Note from Apr 22, 2003:  My life changed rather dramatically shortly after this
update was posted... and I haven't done a Nomadness tale since.  That is about
to change; in the meantime, please watch the live page for daily news.

Microship Status 10/14/01 (Issue #140)

by Steven K. Roberts
Nomadic Research Labs


IN THIS ISSUE:
IT'S NOT JUST A TO-DO LIST, IT'S A BOAT!
TALES OF THE MEME
STATISTICAL INTERLUDE
EQUIPMENT PERFORMANCE
NEWS BITS


"Are we getting closer to the end,
or just further from the beginning?"
-- quote passed along by Louis Mamakos


IT'S NOT JUST A TO-DO LIST, IT'S A BOAT!

I'm perched in Microship Wordplay, trapped in a Poulsbo marina by a
small craft advisory, slowly adapting to life aboard this tiny craft
as we near the end of a 2-week mini-expedition...

Suddenly my whole perception of the Microship has changed. The
mercifully short TO-DO list that has fallen out of this first real
test sail includes nothing fundamental... a few essential leak fixes
inspired by a grim rainy layover in Everett Harbor, better gear
organization, some cockpit niceties, an improved electric thruster (I
can pedal faster than I can cruise with a trolling motor drawing
about 30 amps!). But so far there are no "deal-breakers": she sails
dry, points high, and loves to fly. Even the dreaded on-water
bivouac mode, though spartan in the extreme, became manageable once I
got used to viewing cockpit clutter as a 3-D version of one of those
sliding-tile puzzles and stopped expecting convenience.

The whole pace of life changes afloat. Projects are clearly defined
and appear in singles or small groups, not as mutually dependent
tangled threads with the collective flavor of Deadly Embrace and no
sense of closure. Our days are ordered by current tables, NOAA
weather broadcasts, random encounters, and the spacing of shore
facilities... not by the numbing overload of life in the lab. It's
all an illusion, of course. I just got a book contract for "Inside
Microship," to be published next year by O'Reilly & Associates. This
is good, though if I understand the situation correctly, now I
actually have to WRITE the thing.

But that's all abstract at the moment, for I'm sitting in my boat
with a laptop, living this 9-year-old dream for the first time,
thunking my rubrail gently against a dock at the head of Liberty Bay
as we catch eddies of the 25-knot winds frothing open water not so
far away. We tried to leave yesterday, rising at 0600 to zoom
downwind in time for a favorable current in Agate Passage. We poked
our noses around Point Bolin only to get hammered... hard... driven
back to the marina in a brutal upwind death march that took four
times as long as the outward leg. All part of the amusement, I
suppose. By the time we would normally be caffeinated and slouched
in front of the day's email, we had already tasted fear, slammed into
Force 6 winds, pedal-tacked frantically off a lee shore, and flown
deeply reefed across a wind-whipped watertop sparkling in the morning
sunlight of a Pacific Northwest autumn day.

And so, things have become clearer. A few fixes and enhancements,
solar array thermal retrofit and mounting... and then it's time to
conjure the console system that was originally (I thought) the point
of all this. The good news is that we have spent enough years
fiddling around with the nautical substrate that we can simply
acquire much of the gizmology we thought we were going to have to
invent from scratch... substantially trimming the task list and even
eliminating entire computers (one of the best things to do with them,
I have discovered). The biggest single project remaining appears to
be software, though I won't admit that when wrestling with console
packaging.

Natasha has been remarkable through all this, and I'm not just
talking about her ability to survive the toxic knuckle-busting rigors
of boatbuilding and whip up fresh albacore sandwiches at the dock. I
was particularly impressed this past Sunday, when we left Eagle
Harbor on Bainbridge Island bound for Dyes Inlet. We bid farewell to
friends new and old, cast off our lines, and sailed in tandem past
yachts of all flavors, the manicured lawns of waterfront homes, and
the Seattle Ferry loading up for a run. The boats flashed in the
sun, hers bright red with purple Sunbrella, mine Hatteras off-white
with enough Bristol gewgaws to stop old salts in their tracks and
crinkle their faces with kidlike grins. A perfect day. But when we
rounded the last mark and turned south in Puget Sound, the full force
of the 25 knot wind hit us from the port quarter, and never have I
had such a frantic broad reach. Surfing, fighting weather helm to
prevent broaching, I watched constantly over my left shoulder to time
my response to the waves... some tall enough to momentarily block my
view of Seattle. I raced past Blakely Rock and toward Restoration
Point, watching muscular seas toss me about and then break on the
shoals a hundred yards to leeward... glancing every few seconds at
the GPS to see how much more of this rather TOO exciting sail I would
have to endure. I wanted to reef, but would have to head up to take
the load off the rig enough to furl.

My real worry, however, was Natasha. She's never done this before.

Perhaps because she didn't know enough to be scared, she handled it
beautifully, though at one point I saw her head up toward Seattle and
had the mad thought that she was jumping ship, figuratively speaking.
But she was just giving herself some sea room off the wicked lee
shore: instead of responding to each wave as I was with her
decreasingly responsive rudder (hydraulic leak), she was grabbing a
load of slack in one big gulp. Good move.



TALES OF THE MEME

The first Microship Experimental Mini-Expedition has now ended, and
it diverged considerably from the original plan (mostly due to
weather this late in the season). After a blur of last-minute work
that is painful to recall and would be even worse to write about, we
hauled the boats a mile down the road to the local launch ramp. This
was the first test: how would the landing gear perform? Mine, in
particular, have consumed entirely too large a percentage of this
project's overburdened budget, and the past few months of lab work
have included a complete re-rigging of the deployment system --
replacing all the original line with turnbuckle-tensioned 1/8"
black-jacketed 7x19 stainless wire rope with swaged-on thimbles, as
well as a geometry-shift system to accommodate reverse and a new
scheme for tensioning the steering wire inspired by old 3-speed
bicycle brake barrel adjusters. I sorta decided somewhere in there
that this is the last chance... if the gear still have intractable
problems, I'll switch to the system on Tasha's boat (not something I
would want to do: the job itself would be a nightmare and I'd hate
to give up the elegance of lever-deployment... and besides, they're
beautiful). So the good news here is that the mile to the launch was
absolutely uneventful, even with a few rough spots and encounters
with gravel. Gravity was intense, but we can't blame the wheels for
that; I just have too much stuff.

The basic trade-off between the two design approaches is that mine
are turnkey and profoundly geeky, with aircraft-grade fabrication and
massive engineering geared to convenient and efficient operation.
They also took nearly two years to build, and are easily the most
expensive part of my boat. Tasha's, on the other hand, are
dead-simple, rock-solid, came together quickly, and handle much
heavier abuse without threatening to fail... but they are far more
troublesome to use (she gets wet and takes 5-10 minutes to accomplish
what I do by pulling four levers from the cockpit, along with a cocky
grin and the words, "you ready?"). In a serious crash, hers would
break fiberglass and mine would break hardware. But I'd much rather
haul hers down a rough road, and in Dyes Inlet at Greg Jacobs' house
I left mine on a mooring buoy while she easily beached -- the stones
were just too big. I *hate* trade-offs, don't you?

So with the invaluable muscular assistance of Tasha's mendicant
philosopher pal Nick Routledge and resident wizard Ned Konz, we made
our way to the launch and pushed off. Suddenly it all became
surreal, as this was not to be another little afternoon test sail
like the first four launches -- we were heading out into unknown
conditions for two weeks. This is the first reality check of any
consequence, 4.5 years since the moment of radical re-thinking that
spelled the end of the Hogfish era and the move to this design (see
Issue #119). Oddly, the stress level was low, but the sense of
delicious madness was profound and the whole experience unspeakably
beautiful... drifting quietly down the west shore of our island,
seeing it at last from the perspective that lured us here in the
first place.

The last leg of this first day was a short windless crossing of Elger
Bay after rounding the point at the State Park, and we decided to try
our electric thrusters. In short, they were a bit disappointing...
only moving the boats at about 3 knots instead of the estimated 5.5.
Part of the problem may be undersized wire from the battery 8 feet
away (via a temporary switch); the cable gets a bit warm, which means
significant I^2R loss. The round fiberglass shafts also ventilate
considerably, and I question the prop pitch and speed in this
application. This will call for a bit of research... a lot of work
has gone into the controller end (which, like many things, was not on
board for this trip), and it would be a shame to skimp on the
business end.

The first stop, reached well after dark with navlights and GPS
backlight aglow, was Rick Wesley's waterfront house with its huge
flight of steep steps and a tent on the bulkhead. We made the rafted
boatlets fast to his mooring buoy and dinghied to shore... not a
convenient mode, given the need to schlep gear, but the only choice
in this environment where the tidal range includes the bulkhead
itself. Again, surreal... I climbed the steps in the morning and
gazed down in wonderment at the delicate sunlit boats on their shared
mooring: such a different perspective from the workstand under
fluorescents. Tiny little buggers...

Their diminutive scale became more apparent the next day. We headed
south between Camano and Whidbey Islands, the wind gradually becoming
useful, at last emerging into more open water to pass by Gedney
Island on a broad reach to Everett. This was our first chance to get
slapped a bit by waves and gusts, share the water with the big boys
and those omnipresent wake-generating noisy powerboats, depend on the
GPS to find an entrance buoy, pass a Coast Guard cutter on high
alert, drift past a Navy base, and actually <gulp> enter a marina.
That turned out to be a smooth process, and they were kind enough to
let us share a slip and pay by aggregate length. What we didn't know
is that we'd be stuck there for the next three days.

Relentless heavy rain and high winds are profoundly demotivating when
you're in camping mode, and we hung around, dejected, making far too
many long walks to the marine emporiums of West, Harbor, and
Popeye's. The goal became a vague melange of leak elimination and
staying warm, and I compiled the first to-do list of the trip:
places that have to be sealed to prevent rain from converting an
already minimal sleeping environment into a miserable one. A
friendly couple on a quirky 50-foot homebrew ketch took us in, so we
did have two dry nights...

When conditions finally mellowed, we rose pre-dawn to ride the flood
current south, and made Fay Bainbridge State Park at slack pretty
much as planned. Unfortunately, despite the information in two of
our four on-board references, the launch ramp had been removed a few
years ago and the driftwood-strewn lee shore was not inviting even
with a Cascadia Marine Trail campsite. Thus began the first "death
march" of the adventure... a long, exhausted pedal against the ebb
down the east side of Bainbridge Island to Eagle Harbor.

We parked at last in the delightful Harbour Marina (with its superb
pub) and schlepped our gear to the home of Charlie Faddis. Now this
was more the flavor of proper technomadics... hanging out with
brilliant friends and partying with the live-aboards, not huddling in
separate boats, miserable in the rain, making lists of leaks. Life
improved.

Of course, the sunny morning that we left propelled us into that
gonzo wave-toss'd reach down to the lee of the island... yikes! I
felt the stirrings of fear, got a much better sense of the rigging
stresses involved, and started worrying about solar array windage.
But after this dose of adrenaline and harsh reminder of mortality,
the expedition became a sweet blur -- connecting the dots of friends
and marinas, tweaking our plans daily as weather and random delays
imposed scheduling constraints far more immediate than the normal
influences of deadlines and calendar coordination. Through the locks
and into the Seattle lakes to pedal with Michael Lampi and visit
other waterborne pals? Up to Port Townsend for the Kinetic Sculpture
Race, with a stop at Port Ludlow enroute to visit wireless data
wizard Dan Withers? Looping back to Camano Island via Deception
Pass, or maybe even Anacortes? None of those happened: delayed a
day here, a day there, hemmed in by winds as the season turned, we
soon realized that we'd do well to simply claw our way back upwind
and get to work on the next phase.

We left multihull maven Greg Jacobs' place in Silverdale, backtracked
past Bremerton, than had a long pedaling slog up the west side of
Bainbridge and into the trap of Poulsbo. Not realizing the
implications of a northwest/southeast bay coupled with a
southwest/northeast exit passage in an environment that offers a
steady diet of northerlies punctuated by occasional southerlies (got
all that?), we docked at the marina for what was to be a one-nighter
in a cute town. Alas, this place had ludicrous pricing policies...
while the other four marinas on the trip charged us by the aggregate
foot, the Port of Poulsbo Marina imposed a $15 minimum per boat.
This had us paying $30/night to dock two canoes, exactly the same fee
for two coffins-worth of sleep space as the 60-foot Chris Craft
Constellation yacht gleaming lavishly on the end tie. No attempt to
point out the absurdity changed their minds, or even elicited a
sympathetic smile. Strike one off the list...

We were stuck in the otherwise delightful Poulsbo for $90 worth of
dock time, making daily visits to Prototek, hanging out with a
colorful albacore fisherman, and listening every few hours to the
NOAA weather broadcast. It kept prattling endlessly about small
craft advisories, with wind gusts to 30 knots and other
unpleasantries. As I mentioned at the beginning, we got impatient on
a seductively sunny morning and took a shot at it -- broad reaching 5
miles down the bay and into Agate Passage where we were slammed by a
funneled northerly that, coupled with current in our favor, generated
remarkably peaky little waves with their tops blown into long
streamers. There wasn't enough fetch for the seas to be a problem,
but the wind stopped us in our tracks. I tried to fight it for a few
minutes, pedaling hard, then a gust shoved my bow around and I went
careening downwind while Tasha went bobbing off toward Bainbridge,
wrestling on the foredeck with a jammed furler. It took almost four
hours to battle our way back upwind to town.

We escaped eventually, of course, and made two back-to-back death
marches into relentless northerlies to reach Kingston, then
Langley... both pleasant villages with friendly marinas and
well-stocked pubs. The final run to Camano Island, 9 easy miles
scooting 4-5 knots in a rare southerly, dropped us at our local
launch ramp by noon... where we wrapped the whole thing up with a
grueling, gravity-defying 1-mile haul of our collective tonnage up
the wheel-sucking beach, up a nasty hill, up a long road, up another
killer hill... well, you get the idea. It's due to the Roberts Law
of Aquatic Gravitation: water collects in low places, so leaving is
always harder than arriving.

That's true in a metaphorical sense as well. During those 2 weeks at
sea, magical at some times and brutally difficult at others, I barely
thought about terrorists, geopolitics, deadlines, resource-extractors
and developers raping our island, or any of the other psychic energy
sinks of daily life. There's an immediacy in sailing that captures
the mind and soul, and small wonder some people never come back.
Already, a few days later, I'm embroiled again in complexity...
dreaming of the expedition to come and further refining the project
to streamline the path from here to launch.

I'd like to devote the rest of this update to a few comments on
equipment performance, then pass along the other news since Issue
#139, four long months ago. But first, some data points...


STATISTICAL INTERLUDE

Microship Wordplay...
Number of blocks: 42
Feet of line: 225 (plus 185' of anchor webbing)
Hydraulic cylinders: 13
valves: 13
fittings: 128
tubing: 150'
Weight: about 900 pounds plus me

MEME-1 trip data...
Total distance: 132 nautical miles
Longest day: 28 nm
Average day: 14.6 nm
Highest speed observed: 7.5 knots
Pedaling speed: 3.5 knots relaxed, 4+ pushing hard


EQUIPMENT PERFORMANCE

In general, things worked beautifully. The following commentary
addresses individual subsystems and components....

==> The trimaran itself: Surprisingly good. The ride is drier than
I expected with this low freeboard, even in rough conditions, and she
points fairly high (much higher if I'm also pedaling). I can
complete a tack in 90 degrees with pedal-assist, about 130 degrees
without. The aka hinges creak somewhat, but it feels good -- there
is plenty of bow buoyancy and she's generally "on her lines." The
wake is clean, as the sleek Wenonah Odyssey canoe hull and the two
Fulmar amas slice cleanly through the water with minimal turbulence.
Even at over 1,000 pounds all-up weight, the boat feels light on the
water (but not on land!).

==> Sailing rig: Not bad at all. The WindRider rig roller-furls
around the mast, and I added a double furling drum to control this
reliably from the cockpit (my original single drum was terrible, as
is Natasha's). I also added a decent outhaul and split vang, both of
which lead back to cleats on the aft port aka. These make deployment
and retrieval much easier, and the vang flattens out the sail on a
run by lowering the boom. And the Ronstan traveler track on the
arch, though seemingly too short to make much difference, gives me a
very noticeable advantage when pinching (sailing close-hauled to
windward). The only remaining problem is stepping/unstepping, and
we're working on tabernacle and hinge concepts to make this less
painful.

==> Spinfin pedal drive unit: Spectacular. This turns out to be a
key component of the boat, faster than the electric thruster. It's
always available with a quick flip of the deployment lever, and not
only lets me cruise at about 3.5 knots but vastly improves windward
sailing performance. For close-in maneuvering such as docking, the
Spinfin is a lifesaver. Early in the trip, I had clunking problems
on the port side, but they were simply the result of misalignment in
the crankset, easily adjusted with the Tran-torques once I stopped
and paid attention to the problem. Afterwards, the remaining miles
were silky smooth. Tasha's boat uses a Seacycle drive -- it's slower
and has more static friction than the Spinfin, but was still
reliable. With both of us pedaling without exertion for an hour, I
tend to end up about a half mile ahead.

==> Electric thruster: Further refinement needed. Speeds here were
lower than pedaling, which doesn't make much sense... I suspect cable
loss and ventilation problems. Still, the units were immensely
helpful, allowing us to justify our monstrously heavy batteries by
getting a beautiful lift upwind and against the current. Tasha used
hers for at least 5-6 hours, rescuing her knees from certain demise;
I put about an hour on mine.

==> Landing gear: Much better than expected. As I mentioned earlier,
this has been a nightmarishly complex part of the system, and my
confidence level was low. But there were no problems on this trip,
which included about 2.5 miles of often-difficult road time. I'm
seeing some corrosion in exposed bearings and stainless components of
uncertain pedigree, as well as minor initial stretch of the new
cables (easily adjusted out), but nothing serious as far as I can
tell without disassembly. The forward units do splash on a close
reach in choppy conditions, but the one time it happened I was
overpowered anyway and didn't mind the drag.

==> Hydraulics: Excellent. I had one leak, in a chain of adapters
associated with a temporary cheap pressure-relief valve used for
rudder kick-up (the stainless one I want is about $200, so I got a
bronze junker for testing). The Clippard cylinders distinguished
themselves with trouble-free operation and no signs of corrosion, and
the new bleeder system involving 26 ports solved the air bubble
problem perfectly. My working fluid is a 50-50 mix of propylene
glycol and distilled water, with red food coloring added. I just
elevated a solar shower and gravity fed this into the system after
first purging it with tap water (hence the coloring; that told me
when to quit).

==> Communications: Needs integration. For this trip, we depended on
handhelds for boat-to-boat use, and they were way too fiddly. Every
day we had to deal with battery charging, sealed bags, trying to hear
each other, and avoiding the loss of expensive widgets overboard.
The radios themselves are excellent (Motorola Talkabout FRS and
Alinco dual-band HT), but for marine use, all essential communication
tools have to be integrated and the handhelds reserved for the
backpacks. My boat also has a Standard DSC-capable fixed-mount
Marine VHF; we need one for Natasha before the next expedition. In
the long run, of course, all my comm gear will be built into the
console and accessible via the crossbar network. The most amazing
communication device that accompanied us on this trip was the
Globalstar phone... reliable even without the external antenna, and
my key lifeline to the outside world. This, too, will become part of
the integrated system when the console is built.

==> Cockpit Utility and Sleep Facilities: Cramped and challenging,
but possible. This is definitely "camping scale adventure," not
yachting. There are about a dozen leak points that need to be fixed,
and the most fundamental lesson is that there is no room for stray
gadgets, bags, and random stuff floating around the cockpit.
Everything needs to be either integrated into the ship or given an
unambiguous and accessible stowage spot. Sleeping is difficult for
me with my 6'4" height and lower back problems, but it works
surprisingly well -- the Therma-Rest mattress is highly effective,
and it's kept above the always-wet bilge by .5" cross-tube matting we
found in the McMaster-Carr catalog (more flexible and prettier than
the tile system in the marine supply stores). The fabric dodger is
wonderful, though the side windows need work; the polycarbonate
windshield is crystal clear, though I inadvertently disabled its
essential fold-down feature with the cowling solar panel mounting.

==> Pack System: Effective but hard to use. Almost everything is
stored in Cascade Designs dry bags, which are excellent and
reliable... but I only have the tiny forward and aft compartments in
the canoe hull, accessed through hatches. There's just not much
space, so doing anything involves a bit of a juggling act in cramped
quarters. On this trip, the Mac laptop was in a Pelican box... too
heavy and bulky, though I certainly had no trouble trusting its
waterproofing effectiveness. When the console is done, the iBook
will live in a sealed docking bay and move to my backpack when I'm
off-boat; the Pelican box, if used, will carry instruments, spares,
and documentation.

==> Navigation Tools: Good, but more needed. Besides the Marine VHF,
the one always-on unit on this trip was the Garmin GPS-12XL. Wired
to system power, it worked perfectly and has an efficient user
interface. What is really needed, however, is a console-mounted
chartplotter... my paper charts and manual nav tools (dividers,
protractor, etc.) were a nuisance to use in the cockpit. In the long
run, the handheld GPS and paper charts will be backups, and all
routine navigation will be via the chartplotter (not PC-based nav
software as originally planned; this is one area where single-point
failure potential and power budget have to be taken seriously).

==> Lighting: Power hungry and a pain. The navlights are good (Aqua
Signal), but are about to be retrofitted with stunning red, green,
and white Luxeon LEDs driven by a board designed by Ned Konz. This
will lower my 15-watt navlight budget to about 3-4 watts. In the
cockpit, I'll use diffused white LEDs; the current floating headlamp,
flashlight, and candle system is ridiculously clumsy. Reducing
dependence on stray gadgets is essential.

==> Power system: Good, but getting better. On this trip, I used a
single Group 27 battery, proper bussing and distribution with Blue
Sea Systems products, and charging from a 30-watt Solarex module as
well as a Statpower AC charger. The latter appears confused and
blinks an error light at full charge, and draws 30mA from the battery
when not plugged in... it will be replaced by a dedicated
line-operated switcher piped through Tim Nolan's power management
system. Tasha's boat used a 3A Guest clip-on charger, but its
setpoint is halfway between flooded and gel values (though it is much
more waterproof than mine). The solar panels were not given proper
charge controllers for this trip, just Schottky blocking diodes. All
this will be upgraded as we turn our attention to systems integration.


NEWS BITS

Speaking of site features, we've had a few hits on that DONATE button
I mentioned last time. My thanks go to Franklin Davis, Eolake
Stobblehouse <http://www.domai.com>, David Rae, and one donor who
wishes to remain anonymous.

Other thanks go out to volunteers: Charlie Faddis of Prototek
machined some beautiful parts to interface Natasha's crankset and
drive unit, Rick Wesley fabricated her drive unit mount and uphaul
handle, and Phil Rink did her basic power distribution wiring for
this trip. Over in my department, a wonderfully spirited local
artist named John Muhler painted Wordplay's interior with Interlux
Bilgecote enamel.

Thanks also go to the Handar business unit of Vaisala, both for a
beautiful barometric pressure sensor for our data collection suite
(Setra Model 276) and a complete upgrade to the Model 425 ultrasonic
wind sensor on the bow. This bizarre-looking device with its three
prongs gets a lot of comments from yachties, who all want one the
moment I explain that it replaces the wind vane and anemometer with
no moving parts. (One guy asked, "why do you have a chicken-cooker
on the bow?") See http://www.vaisala.com

And Tom Rentz of Sun-wind, a local renewable energy dealer, donated
the mechanical components for a homebrew windmill... now we just need
to hang it somewhere along with the Air Marine unit that was to have
been used on Hogfish (even this sleek little unit is, alas, too much
for a Microship). Tom is: http://home.switchboard.com/sunwind.
Anybody want to come work on a windmill project, as well as rooftop
tower installation of the two Cushcraft HF antennas we'll need before
we can start piping telemetry back from the boats?

I have a couple of tech notes to pass along. In issue #139, I
complained that the landing gear suspension blobs (Hytrel bumpers
from Miner Elastomer) had taken a set and allowed the struts to get
sloppy. This turned out to be absolutely untrue; upon examination, I
discovered that the blob stacks had been assembled with enough slack
that they were able to go wonky (that's a technical term, honest). I
jigged them into a long column on a waxed tube and glued them
together with aggressive adhesive, added sawed-off partials to
completely fill the strut, and they've been fine ever since.

Also, our wonderful anodizing sponsor, Hytek Finishes, was kind
enough to run another batch of parts for us (mostly for Tasha's
boat). As they are a major aerospace contractor, I was surprised
when two components came up missing... little threaded locking caps
for our hydraulic fluid reservoirs. But this, too, was error on our
end... those were made of 2024 aluminum instead of 6061, and
completely dissolved during anodizing due to interaction with the
other alloy! I had been clearly warned about this phenomenon, but
incorrectly guessed that we had no 2024 in the batch... with all the
random sources, it's tough to keep track. The manufacturer, Lube
Devices <http://www.lubedevices.com>, was very friendly and sent us
replacement units; I alodined them here and all is well.

Incidentally, the alodining process, if you don't mind nasty
chemicals, is an effective way to achieve a basic aluminum
anti-corrosion finish at home. It's neither as hearty nor as pretty
as hard anodizing (especially with the dichromate seal), but it's
easy to do with about $50 worth of off-the-shelf poisons from marine
or homebuilt aircraft supply houses.

I'd like to close with a few interesting links and book recommendations:

I just finished reading "North to the Night" by Alvah
Simon... this is an amazing book. If you want hard-core nautical
adventure on a far more extreme scale than ours, check this out:
http://www.books.mcgraw-hill.com/im/feature/north_to_night.html

My MIDI appetite is being satisfied by an account on Pierre Schwob's
vast archive of classical music... the most substantial I've ever
seen. Take a peek at http://www.ClassicalArchives.com and have your
synthesizer ready.

Like travel tales? Want more? There is some very good writing by
Erik Gauger here: http://www.notesfromtheroad.com

And finally, we had the pleasure of meeting a brilliant chap named
Toby Hemenway, author of "Gaia's Garden: A Guide to Home-Scale
Permaculture." This was one of those conversations that sizzles like
a drop of water on a pancake griddle, and the book reflects his
diverse wisdom... Tasha is enthralled, and has grand plans for our
acre of unmown weeds...
http://www.chelseagreen.com/Garden/GaiasGarden.htm

There's just too much interesting stuff out there!

And so, we have passed a major waypoint in Microship development.
Attention is turning at last to the geek delights...

Cheers from the lab!
Steve