Sailor Woman: Boats And Brains

Arriving on the Gold Coast with my new boat. How shallow can she go!? Credit: Jeni Tidmarsh

This feature article originally appeared in AFLOAT Magazine and forms part of our latest edition of boating features from Sailor Woman Jill Knight.

Until fairly recently it was assumed that cognitive decline – memory loss, slower processing, unwillingness to try new things – was a normal part of ageing. Now, with advances in imaging and other techniques for monitoring brain structure and function, there is good evidence that brain health and plasticity can persist into old age. It can, but it won’t without effort on the part of the brain owner, old and even not so old. And the effort, I’ve discovered, involves more than a daily Wordle and Sudoku, cleaning teeth left-handed and varying the track of a regular walk. I’ve discovered this, thanks to my ongoing self-induction into managing the care, sailing and maintenance of a new boat.

On autopilot

Over the past few years I’ve occasionally told myself and others that my life had become so easy that it had to be unhealthy. I was joking, but after 42 years aboard my 19th century wooden Cooee I’d become familiar with every corner, wire, timber and piece of equipment. I’d repaired or replaced just about everything except the timbers of her hull, decks and mast. I’d installed her Westerbeke diesel and maintained it by mastering the technical manual. Same with her big anchor winch which I’d rebuilt three times. I knew every point where fresh water was likely to penetrate when sealant failed. I’d painted and varnished uncountable times. For a decade I hadn’t ventured beyond the Southeast Coast of Queensland but was active and thought my brain was okay. However, I’d actually been on autopilot. There had been nothing much new to get my head around. For years there had been very little in the way of a genuine brain workout in my daily life.

Timely wake-up call

Then along came Urchin! She’s a 25-year-old sailing cat, a Fastback 32: GRP (me – zero experience); two hulls (ditto); electrics are complex with most wires unlabelled and quite a few abandoned but left in place (years of multimeters and trial and error in store). The diesel engine is a Yanmar (unrecognisable, intimidating); she can go very shallow, even be beached (horrors)! Suddenly, I required my brain to wrap itself around a deluge of new information, to solve new problems and research unfamiliar topics. And I found that organ neglected and sluggish. Parallel research was urgently indicated. Alongside Youtube videos on electric water pumps and hot-wiring a Yanmar starter motor were explorations into brain plasticity. The rate of change in everyday technology, said the US National Library of Medicine, forces everyone young and old to attempt new practices, challenging the flexibility of brains. The gold standard to elicit brain plasticity, said another authority, is to tackle new tasks. It went on to advise that a critical requirement for new plasticity to emerge is to make the tasks sufficiently difficult. There was even talk of structural change in the brain and I recalled the finding, amazing at the time, of enlarged hippocampi being found in London taxi drivers with 25,000 streets to memorise. Difficult brain work. New learning. Huge memory load. I also read that meaningful brain change happens best when learning is challenging, varied and connected to real life. I had, without meaning to, put myself in a position that ticked all the boxes for some intensive brain rehab: new habits; challenging problems to solve; varied new tasks to master; all definitely and closely connected to real life.

Getting started

Urchin was generally in very good condition when I took her over. However, she’s a boat. As with any boat, potential problems increase in proportion with the number and complexity of mechanical and electrical systems aboard. I began by eliminating a few potentials: dismantling the wind generator and going with solar generation only, with the diesel for rare occasions when backup is needed; putting the big inflatable tender and outboard on the market in favour of my little strip-planked rowboat; making a plan for non-electric water pumps. There were plenty of potential problems remaining, of course. The diesel has an outboard leg that lifts and lowers via a hydraulic ram below the cockpit. A leak soon developed in one of the hydraulic hoses so a mate and I removed the ram and another mate replaced the hoses and returned the ram with everything tight, sealed and shiny. Initially I’d felt overwhelmed by this breakage in a system I knew nothing about. After it was back together and operating perfectly I felt energised, even grateful that the problem had offered me the learning. Then the Yanmar failed to start. Overwhelmed again. And again a mate came to the rescue, explaining that the starter motor and solenoid might still be healthy and, if so, how hot-wiring would start the motor simply and reliably; check it out on Youtube, he said. When the Yanmar sprang to life I was again grateful for the experience and the confidence the process gave me. I’ll sort the gremlin out later.

Electrics have involved a few setbacks. I managed to confuse the light-sensitive anchor light on the cabin top, causing it to be always on or always off. Now solar garden lights do the job. At one point while hooking up a new USB socket I knocked out all the lighting in the port hull. Just a tripped breaker, but yet more learning as I traced irrelevant wires and made new discoveries while searching for the problem. There’s been a lot of rain here lately and it’s been a revelation to find that leaks don’t bother me much: none of the urgent tracing and sealing off freshwater ingress that was the norm on Cooee. One of the many reminders I’ve been offered as my learning curve goes vertical is the generosity and comprehensive experience of the tribe. After being pretty self-sufficient on Cooee by necessity – in early days through remoteness and then because wooden boat knowledge and skill can be hard to find in a first-world country – here was yet another skill to learn: asking for advice and assistance. Tapping into the vast reservoirs of my community. Who knows? I might even crawl out of my hermit shell and be re-socialised.

This feature article originally appeared in AFLOAT Magazine. To explore more stories like this, browse the AFLOAT Magazine archive or view the latest edition of AFLOAT Magazine.