The Life Electric

How one sailor’s electric propulsion system went from dubious to undoubtable.

Issue 143: March/April 2022

It is a beautiful, sunny day, and after more than 3,500 miles singlehanding across the North Atlantic in Tranquility, my 1965 Columbia 29, I am approaching the most difficult part of the journey—landfall in an unknown port, Puertito de Güímar in Tenerife.

It’s challenging in multiple ways. In this area of the Canary Islands archipelago, wind speeds climb to 30 knots and gust to 40 due to the interaction between trade winds and the islands’ peculiar orography. Three miles out, the winds finally force me to douse everything but the staysail, and I keep a constant eye on the windvane autopilot that wants to round us up during violent gusts. As I approach the marina breakwater, I will have to drop my last sail and make my way upwind into the basin created by a narrow cut between two seawalls of sharp rocks and artificial boulders. To leeward is a rocky and shallow beach.

I’m depending on my electric inboard propulsion—a system I inherited when I purchased Tranquility seven years ago. And while I was dubious at first and had always thought I could repower with a diesel if need be, thousands of U.S. East Coast and sea miles later, I am completely confident in this system. It has never failed me. The main switch is on, and I read 52.3 volts on the display. The batteries are more charged than when I left the U.S.; the wind generator and  regeneration from the propeller have charged them for the entire 42 days it has taken me to cross the Atlantic.

With electric propulsion there is no ignition to worry about. You have voltage, you are good to go. The only questions crossing my mind are of a different kind: Will it be powerful enough? Will there be current coming out of the marina?

I remember struggling to keep the bow dead upwind in a strong blow while trying to conserve batteries in the Intracoastal Waterway (ICW). Then, I had to save battery capacity as much as possible to motor upwind through the shoals of the ICW around Cumberland Island in Georgia or to cross Pamlico Sound on a windless day.

Here, I have 500 yards or so to reach the place where my girlfriend and a member of the local yacht club are waiting for me to dock.

It’s easy to turn toward the opening in the breakwater with residual speed from the just-dropped staysail. I put the lever forward and the display shows a draw of 25 amperes. The motor’s familiar low humming starts, and I can feel the boat pushing forward.

When it comes to motoring, I am rather conservative, and my strategy is to keep the boat moving while using the least current possible; speed doesn’t really matter. But as the wind shoves at us and I gauge progress by watching the boulders abeam, I can see we’re not moving, and the bow threatens to fall off.

I ask the batteries for more amperes, from 25 to 35. This steadies the bow, but progress dead upwind is still negligible. I increase to 40 amperes, then 45. I rarely go that high because I am afraid of overheating the batteries and motor, even though by specs I should be able to venture up to 100 amperes.

With this extra push, the boat gains momentum, and I slowly see the horizon progress behind the breakwater. As soon as the boat gains speed, I adjust the throttle to 35 amperes. Despite the strong wind finding its way inside the basin, I turn on a dime and proceed toward the welcome party in the far corner. I use hardly any current in the five minutes it takes to reach the dock where friendly hands grab my lines. I have safely landed, and my electric motor once again has helped me finish my long voyage.

Getting to Know Electric

It has been seven years since I’ve begun using electric propulsion, and my boat and I have traveled more than 10,000 nautical miles between the U.S. East Coast, the Caribbean, South America, and now the Eastern North Atlantic. I’ve maneuvered in and out of marinas on the East Coast and covered considerable distance in the ICW. I’ve been caught in calms and in adverse current in the last 30 miles before a Panama landfall. All of these situations were resolved despite the limitations of electric propulsion, which gives me barely 3 knots of motoring speed and a range of 10-15 nautical miles.

It’s true that my little, good old Columbia 29 sails well and is very maneuverable, so few of those miles were under electric propulsion. On my Atlantic crossing, I knew I’d need auxiliary propulsion even less than before; in fact, I even sold my aging gas generator before taking off, freeing up some space onboard. By now I know what I can expect from my low-cost setup and what is asking too much.

I had never put too much thought into having electric inboard propulsion before owning a boat with that technology. I was ignorant and skeptical about it, and my previous experiences were all with internal combustion engines, mainly diesel inboards and gasoline outboards.

But when the time came to purchase Tranquility, the simple 5-kW, 48-volt, DC Eltek brushed motor mounted on a 2-to-1 gear was part of the deal (see  “Tranquility, A Columbia 29,” May/June 2017). A previous owner had made the conversion a few years earlier. I was more interested in the hull and the boat design than its propulsion; I also knew I could easily install a diesel inboard or an outboard on a bracket. That was my rationale, even though in our minds we always tend to see things as simpler than they really are.

However, when it was time to complete the boat’s refit and go sailing, I did not have time to think about an alternative or to put particular thought into how to improve the system I already had. The easiest option was to simply drop a thousand bucks for eight new Trojan T-125 6-volt lead acid batteries and try out my motor. It was a test, after all.

Connected in series to provide the motor’s required 48 volts, the batteries would provide a total capacity of 240 amp-hours. I did build new battery compartments, one in the engine room and one under the settee in the saloon. This helped with the boat’s trim and provided better access to the previously inaccessible propeller shaft.

The first voyage was from Fairhaven, Massachusetts, where I bought and fixed Tranquility, to Brunswick, Georgia. I had new rigging, brand new sails, and I was prepared to do 99 percent of the miles under sail. I made the trip in jumps that included sailing through parts of the ICW from Norfolk, Virginia, to Beaufort, North Carolina, mostly because it was nearly winter, and I could not count on long enough weather windows to get around Cape Hatteras safely.

I went through long stretches of the ICW sailing and motor sailing. For some of it, I used a portable gas generator strapped on the lazarette hatch to power a 20-amp battery charger. It was noisy, uncomfortable, and precarious, and I never liked the idea of using it. So I sailed as much as possible; it’s safe to say that  Tranquility was probably the only boat in the ICW with at least the mainsail up all the time.

Over time, I refined my recharging methods. The boat’s system came with propeller regeneration capability, which charges the batteries while sailing. I picked a fixed, three-blade, 12-inch propeller to enhance this function. Though the propeller creates drag, I’m willing to accept it in exchange for good power regeneration. When sailing at 5 knots, it produces around 2 amps at 48 volts. On long ocean passages with good weather windows, this is a lot of power that I redirect to my house bank through a DC-to-DC converter.

From the outset, I had discarded the idea of recharging using only solar. The Columbia 29 has very limited space on deck; placing several solar panels there and still having a balanced and pretty boat was nearly impossible. Instead, I kept a separate house battery bank of 200 amp-hours at 12 volts, powered by a 60-watt panel on a solar tracker. Later, I added an additional 110 watts of solar by placing two semiflexible solar panels on a self-built hard dodger.

Finally, a 48-volt wind generator installed on an aluminum pole on the stern also recharges the batteries. It works extremely well in windy Caribbean anchorages and helps prevent self-discharge.

The experiment has been successful, as I sailed more than 5,000 nautical miles in seven years before dropping another grand to buy a new battery bank, just before my longest trip ever, crossing the North Atlantic. Budget constraints didn’t make it feasible for me to go with a different technology like LiFePO4 (lithium ion phosphate).

Maintenance has been minimal; I routinely check the motor’s brushes, and I had to change the transmission belt once (motor and shaft are on a 2-to-1 pulley system), 10 years after installation. I check the battery water level often, more to have something to do than out of necessity. Depending on use, I need to add distilled water to the batteries every three months or so.

Among the system’s many perks is an engine room that is always clean, even dusty at times. There’s no smell, no heat, and very little sound. There’s no need for sound insulation or for an exhaust hose that has to run somewhere out of the boat. The motor itself weighs a little more than 50 pounds and each battery about 65 pounds. All the components can be moved by one person.

It’s a Sailboat

Some people I have met in my travels have argued that with such limited range and power, I might as well be an engineless sailor. I disagree. Even if I consider engineless sailing a noble and desirable achievement in seamanship and sailing skills, I am still very happy to count on auxiliary propulsion, even a cheaper and limited system like mine.

In terms of safety and convenience, electric propulsion is still a huge resource compared to nothing at all. For example, if killing my battery bank by discharging it all the way would keep me from a dangerous situation, I still have this option. I know I’m just a thousand dollars from another battery bank.

In my style of sailing, auxiliary propulsion is only required to avoid the most difficult parts of landfalls, to correct our position when winds fail to provide adequate power, to get out of the way of incoming traffic, and of course to maneuver in marinas and anchorages. Sailing is the first choice, not the backup.

When leaving an anchorage, I typically hoist the mainsail, loosely sheeted, while I weigh anchor. I usually sail off the anchor unless I need the motor to pop out of a tight spot. The switch is on, and even if you hear no sound, it is ready to go—it only takes a moment to put in forward or reverse in case unforeseen trouble arises.

The opposite is true with dropping the hook. When it is necessary to find your spot in a busy anchorage, electric propulsion works flawlessly, as the boat ghosts around other vessels. When the wind and the location cooperate, I can do this under sail alone, although I always dig the anchor deeper using my motor in reverse.

If I had to summarize what electric propulsion has taught me so far it would be this: Sail ever more efficiently with what you have available.

I have learned that I can sail more than expected when sailing becomes the best option in terms of speed. If I could make 4 to 5 knots under power, I’d be tempted to motor more than I do now. Depending mostly on wind and wind-powered self-steering, I am constantly trying to keep the boat moving with a balanced sail plan.

Having less range and power also requires more problem-solving. Planning ahead and knowing my limitations have so far allowed me to avoid landing in dangerous situations. We are natural problem-solvers, and as in many other situations if we don’t practice this skill, we tend to get accustomed to limited solutions, and our creative thinking shrinks. I am glad electric propulsion is giving me a reason to keep these skills sharp.

Horses for Courses

I admit that I kept a diesel in the back of my mind when I first bought Tranquility, but all things considered, I wouldn’t repower with one. If I had to sail through an area notorious for its calms like the Northwest Passage, or if I wanted to transit the Panama or Suez canals, I’d likely have to find an alternative to electric, but for now, I don’t think it is necessary.

Also, during my career as a yacht captain, I became quite familiar with crawling through engine rooms. On my 28.5-foot sailboat, I know I wouldn’t enjoy the extreme yoga required for regular maintenance of a small diesel unit. I’d also regret the loss of the already meager storage space I gained thanks to electric propulsion. (Conversion from diesel to electric is equivalent in surface and weight, but electric has the advantage of a more flexible installation.)

I’m not ideologically against internal combustion, and I know that if I owned a bigger and heavier boat, I would rather have a diesel than an electric motor. But a small yacht like Tranquility is often more maneuverable and moves well in light air, so electric propulsion makes sense. It’s a matter of horses for courses.

One could argue that electric propulsion is boring. So many of us have stories about fixing diesel engines, sometimes with barely adequate tools and little more than sheer ingenuity and determination. These stories are part of the common lore we share in the sailing life.

I have no such stories to share about my experience with Tranquility’s electric auxiliary. Maybe I have been lucky, but the lack of maintenance, fuel issues, and breakdowns are the top perks of electric propulsion.

And, while I consider myself a good diesel mechanic and problem-solver, learning to sail Tranquility with electric as the auxiliary has had the intangible but no less real benefit of honing my sailing skills. In that way, my boat’s electric propulsion system has made me a better sailor, and I’m proud of the sailing  achievements I’ve accomplished.

Fabio Brunazzi trained and worked as a psychologist but has made sailing and yachting his professional career for over a decade. He believes that sailing and fixing good old boats is a good coping mechanism to life’s troubles and can contribute to good mental health. He’s the author of two blogs: lapossibilitadiunisola.com and psychologyofsailing.com.

 

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