Boat Detective

A day in the life of a marine surveyor is one of questions, clues, diplomacy, and boat yoga.

Issue 136: Jan/Feb 2021

It was the beer that got my uh-oh meter twitching. I was in a Food Lion parking lot in Virginia, prepping to sea trial a 1982, 42-foot Taiwanese center-cockpit for pre-purchase survey. I’d worked with the boat owner before, so when he called and asked if I’d survey and sea trial his boat for a potential buyer, a lawyer from New York, I said sure.

We set a date and time and met at a Food Lion near the marina on the Chesapeake Bay’s Potomac River where the boat was docked. Nothing weird about that, but the owner and the buyer emerging from the store with bags of munchies and a case of beer sure wasn’t standard.

After arriving at the boat and spending a short time on “pre-flight” checks, we cast off and motored into the river for the sea trial. I was already immersed in my job when a thoroughly armed Navy chase boat raced alongside to tell us—quite emphatically—that we were heading directly into restricted waters where live-fire exercises were happening. Terrific. I made a mental note to keep at least one eye on the chart plotter while trying to make my assessments of the boat.

Then, the buyer answered his phone and quickly started bellowing into it, eventually taking his tirade down below. I sighed inwardly and tried to focus on my work. A few minutes later, I went below to use the VHF to check in with the Navy chase boat, only to interrupt Mr. Lawyer in the smoke-filled cabin diligently refilling his pipe from a bag of weed. We were skirting a live-fire range with Navy law enforcement watching our every move, the owner was cracking beers, and the buyer was happily getting stoned—and it wasn’t even his boat!

My BS tolerance is pretty high, but at this point I asked myself, “Why am I even here?” I abruptly terminated the sea trial, we returned to the slip, and I spent maybe 20 more minutes dutifully describing my findings to a slightly drunk seller and a drunk-and-stoned buyer. I collected my check and got out of there.

This wasn’t a typical day as a marine surveyor; most inspections go as you might expect. But here’s the thing about being a marine surveyor: I survey boats, but I deal with people. Boats are, generally speaking, the more straightforward part.

A Life of Boats

My life in boats was almost inevitable. From the time I was about 2 years old, my parents owned one old boat after another, so my formative years were spent preoccupied with major boat projects. The first family boat was a 28-foot wooden sloop, followed quickly by a 1938, 35-foot Sparkman & Stephens sloop.

Then, because finding an affordable place to live on Long Island was always a challenge, my parents did what every other suburban family would do and bought a sunken, 65-foot, 1920-something Consolidated Commuter powerboat to renovate and live on. We eventually upgraded to a 1960-vintage, 94-foot, ex-Air Force air-sea rescue boat, which looked a lot like an old PT boat. It was completely stripped, so weekends, winter breaks, and a couple of summers were spent renovating.

Years ago, after repeating my history to an acquaintance in the business, he turned to me and said, “I guess you never really had a chance.”

My start in the marine survey business began some 25 years ago when I found myself helping a surveyor with a sea trial as part of a pre-purchase survey. I was working in the service and repair business then, and I didn’t know much about a surveyor’s work life, but I was spending my days busting knuckles on engines, sucking up paint fumes, or climbing into a dry suit to raise the occasional sunken boat in the middle of winter. The surveyor’s tools—a note pad, camera, test equipment, and computer—looked like an improvement. A few months later, I saw an ad for a surveying course with that same surveyor a guest instructor. When I asked him about the course, he suggested I hold off. Two days later, he asked me to become his apprentice. The rest, as they say, is history.

While some days I pine for the simplicity of, say, buying a bilge pump, installing it, and writing a one-page, three-line invoice, my surveying career will hopefully allow me to actively work in this industry until my late 60s or 70s—so long as I stay flexible; almost every day I practice what I jokingly call “boat yoga,” climbing into lockers and around engines and rudder posts.

A Day in the Life

Most of my assignments these days are pre-purchase inspections for people buying used boats, generally in the 28- to 65-foot range. While I schedule my days, that freedom is illusive. For example, the weather has to be exceptionally bad to cancel or postpone a scheduled survey. This is because sales are contingent upon surveys. By the time I get involved with a pre-purchase survey, the buyer and seller have signed a contract and there is a deposit in the bank. Contractually, the buyer usually has a date by which to accept or reject the deal, based on the survey and sea trial. Often, the window is narrow, which puts the pressure on me to do my work and complete the report for the buyer quickly.

Accordingly, I occasionally find myself on an unfamiliar boat with strangers in less than ideal conditions. My survey record for wind is 50 knots. I’ve been on boats when we’ve broken ice to get to open water, and I have sea trialed and surveyed in the snow.

Depending on the boat, the typical 30- to 45-foot survey will take the better part of a full day to complete, assuming that I don’t run into any boatyard snags or mechanical issues. On a more complex boat, it’s more like a day and a half.

During this time, I am like an information vacuum. I use all of my knowledge, experience, and senses to assess the condition and history of a large, inanimate object that depends on multiple inanimate systems. The boat can’t talk, but by smelling, listening, feeling, and observing, I can learn a lot about its life and health.

I generally follow a routine, although flexibility is a good character trait for a surveyor to possess. Every survey begins with or depends on communication, which sometimes can be complicated. I need to be communicative, but I also need to carefully gauge everything I say. The constant, on-your-toes interaction with buyers, sellers, and brokers is one of the job’s more challenging aspects. And sometimes, I just want to do the work without explaining everything on the spot.

After arriving at a boat, I confirm the day’s itinerary, so I know when the boat will have access to things like shorepower. By testing electrical systems while connected to shorepower, but before the engine is started, I can see, for example, whether the water heater works (before the engine heats it up). In addition to the water heater, I’ll test polarity, proper ground, GFCI function, battery charger function, and any other auxiliary equipment that may run off of shorepower. This is also a time to search for AC power leaks.

Electrical systems are often the most “interesting” aspects of surveying older boats, sometimes because of multiple owners’ well-meaning-if-scary upgrades, sometimes because the boat was built with household wire, fuses, and breakers (in the 1960s and ’70s this was common), and often a combination of both. More than once I’ve opened a distribution panel to find a rat’s nest of wire with no respect to color coding and AC and DC systems intermingled. I have seen Square D or Decca breakers and old-style, cartridge-type fuses that after 30 to 40 years still appear to be serviceable. I once found a Sears Craftsman portable battery charger wired in as a permanent installation. I’ve found whole boats rewired with pieces of extension cords connected with wire nuts. Surveyors see it all.

A good surveyor has the knowledge to examine systems holistically. I recently surveyed a beautifully restored Bristol sailboat with a new engine, generator, air conditioning, refrigeration, paint, rigging— the works. The boat was equipped with three-year-old AGM batteries, all with low resting voltages. Though it had a brand new, externally regulated Balmar alternator, the owner was still using the OEM analog Newmar charger. I noted that the older charger was prematurely killing the expensive AGM batteries and recommended a replacement.

Details are important. Are clevis pins properly installed throughout the rigging? Are set screws backing out from stanchion bases? Is corrosion hiding on the backs of hose clamps, places that maybe cannot be seen without a mirror? That through hull valve may be a shiny new replacement, but was it installed correctly? Are the materials appropriate for what they’re connected to? Do the running lights work? Are bulkhead tabs failing? And are they adequate or prone to failure? The only stone that should be left unturned by a surveyor are locations that
require significant disassembly to access— and I advise buyers of what is uninspected and what risks that poses.

I can do nearly all of a survey with a boat in the water, but not all. Once hauled and power washed, the boat’s in the slings and I have a limited amount of time to cover a lot of ground. I usually do homework in advance, so I know some details about the hull’s construction before the physical inspection. I resonate the hull with a phenolic or plastic hammer. Experience allows me to identify the right acoustical signature for the hull type, whether solid or cored; any discrepancy is a cause for concern and further examination.

It doesn’t always happen the way I like, but I prefer sea trialing a boat after haul-out because I know the hull, propeller, and running gear are clean, which rules out the most common causes of excessive vibration, overheating, and subpar engine performance. I approach the sea trial in two phases: the engine and everything else. Like the electrical system, engines are a place where things can quickly get interesting, and problems can be either elusive or obvious.

I compare engine RPMs to factory specifications, monitor temperature, confirm charging voltages, and check the transmission function. I compare temperature and tachometer readings at the instrument panel to what’s really happening at the engine. Invariably there will be some anomaly—oil, fuel, or water leaks, vibration, or possibly loose or worn belts.

When I bring an engine to full load, I frequently see high operating temperatures, which could be due to overdue maintenance on heat exchangers, water pumps, or restricted exhaust elbows that are due for replacement. If the engine won’t reach rated RPMs, then I’m looking for improper propeller size and pitch, faulty turbo chargers, or even an undersized engine.

After the engine phase, it’s everything else, which includes sails (if applicable), electronics, thrusters, wind generators, winches…everything.

At this point, the buyer might well be in sensory overload, while I’m still constantly looking around and listening. Does the compass heading on the autopilot match the GPS? How far off is the magnetic compass? Is the steering linkage making an odd noise or vibrating? Do the winches work easily, and why is the roller furler so difficult to operate?

After the sea trial, we’re back to the slip and I finish anything remaining before giving the buyer and broker or owner a short debrief that recaps the day’s findings and gives them an opportunity to ask follow-up questions.

By now, I’ve been acutely focused and analyzing for hours. By the end of the day, I’m often mentally spent. Add in a couple of back-to-back extreme weather days (hot or cold) and the spent factor goes up. Even a routine survey with no surprises is intense. Perhaps the report-writing is the part I like least. Typically, this takes about four hours, distilling all of my notes and research and photos into a template that typically results in a report that is 20 to 30 pages long.

Yet, despite the complex details, the buyer or broker politics, the occasional weird or wild sea trial, and the spent factor, I still really like my job. I enjoy being able to evaluate different aspects of boat construction and systems, and I like discovering additional nuances and technical aspects of boatbuilding. There is almost always something new to learn.

And when the time comes to hit “send” for the report on my computer and turn off my desk lamp, I’ve delivered a candid, thorough opinion of a boat and its components that ultimately should educate potential buyers. Hopefully, they’ll be able to buy the right boat and love this boat life as much as I do.

Finding a Surveyor

Marine surveyors are generally a quiet, behind-the-scenes bunch and are not the first topic of conversation at yacht club dinners or dock parties. Ask your average boat owner five years after purchasing and they will likely not remember who surveyed the boat.

Many of us work for insurance companies doing claims work. Some enjoy giving expert witness testimony for the courts. We come from a variety of backgrounds. And though there are no requirements for formal classroom education to hang out a surveying shingle, there are some clear places for boat buyers to find a reputable, qualified surveyor.

Go to the websites for NAMS (National Association of Marine Surveyors) or SAMS (Society of Accredited Marine Surveyors). Both organizations are diligent about vetting applicants. Certified and accredited members from both organizations have passed a comprehensive exam and are bound by a code of ethics in an attempt to avoid conflicts of interest. The websites let you search for surveyors that specialize in “Yacht and Small Craft” who service your geographical location.

And don’t discount the value of word of mouth. Ask around, preferably with people in the know, such as boatyard managers, mechanics, banks, or insurance companies. Look for some sort of cross-pollination, with the same name coming from different sources.

Tarn Kelsey and his wife and four adult children have always had an ever-changing collection of vessels including multiple fishing boats, several Sunfish, kayaks, windsurfers, and a canoe. He owns and operates Kelsey Marine Survey in Annapolis, Maryland, kelseymarinesurvey.com.

 

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