The first launch of a Catalina 22 after bottom painting didn’t go as planned.
Issue 146: Sept/Oct 2022
I bought my first boat, a well-used 1981 Catalina 22, after moving from Alaska to the East Coast. I named her Cheechako, an Alaskan word for “newcomer”—essentially equivalent to “from away” in Maine-speak or “come-here” in Massachusettan or Virginian. In Alaska, it basically means anyone who’s not from Alaska, with a know-nothing connotation, but it’s more commonly interpreted as “you have absolutely no idea what you are in for.” This seemed appropriate based on my skills at both sailing and boat maintenance.
During my first summer sailing Cheechako, I managed to repair a broken tiller, replace the swing keel winch, the roller furling, and most of the rigging, install a new battery, and rewire all the lighting. By the end of the season, I had managed not to sink the boat and felt pretty good about my ability to maintain it.
The trailer, on the other hand, was another matter. One of the first lessons I learned was not to climb up on the transom of the boat while it was on the trailer unless the trailer was attached to the car. Imagine my surprise as the bow of the boat rose into the air, and I found myself riding a 2,500-pound seesaw before the stern slammed down onto the ground beneath me. Then I had to crawl carefully up the inclined deck towards the center of the boat to bring it back down slowly, without having the whole rig slam back downward in the opposite direction.
During my second year of boat ownership, I decided I had acquired enough know-how to paint the bottom all by myself. Raising the boat up off the trailer required a great amount of ingenuity and a Rube Goldberg operation involving concrete blocks, 4 x 4 timbers, and a hydraulic car jack.
While the boat was off the trailer, I decided to replace the rotting wooden trailer bunks and cover them with a new layer of bunk carpet. Of course, I put off painting the bottom until a few days before launch day, and after 24 hours, I decided the paint was dry enough to launch. I managed to lower the boat back down onto the new bunks without incident.
At the launch ramp, my wife, Meri, and I spent a good hour raising the mast, in full view of the usual hangers-on, without dropping it or making too many embarrassing gaffes (I had built a mast-raising system so Meri and I could raise the mast ourselves). Then it was time to back the boat into the water, which went smoothly thanks to my highly developed backwards driving skills (this being in the days before backup cameras were common). Meri held the painter, expecting the boat to slide smoothly off the bunks.
But something was wrong. The boat wasn’t moving. Backing up and stopping suddenly did not dislodge the boat. Pulling forward brought the whole thing out of the water again. Back in the water, I noticed that the trailer tires seemed to be floating at the surface.
By this time, I had a nice little crowd of well-wishers and pundits offering me sage advice including: “Jump up and down on it;” “Pop the clutch really hard;” “Tie a stern line to the dock and pull forward;” “Back up farther until the trailer sinks.” None of which worked, of course.
The only solution was to swallow my pride and pull the trailer and boat entirely back out of the water to solve the problem. My audience, of course, wanted to help, but no, thank you very much, I think I’ll take it back home. An hour later we had the mast down and were headed home, tails between our legs.
By now you have concluded, through careful examination of the available evidence and thoughtful deduction, that I didn’t let the paint dry long enough, and it had cemented the boat to the new bunk carpet. Removing it required cutting the carpet fibers by slicing between the bunks and boat bottom with a long knife, after which I had to raise the boat off the trailer again, and sand down and repaint the bottom where it had attached itself to the bunk carpet.
This time I let it dry for a week before putting it back on the trailer and trying to launch it again. The second launch was much less eventful, and if the crowd of onlookers was disappointed at not having the opportunity to offer their accumulated wisdom, they were at least polite enough not to let on.
Cheechako, as it turned out, was appropriately named.
Brad Stevens is a professor emeritus of marine science. He learned to sail in (and repair) a series of “almost free” good old boats including a Catalina 22 and a Tanzer 26. His retirement boat bucks are now rapidly disappearing into his “almost perfect boat,” a recently acquired Catalina 36.
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
