side benefit is that anything of this scale would have considerably more space aboard for a lab, consoles, office, room to relax, and an adjustable bed that I could step around. That last item has become a bit of a problem while living aboard for the past two years. I’m in pain all the time, and it’s exhausting.

Cecil be 'da Mill

Cecil be ‘da Mill weighs about 2,650 pounds and is not really boatable. This is part of my current shore-side facilities.

This will only work if it’s big enough to get me completely out of building rental for shop and other tonnage. That has been a financial nightmare these past two years, paying way too much for a huge expensive mausoleum with no heat or bathroom. The lease is up on May 1… and I’m moving to a smaller temporary space over the next few weeks. The plan is to compress my machine shop into the mobile lab trailer, put a Probotix CNC router and other fab tools into a big honkin’ Mothership, integrate a capable electronics lab using the existing 19″ rack gear I’ve been developing for Nomadness, stuff a piano somewhere, and live aboard full time with a Microship perched on the roof amidst a thicket of antennas like a geeky caricature of a megayacht with a helipad. Hey, why not?

And so….

nomreturningAfter something like 8 months of agonizing, I have a decision. My beloved Amazon 44 needs to find a new home before I can do likewise, and I have moved off to clear the personal clutter and let me focus on a few jobs that have to happen before I hand over the keys.

It’s important to admit that this is excruciating, as I’ve been pouring all available resources into the project for  years… dreaming of open-ended voyaging. But my creaky body has other ideas, and I’ve painted myself into a corner with no room for crew. The alternatives were looking like defeat, but I’m getting that old excitement back with this Mothership vision.

A Quick Footnote on Publishing

nombook-all-coverimage-widgetFrom April 2011 until January 2013, I published 22 issues of the Nomadness Report, an elaborate magazine-style production that detailed the project as it unfolded (these are now collected into a single eBook of about 200 pages that you can order by clicking the cover image at right). When I wound this down last year, partly because of all this noodling about major life changes, I started putting out a less-formal email newsletter to my subscribers. The last one of those was in September, and there were 9 issues (plus one more that will deal with business matters, pointing to this and other recent news).

The new model is much simpler. Project narratives will be here on the blog. Finished designs and how-to material will take the form of either stand-alone articles (free, like the little music stand piece) or more technically detailed eBooks. There are a few of these on the immediate horizon, in addition to the Nomadness Report collection, and I’ll announce them here as they become available. The most substantial one details the complete ship power system including battery management, shore power, grounding, AC & DC distribution, and console fabrication.

Also, I have finally started a project I’ve been talking about for, um, 20 years… a combined volume of the whole bike epoch including Computing Across America, Miles with Maggie, and tons of detailed tech info collected from all the paper files and postings from 1983 to 1991. The first step was slicing up a copy of the book and running it through my scan/OCR process to create a text file, so now it’s just a matter of editing.

So. Changes are in the air… not the ones I was expecting, but life is a twisted journey, hopefully a long one, and we have to roll with it. Last year it became obvious that some kind of course correction was going to be necessary, and it took ages to figure out what that should be… and then more ages to get up the nerve to discuss it publicly.

Fair winds, and I look forward to sharing the next steps, whatever they may be!

 EB White quote

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Microship Revival

I didn’t expect this nautical non-sequitur, but even a career technomad needs to get shaken out of a rut now and again.

Way back in 1993, after ten years and 17,000 miles of wandering the US aboard my “computerized recumbent bicycle,” I decided to build an amphibian pedal/solar/sail micro-trimaran and chase the same crazy dream on water, heading down the Missouri River and turning right to begin the Great Loop of coastal and inland waterways… about 10,000 miles. The plan was gizmologically intense, and there are plenty of stories on my Microship cobwebsite about the development decade that followed. A 132-mile mini-expedition happened in 2001, then another year or two of refinement… and then, as life evolved, I quietly moved on to other things, eventually wanting a boat big enough to live aboard. The little boatlet sat untouched, a forgotten centerpiece of my life. 

Well, OK, that was frustrating. Ten years of intense effort for a piece of dusty artwork, occasionally shown to lab visitors? I reluctantly listed her on Yachtworld, but the market for geeky unfinished one-person amphibian multi-mode micro-trimarans is not exactly booming. I posted a few articles about loaning her to the right person in the hopes of seeing my labor of love get Out There to do a proper expedition… even if not with me. Nothing came of that either. 

But a couple of months ago, taking a break from the seemingly endless Nomadness project, I went for a stroll on the docks over at the Port of Friday Harbor. I chatted with a friendly fellow traveling through the islands on his homemade Marsh Duck, then another couple of guys on a beautiful wooden boat named Tern. “Gosh, I wish I had a little boat…” I mused, imagining how much fun it would be to hop in and go for a sail, not needing crew, not worried about back pain or projects… hey, wait! I have a little boat! One that consumed a quarter of my adult life! I think I even smote myself on the forehead as I doubled my pace and hurried back to Nomadness to start the (deliberately short) to-do list.

In less than a month, she was on the water:

But let’s back up a bit. Getting her splashed was an adventure, and took advantage of one of the most complex and time-consuming parts of the project… the landing gear.

The Launch

Purging air by using the bleeder ports added to all 13 hydraulic cylinders aboard the Microship (this is landing-gear control, which implements the Ackerman steering function)

Energized by the plan, I threw myself into preparations: renting a slip at the port, buying a registration sticker, replacing the very dead split-open marine battery with a new pair of golf-cart monsters, adding a solar charger, recharging the hydraulic system with water, fixing the LED navlights, and tweaking things I had barely touched since the turn of the century. When the day arrived, I was fortunate to have the assistance of three friends: Paul Elliott of Valis (a lovely Pacific Seacraft 44 sailboat… he’s on the left in the photo below), and Al & Kristi Thomason of Viking Star (45′ Monk trawler). Geeks, muscles, and an event photographer, all rolled into a fun day with people I enjoy… how much luckier could I get? 

We almost turned back at the start, though. The ferry Elwha had just disgorged a summer-scale bolus of cars, and we found ourselves gingerly navigating this crazy contraption through turbulent traffic while fielding questions and testing landing gear calibration to minimize drag. But we pressed on, got in the groove, and decided to go for it. With one stop to rehydrate, we covered the mile between lab and port in about an hour (zig-zagging on back roads to avoid the busy Spring Street through town). In the photo at right, we are rolling down through the ferry loading area, with the guys keeping gravity from taking over and me steering via a winch handle plugged into the hydraulic control at the bow. You can see the 60-foot white Nomadness mast dead ahead.

We made it onto the marina walkway without incident, then I biked back to the lab to fetch my truck with sail rig and other hardware. The next phase was one that I had been nervously dreading… installing 130 pounds of batteries and crankset, hoisting the boat with the crane, swinging it over the rail, and lowering it to the water far below with the hope of safely getting it from there to a dock where I could step the mast, climb aboard and make the short trek to my slip. In the photo below, the guys have rigged my dock lines and some stray webbing straps into a quartet of matched slings hanging from the hook overhead, and I have retracted the landing gear. That’s Kristi, our photographer, at left.

Holding the crane-control pendant (up, down, in, out) in one hand, I got her clear of the rail and threw myself into the arm that swings it around. Paul managed a pair of looped-back control lines he had fashioned with old halyards to keep it properly oriented, and Al waited on the water in his inflatable dinghy. It looked like a long way down… but only took about a minute once in the air.

There was no dock adjacent to the crane, so the plan was for him to catch the boat, free the slings, lash himself alongside, and trundle off to a more suitable location for mast-raising and climbing aboard before making the run to my slip. In this photo, Al has the Microship under tow…

After we tidied up the crane and Paul recovered all the deployment lines, I shouldered the mast and started trotting out to the breakwater to meet my little boatlet… already looking almost comically small against a backdrop of yachts. The tiny amas were no match for our first planned landing spot (behind a 70-footer, as I recall), so we located an open area on the walkway and Al brought her alongside. The task now was to step the mast, leading to what quickly became known as our Iwo Jima moment:

(The mast has Delrin bearings at the base, which drop into a Teflon-anodized aluminum tube solidly glassed to the forward bulkhead. It can be rotated via a long loop of line and the double furling drum, allowing the 93 square-foot sail to be deployed or retracted from the safety of the cockpit.)

And then, before I knew it, I was afloat! Things were creaky and unfamiliar, but it felt spectacular… and when I pedaled away from the dock to head around the outside breakwater toward my slip for the summer, I recalled the fantasies that had long ago sparked the obsessive creation of this machine. The next day, I rigged the sail, adjusted the crankset (coupled via Tran-Torque to the deployable Spinfin drive unit, spinning a model-airplane propeller at about 600 RPM), tweaked the hydraulic rudder control system, and pedaled out of the harbor for the first test run.

Having this in such a public place takes me back to the bike epoch, when emerging from a cafe to resume my trek would first require answering a round of questions… and, sometimes, getting to know interesting people. At the marina, conversations on the dock are frequent, and I’m glad I installed those Nomadic Research Labs decals with a link to the old Microship front door. Of course, it sometimes makes it hard to get things done. The other day I was head-down in there with rump aimed skyward, and from somewhere behind me came nonstop chatter as folks speculated about the machine and fired questions my way. Just like the good old days…

A Month of Micro-Adventures

Launch date was June 26, and I am writing this exactly one month later. She has been off the dock 14 times, covering somewhere around 50 miles, getting slowly refined one piece at a time. It’s a short hike from Nomadness to Microship via foot, bicycle, dinghy, or kayak… and I’ve been delighted to discover that when it’s a nice day in the San Juan Islands I can just go sailing. What a strange concept.

She sails well, other than making a bit more leeway than I would like (probably a result of the flat canoe hull, daggerboard notwithstanding)… and I was particularly pleased that the furler is now behaving. In the photo above, the black plastic “shelf” under the drum is a recent addition, helping keep the line from falling off, wrapping around the mast base, and making it impossible to stow the sail without clambering awkwardly forward and unwinding it… a tricky and dangerous maneuver even in mild conditions. This is assisted by a small block on a bungee in the cockpit to keep the loop tensioned when not immobilized by a pair of cam cleats.

The most frustrating problem so far has been human-induced. On the first Saturday night in the port, somebody climbed aboard the boat, scuffed some paint, broke my radar reflector, left the nav lights on, and… the only serious part… tried to pedal with the Spinfin drive unit retracted! This sheared the bond between the 5/8″ stainless input shaft and the collar that supports the top drive gear, robbing me of my primary mode of non-sail propulsion (I do have a trolling motor, but pedaling is faster and a lot more fun… and includes an automatic turbo mode triggered by being on a collision course with a ferry). The drive is now in the lab as I research solutions… probably drilling a hole through the entire assembly and pinning it with a hardened steel rod, since a full rebuild would be a huge project. But hey, the electric motor works, there are new batteries, and I’m not going to let this interfere with my short summer of mini-expeditions.

How is it otherwise? Well, look at this happy selfie taken outside Parks Bay on Shaw Island, just after crossing San Juan Channel:

One of the greatest pleasures of all this is being able to focus on the sailing, something I’ve been missing during this long dock marathon in Nomadness. As some wise person once observed, “the smaller the boat, the bigger the adventure,” and I am suddenly attuned to every wake, tide rip, frond of Nereocystis Leutkeana, and creak of my little ship. I’m getting to know local waters, and taking the time to enjoy the moments instead of working endlessly on chipping away at a massively complex long-term project. In the big boat, local trips like these would barely warm up the Yanmar or shake out old sail wrinkles, and many days would be spent preparing for departure (and, with some challenging back and knee problems, I’ve been reluctant to single-hand my 18-ton ship). The Microship is a perfect antidote to those crunchy-dockline blues. Both of the little jaunts shown on this chart plotter photo were micro-adventures of a mere 5 miles or so, filled with challenges and memories, glimpses of the beauty of this place, and reminders of why I’m putting so much energy into the larger project.

Microship hydraulic calibration valves and manifold

I’d like to share a few tech details of the boatlet, but I think I’ll save that for next time; I’ve been tweaking the hydraulic system (getting rid of a leaky over-pressure valve that was letting the rudder drift up, along with identifying the cause of some steering mushiness), trying to get an APRS tracker going, muttering about RFI from the solar MPPT charger, fiddling with video monitoring, researching a suitable fixed-mount VHF to replace the dead one installed 12 years ago, assembling a simple on-water bivouac system to extend my range, gathering the parts for a “clothesline” anchoring rig to allow beaching in tidal waters, and so on. This machine was never truly finished, back when the project wound down in 2002, but current plans are much more modest than the high-stress large-scale expedition for which she was designed.

And yarrrh… it was blowin’ half a gale. We had no business out there, but were making for Hicks Bay… then the eddies kicked up around Reid Rock and swept us off course, streamers flying off the waves, whirlpools spinning logs, birds screeching, rudder hard over as we fought off a gybe, too much sail out, wakes from fender-slappin’ powerboats throwing spray off the amas, crossbeams a-creakin’. It was grim, I tell you. Them what died… them was the lucky ones…

-Steve

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Power Console Fabrication

One of my frustrations with this boat has been difficult serviceability in a very critical place: power-distribution. This a region that needs to have easy access, excellent lighting, clear labeling, and a lack of clutter… not only is it otherwise maddening to make changes, but it can be a serious safety issue. (Thrice over the years I have found burned wires and had a hard time squirming in there to fix them; many boats have been lost to this sort of thing, and it should never be difficult to access a nexus of power cabling!)

A few months ago, I wrote about the first phase in the fabrication of the new Nomadness pilothouse console (upper helm panel). I used black half-inch King Starboard as a substrate, machined holes for the instruments, and added a hinge structure with simple latching system to keep it in place. I did that one first because it was relatively easy… sort of a practice piece for this new one that I just completed:


The gap at the top is about to be closed by a thin panel that carries vent louvers and a temperature monitor. The original panel hinged up, suited more to a willowy contortionist than a big galumphing guy with back problems; the new one hinges to the right, and thus had to be shorter to clear the structures overhead.

Difficult access into the old power console translated into my not dealing with things, so the boat’s power system has been rather opaque since I’ve owned it (not helped by ancient out-of-synch documentation and cruft left over from long-removed hardware). Now that I’m taking a top-down approach, nothing is connected unless it is actually relevant… and there is a satisfying mountain of old wire in the lab. The effort has already been worthwhile, for it is now a pleasure to work on the power panel:


We’ll get into how that works in a moment, but first let’s look at the overall design and fabrication process.

In this photo of the boat just before I acquired it, you can see the original pilothouse. That area off to the left (over the chart table) is becoming the Internet Alcove, with the data collection stuff all just under the tabletop; the control panels around that chair are being completely re-done. It’s not visible in this picture, but the most awkward area was off to the right and just out of frame… another panel that was even harder to use than the main one, carrying AC breakers, a cluster for the Yanmar generator, and controls for a long-gone watermaker. For years, I’ve been eying that region with thoughts of converting it to galley-related stowage, so I decided to blend all AC and DC controls into the new integrated console. While this does raises a few safety issues, it’s nothing that can’t be overcome.

Since this change involved new breaker panels, I spent quite a bit of time fine-tuning the list of circuits and trying to think far enough ahead to accommodate future additions. I threw together a database (FileMaker) that gave me a place to keep notes, locations, and related data for the 80 or so circuit-protection devices on the boat (including random fuses). A typical record is shown here, though I found that it was most useful showing groups as a sorted table.

Since this was to become the central cluster for all power-related controls and displays on the boat, fabrication was slowed by over-thinking… a maddening process, but one that eventually pays off. Here’s what ended up being mounted:

  • DC breaker panel (Blue Sea 8382) with DMM, 100A main, and 35 positions
  • AC breaker panel (Blue Sea 8459) with source-select 30A breakers and 8 loads
  • AC digital multimeter (Blue Sea 8247)
  • MATE3 control/display unit for Outback power system (2KW inverter-charger and solar charge controller)
  • Yanmar 3GM generator control panel (homebrew)… on-off, start, stop, alarm LEDs (with audio behind panel), and run-time meter
  • Green status LED for Blue Sea ACR and override button to disconnect
  • Two ring LED/pushbuttons for Power Node status and fault alarm
  • 12-volt DC utility outlet on the Charging Alcove circuit
  • 115-volt AC utility outlet on the Rack Outlets circuit
  • Grab handle that lashes to desk edge to provide support when open, with nearby hole for thumbscrew to lock closed
  • Eight latching buttons with blue ring LEDs and legend plates for local lighting… pilothouse table, power console interior, helm console interior, pantry interior, under-table, battery bay, engine compartment, and control surface floods.

Panel dimensions (27.5″ X 19″) were defined by existing framing, so I started with a piece of half-inch Starboard cut to size with clearance for a stainless piano hinge, then amused myself for days by nudging objects around on the surface while imagining use cases, interactions, cabling, aesthetics, safety, lighting, upgrades, room for stuff on the back, and a rational layout that will have to make sense to somebody after I’m long gone. A few things were obvious, like putting breaker panels close to the hinge to prevent other devices from being obscured by bundles of heavy wire; others were more in the domain of intuition. To aid in visualization, I used a low-tech modeling system that involved blue tape, cardboard, legend plates, and the objects themselves… continuing this process iteratively as machining progressed, until it was done (the curse of perfectionism).

Eventually, with the help of my trusty Bridgeport, I had a chunk of high-density polyethylene with holes for everything. In the photo, you can see the detailing that was necessary for the Blue Sea breaker panels… the “bolt circle” for mounting is inside the outer envelope of hardware, which makes for a compact installation but complicates the hole cutouts (their newer 360 Panel family is much easier in this regard, though I personally prefer the look of the traditional series). The photo also shows a large round hole at the top for the AC digital multimeter, positioned to line up with the DC one built into the breaker panel, as well as a square hole for the two Ethernet cables that go to the Outback MATE3 controller.

Of course, no task is ever as simple as we expect it to be, so some of those holes required spot-facing to accommodate components that don’t play nicely with a half-inch substrate (in the photo at right… toggle switches, Dialight LED indicators, the grab handle, and an old AC outlet all required additional attention).

At last it was time for the fun stuff! I pre-assembled the panel in the lab, using laser-etched legend plates to label the buttons and indicators (those folks did a beautiful and quick job, not expensive at all, a perfect match to the 16mm holes required for the buttons I bought from Adafruit… like these blue momentary ones… though I have noted that blue LEDs get very warm and the green ones not at all). The cluster of controls at the lower left replaces the old Yanmar generator panel, and the adjacent grab handle was positioned relative to other hardware so that would be the only thing impacting the edge of the nearby tabletop when the panel is opened for service. Given the physical difficulty of doing the actual hinge mounting, I was putting a lot of faith in templates and measurements at this point, but I was on a roll…

It made sense to do some of the fiddly wiring in the lab while I had more room to work, so after playing with backlights and breaker blinkies for a while (who can resist?) I installed a barrier strip for the eight pilothouse LED circuits and wired all the latching buttons. While it might seem redundant to have lights that light up to indicate that lights are on (!), half of the latter are in enclosed spaces and easy to forget… so this provides at-a-glance status along with a big button to let me quickly go dark without losing the setup configuration or taking down other loads on the same circuit. This is a lot of work and expense, but I have come to realize that one of the biggest problems with serviceability aboard is simply not being able to see what I’m doing… adding decent lighting has already improved the galley immeasurably. I want it everywhere.

With this and some other pre-wiring done, it was time to haul the thing aboard, disconnect and extract the old panel, mount the new hinge while hoping for a successful fit, then hook up at least the bare-essential circuits for lighting/water/refrigeration. Before long I had a thicket of wires dangling inside the power bay, labeled with blue tape, then wrestled the new panel into place… propping it up with a stack of books while installing the piano hinge screws. There was a huge sigh of relief when it closed smoothly and snuggled into the frame.

One of the things in the TBDWL category (To Be Dealt With Later) had been how, precisely, I was going to hold the panel open in a working position. I had carefully arranged components so the handle would be the only point of contact with the table edge, but my to-do list vaguely referenced some kind of “latching system” that I was having trouble visualizing. As it turned out, the problem was trivial to solve with a scrap of stretchy 3/16″ nylon braid, a carabiner, and the endlessly useful Mini RopeTie. It takes but a few seconds to clip on to the handle, toss a loop around the table, and conjure an instant trucker’s hitch to keep the panel solidly in place while I work inside the console.

From here, it was mostly a matter of wiring, with even more cruft finding its way to the scrap pile. Once the DC essentials were online, I did the same for AC… vastly simplifying the system in the process. In the old configuration, raw AC appeared on the terminal board behind this region, then was hauled via fat welding cable across the table to the breaker panel with all the switched circuits returning to labeled barrier strips. This was a lot of wire-tonnage, confusing and hard to modify… so it is now local and simple. Here’s a look at the back of the new AC panel:


In the photo above, you can see the black current transformer that is used to determine the AC load for the front-panel multimeter. The bundle of wire going off to the left (where it turns down to exit in parallel with the hinges to minimize cyclic flexion) splits immediately into two distinct groups… eight switched load circuits to a labeled barrier strip, and all the heavy stuff related to the shore/generator input side that includes an isolation transformer and the AC section of the inverter/charger. Meanwhile, all DC cabling heads up in the opposite direction, so one can tell at a glance which bundle of cable contains lethal voltages.

Still, I was concerned about the exposed back of the AC breaker panel itself, so I added tall stand-offs to extend three of the studs supporting the ground buses, then used those to support a clear polycarbonate safety shield. This keeps stray fingers and tools from accidentally contacting high voltage when the panel is open. Just to be sure, I mounted an LED on a little bracket labeled HOT… indicating that things are alive in there. Also, while it is not very visible in the photo, the wire bundle is zip-tied to a black aluminum handle mounted to the panel (with another one at the top for DC). These keep loading stresses from tugging on crimp terminals and breaker screws.

Already I have noticed a huge difference in my interaction with the ship’s power system. The status of circuits is obvious at a glance, all switching is in the same region, and the “situation awareness” added by the Blue Sea multimeters and Outback display keep me constantly aware of what’s going on. I notice the Automatic Charging Relay, water-heater cycling, espresso machine usage, and even the presence of plugged-in computers and other gadgets. After the local node is installed all this will be databased, viewable in a browser, and used to initiate alarm notifications if something is amiss. The area is getting better illuminated in more ways than one!

Once the power system is complete, it will be the subject of the first of the published Design Packages, wire-bound into a lay-flat 11×17 book with detailed schematics and a thorough explanation. This is for my own documentation (always a challenge to actually get that done), as well as a product… while this system is unique to Nomadness, the principles and techniques map to lots of other applications, and having a known-working design for reference is always a helpful project starting point. I always reference such resources if they are available, since life is too short for wheel-reinvention.

This was the hardest of the pilothouse consoles; the three that remain are the skinny one mentioned earlier, inside helm station (dominated by nav LCD and engine controls), and one over the tabletop (stereo remote, NAVTEX, and random stuff). Then attention will turn to the wrap-around console in the lab/studio… and things will start to get a bit geeky around here!

Cheers from Nomadness,
Steve

 

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Springtime and Shiny Things

It happens every year. Suddenly the sun is sparkling on the water, I realize another orbit has passed, and I peer critically at the epic project list with an eye toward culling non-essentials.

One of my favorite kinds of progress involves getting new gizmology off the shelf and into actual use; it’s easy to get bogged down in endless repairs and rewiring, but important to remember the geeky underpinnings of this project and savor the shiny things. Let’s devote this post to four new toys that have made the cut and found their way aboard.

The Boat Piano

Nomadness is about combining passions into a lifestyle, and despite some daunting packaging challenges, a piano is a key component. My beloved Roland RD-700SX (along with related studio gear) now has a wonderful new home on Camano Island, and I bought the Casio PX-5S that was just released last month. This is already getting a cult-like following and has a surprising depth of capabilities, though I have barely gotten past the level-1 learning curve. A huge win for me, though, is that it only weighs 25 pounds and is no wider than it needs to be. Another excellent feature is that an engineer on the development team is very active in the piano forums…

In the photo here, it is shown with the CAD system (Cardboard-Aided Design)… the trio of 12U equipment racks with cutouts representing the objects that will be mounted in 19″ aluminum panels Real Soon Now. The key dimensions of this region are part of this plan; the angular placement of the cabinets matches the 52″ length and 12″ depth of the piano, though the seat has to be raised about 5″ whenever I want to play music instead of hunch over the desktop to do geeky things or peer into radio dials.

Integration of this has three components, the first of which is electronic and pretty standard: connection to the mixer that will live in the left-most rackspace (or the Sennheiser HD598 cans). I chose this mixer (sadly, now a “legacy product”) because the control surface is separate from the box bristling with connectors and is thus more realistically panel-mountable.

The second problem is what do do with the piano when not playing, and that will involve a full-length drawer that stows it well under the desktop… this needs to be fabricated soon, because I want my workspace back!

And the third challenge is seating, which had to be solved anyway… but now it requires significant height adjustment and easy removal of arms. This has been the subject of a ridiculous amount of research here, and I’ve chased everything from marine pedestal seats to hacked Aerons. The solution (which I hope is correct!) is a chair from SoundSeat, a small shop in North Carolina that is much loved by drummers for their robust and comfortable thrones. We will locally fabricate a socket for the gas lift, including a quick-release hinging system to make room for my galumphing body to awkwardly squirm under there when I need to pull cable or clean the cat box.

In the photo above, by the way, you can see the music stand… elevated 5 inches above the desktop. This ended up being a fabrication project, which is described in detail here.

I look forward to posting a recording and more about the PX-5S itself in a future post!

Nomadnespresso Machine

One of the essentials of daily life in this gizmological extravaganza is coffee, and not just functional drip. I’ve been an espresso junkie for a quarter century now, but for a long time have been putting up with sanely scaled minimalist solutions (the Aeropress, fiddly but reliable… along with the often-annoying Hario mini mill grinder and a klunky microwave-whisk method for heating and frothing the milk). But this is a bootstrapping problem… after doing battle with evil sleep demons, the level of competence needed to manually conjure coffee can be daunting. I am not smart enough to make latte until I’ve had latte.

Yet, as I once wrote:

I suck down my trimethylxanthine;
By the dregs, I am hyper and panting.
Whether drip, brew, or latté
(you see, I’m not snotté),
It gives me the buzz to keep ranting.
- Steven K. Roberts

Obviously I had to put some energy into finding a suitable system, and that launched another one of my obsessive research quests… revealing that the world of espresso machines is a rich one of religious fervor, brand-faithful fans, and deeply analytical reviews.

Whittling the choices down to all-in-one units of vaguely boatable scale, and happily discovering a good deal on refurbished units, I found the Breville BES860XL Barista Express exactly six months ago (link is to newest model). I wanted to wait a while before posting about it, just to be sure it was reliable enough to earn a recommendation. I’m happy to report that I love it, and have made approximately 400 cups… amortizing out at about a buck apiece, given the refurb deal that was available at the time. If I had bought all those at the tourist joint in town, it would have cost three times as much.

I did worry about the AC power requirement, but metered it with a Kill-a-Watt and was relieved to see that it was not too bad at about 75 watt-hours per mug (including warm-up, grinding, espresso extraction, steaming, and letting it sit powered on in anticipation of the second cup). I can live with that, and still carry the other tools for times when power is a scarce resource. Still on the to-do list: bolt it to a little fixture that will hold it in place, since I would really not want this flying around the cabin when things get feisty out there.

The machine is largely stainless, easy-to-use, and makes excellent espresso. (If you get one, by the way, don’t get suckered into buying proprietary cleaning tablets; these are a fraction of the price for the same thing.)

That ceramic mug in the photo was made by my mother before I was born. It’s nice to have a few old family relics in daily use aboard after decades of sitting on a Kentucky shelf.

The Ship’s Garden

OK, now I’m really going to gag a few sailing traditionalists. I have a fondness for fresh veggies, and those are expensive on this island. One of my long-range plans for the boat is a hydroponic cabin with LumiGrow lighting and relocatable networked modules… but there are a few projects that need to get done first, and that’s not going to happen this season.  I looked at scattering buckets of dirt around, but ehhh, that’s messy.

There’s a gadget called the EarthBox that has a very active online community, and it’s basically a self-watering system with a 3-gallon reservoir below a plastic grid. Above that is organic potting mix with added fertilizer and dolomite, and two enclosed columns in the corners provide a wicking path. A watering tube pokes out of one corner, and the whole thing is enclosed by a fitted plastic cover. To use it, you cut holes in the cover for the plants, then water it every day or so until it runs out an overflow port (at this stage, I give mine about one yogurt pot of water a day, at about the same time I’m fueling myself with espresso).

There’s a spot over the pilothouse where this can be out of the way, though it would have to be leveled and fixtured in place, and I have no illusions about it surviving any kind of truly heavy conditions. For the moment, it’s just sitting in the cockpit, and will probably be parked on the dock during local day sails (it’s about 80 pounds and 29″ long, and would interfere with sail handling unless moved to the topside mounting location… I want to test it before doing that much work).

Mechanical Pencil

A pencil? Seriously? This probably sounds like gratuitous Amazon affiliate click-bait, but honestly… it’s cool. I had the Pentel Kerry sitting in my “saved for later” shopping cart for about 3 years (after reading about it on BoingBoing, I think), then decided during a wild caffeine buzz to make the $12 purchase.

I didn’t really expect much other than, well, a mechanical pencil, but it’s actually amazing… and I suppose I should not have been surprised to discover that the world of such contraptions includes yet another obsessive community that analyzes them in exhaustive detail. This one has a very good review on Dave’s Mechanical Pencil blog, which pretty well reinforces my own observations.

The best thing I can say about this is that unlike every other writing implement (except for my beloved retractable-point Sharpie), this actually has a special spot in my tool cabinet… along with a stash of .5mm lead and erasers. When I get it out and snick the cap into writing mode, something changes and I draw better. When I’m done, I actually put it away. I’m not really sure how, but they did something right to make this a tool instead of just a pencil. Not bad for twelve bucks!

Now to go draw some boat parts…

Cheers from the Nomadhouse,
Steve

 

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Tales of Boat Hacking

Cranking out boat parts with Cecil be 'da Mill

Things are about to get a lot more active in this blog… for the past year, I’ve been chipping away at the project, but have only rarely posted here. I’m happy to report that I’ve just decided to take a different approach to publishing this sprawling narrative of gonzo engineering, and there is suddenly a huge backlog of material.

Exactly two years ago, I had the idea of conjuring a “nickel generator” in the form of a subscription PDF called the Nomadness Report. Produced like a magazine, it would carry the most substantial content about all this unfolding gizmology… with the blog reserved for general updates. It seemed like a pretty good way to monetize without advertising, so I started publishing issues… and people liked it.

I did it weekly for a while, then after missing too many deadlines I redefined it as a monthly (with larger issues). I did a few that were around 16 pages, but the schedule started to slip again… lately feeling more like a quarterly. This is familiar territory; as a perfectionist, I spend way too much time procrastinating and fine-tuning the text and layout, to the point that it stops being fun and steals time from its own subject matter. It’s an old pattern… the two cover photos here are issues #8 and #10 of a print zine I published over 20 years ago. As I recall, it was already called a quarterly, but I was joking about that meaning “every quarter decade.”

Meeting deadlines on this more recent publication was not the only problem. More serious was the fact that most of my “good stuff” was ending up behind a paywall… not a particularly forbidding one at $20/year, but definitely a layer of obscurity in an era when there is so much information available for free. And while there are now 205 pages of polished back issues in my online store, not many people want to buy “Issue 17″ of something unless they can be sure that there is useful content. My income from the whole series was minimum wage at best.

Over the past few weeks, this has really been bothering me… so I just sent a note to all my subscribers, announcing the new plan:

  1. Send out a frequent email newsletter. This will be free, and the initial mailing list is everyone subscribed to the Nomadness Report. This is a lot less work than doing a complete page layout, and I expect the publication frequency to be approximately weekly, with highly variable length and no attachments.
  2. Blog more, with lots of photos; this makes the project narrative searchable and more open to the world than that collection of PDFs (which will be combined into an anthology with a good table of contents).
  3. Produce a series of stand-alone monographs, perhaps called the Boat Hacking Collection. These will each be devoted to one system or how-to subject… giving them long-term value as eBooks. Most will be 8.5×11 PDF with a lots of graphics, and I have a few larger ones planned that will take the form of 11×17 wire-bound books with detailed schematics.

London Daily Mail - Sunday, May 24, 1992

That combination covers all the bases, with fine-grained real-time updates as well as long-term archiving and nickel-generation. The mailing list will be fun… over the years I most enjoyed the Notes from the Bikelab (90-92) and Microship Status Reports (92-01) series, along with “Nomadness Notes” spanning the same era (all together, about 200 issues). These went to a mailing list that eventually reached 4,500 people… and were playful, informal, and free. The biggest win from my perspective was having a community of interesting folks who sparked ideas, replied quickly with answers to questions, and offered logistical support.

I loved doing those listserv postings, but as the years passed and the Microship project faltered, I stopped… and the list grew stale as people changed addresses. Meanwhile, new publishing tools emerged: blogs, PDFs, eBooks… then ephemeral high-noise social media like Facebook and Twitter, seductive for real-time chatter, but impossible to use alone as archives. I have gone along with it, but miss the personal immediacy of that original “push technology.”

Want to be on the mailing list, or sign up for the “Gonzo Subscription” that includes all eBooks as they are published? More info is on the publications page.

OK, enough with all this planning talk – time to get to the fun stuff! Let’s start with a light sampler of recent progress, with more detail over the next few weeks as I catch up with blogging.

Power Distribution Console

The photo of my intently milling mug at the top was from a week or two ago while I was breaking ground on the new power distribution console substrate. All the hardware for this is on hand, and includes nearly 50 circuit breakers with backlights and status indicators, a separate AC digital multimeter, the MATE3 control/display unit for the Outback system, a homebrew replacement for the old Yanmar generator control cluster, and about a dozen stainless pushbuttons with ring LEDs and legend plates (including a row for local console and equipment bay lighting). The power consoles have been annoying ever since I got the boat, with obsolete cruft and serviceability issues… this new panel is going to be sweet. I’ve already pulled a mountain of abandoned cable, and once this in in place there should be nothing that is undocumented.

The new panel will also eliminate the old separate console region for the AC side of the power system, opening up space for a much-needed pantry…

This week I expect to finish the milling, mount hardware, and start the transition into the boat (the messy part… moving lots of wires in a temporarily cramped space). In the photo at the top of the page, I was just starting to cut the complex openings for the Blue Sea breaker panels; they are shown complete at left.

Much more detail about this part of the system will be posted once it’s in place. Over the next few days, I expect to be staring a lot at this scene:

Lab iMac

I use a laptop most of the time, since I’m commuting between boat and shop almost every day, but there are times when there is just not enough display real estate. Doing drawings with OmniGraffle, editing images, setting up an audio workstation, and lots of other activities all call for way more pixels, and an iMac 27 is a key part of the wrap-around console region.

I’ve used an Ergotron monitor arm before, and was delighted to discover that they have a model (the MX) that can handle the weight of this machine (but not while sailing!) and that Apple sells an interface gadget that lets you convert from a desk stand to a VESA mount. This solves the problem neatly, and the mounting location works well at various heights and distances with a deployable keyboard side-table, swings around over the little “demi wall” to allow watching the screen from the pilothouse seating, or lets me stow it into a nest and strap it down when getting off the dock (note to self: put that on preflight checklist).

The Ergotron MX has a good range of adjustability that lets you reach a neutral balance point, and the external body is anodized aluminum. There are steel parts, which I treated with CorrosionX (essential stuff on a boat), but of course if this takes salt spray then I will be a lot more worried about what’s attached to it! The adjacent console will have a roof with overhang and a fabric curtain to shed random droplets, but a knockdown would be most unpleasant for all the electronics (not that it wouldn’t be a bad day anyway).

The white surface holding the Apple wireless keyboard has a felt-lined lip at the table end, four rubber bumpers to engage the mast support, and a loop of line that goes over a cleat up near the top. A Heil SB-2 microphone boom mounts just under that cleat, conveniently located for podcasting (seated) or flute-playing (standing). And, speaking of seating, we’re going to pedestal-mount a gas-lift throne with removable arms from Soundseat… I need a 5-inch range of vertical adjustment to switch gears between lab desktop and piano studio. When in piano mode, the keyboard side-table lifts off and slips into a fabric pocket down by the base of the mast (otherwise known as Isabelle’s scratching post).

Comm Panel Update

Finally, although it is on the back burner until pilothouse power and helm consoles are done, I’m gradually gathering the pieces and refining the layout of the wrap-around lab/studio region.

The equipment racks, once the frames are fixtured to the desk, will be assembled in stages that are loosely based on need. First one is probably stereo, partly since wiring for the old one is very much in the way of some of the power-region stuff. Immediately thereafter, I want to start packaging the mountain of communication gear that is lying around waiting to be used.

This is the CAD layout (cardboard-aided design) for the center of the three 12U rack cabinets… each 21″ tall and 19″ wide. I do it this way to allow sitting at the desk and playing “let’s pretend,” which is a much more effective way of catching usability issues than staring at a picture on a computer. There is deliberate redundancy here (the Icom 706 duplicates some of the HF capability of the 802 and some of the VHF/UHF coverage of the D710A), but the idea is to have that as a parallel system with an uncommitted feed line that pops out the deck at the base of the mast, where a new halyard is in place to haul aloft HF antennas or a platform that rides in the trysail track to deploy sensors, cameras, or WiFi antennas. (The antenna analyzer at the upper right is for some of that tinkering, though it might be more practical as a hand-held instrument… none of this is cast in aluminum yet.)

In the middle is an iPad, which serves multiple purposes here, and some of the speaker routing is at the upper left. One of the destinations of any audio channel is the 16-channel mixer located in the nearby A/V panel, and another is a sparse-matrix crossbar system reminiscent of my old Audio, Video, and Serial units from the Microship era. Lots more on all this as it unfolds, but a fundamental design goal  in this part of the system is to let anything talk to anything without requiring computers to be working to enable core functions related to survival. I don’t trust them.

OK, enough for now. More photos and details soon; I’m off to make some boat parts! I’ll leave you with this… a talk I gave in September of 2000 at the Computer History Museum, on the occasion of adding the BEHEMOTH bicycle to their collection:

-Steve

 

 

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