Vlaamse Yachthaven Nieuwpoort Marina, Belgium

Once Timo, the young electrician/store clerk, performed the boat version of open-heart surgery and gave us a full battery transplant, our engine and electronics sprang to life and purred like a kitten. We held our breath and ran the major power guzzler -- the fridge -- for a few hours without the engine. No problem. Whew!

The old batteries had only lasted half their normal 10-year lifespan, according to the boat's detailed medical history, saved in a binder. Lack of use, no matter how meticulously Star Mist's previous owner had cared for her, could have been the killer. Timo said, the worst thing you can do to batteries is not use them. The heart needs to beat. Same for diesel engines, said Scott Segal, The Diesel Whisperer, whose class we took at the Annapolis School of Seamanship in the spring. Diesels like to run at a gallop, not a trot, he said. And regularly.

So now it was on to our next used boat owner's "childhood disease," our broken mainsail halyard. On our second day on Star Mist, breezily riding downhill with the swell behind us along England's bright-white cliffs toward Dover, we heard a crack. Instantly, our mainsail broke free, crashing down like a white waterfall across our deck. Gero sprung out of the cockpit to grab the flying mess before the sail fell into the English Channel, where five-foot seas might have slurped it down for lunch.

Gero dove over the boom spread-eagle as his arms wrested control of the flapping, flying canvas, landing on the roof of the deck salon. Ouch. Without a wince, he bungied the sail to the boom, brushed himself off, returned to the cockpit, and valiantly guided our injured vessel at gentle half speed into Dover.

Later, we licked our wounds over gulps of dark brown ale at The Duchess, a scruffy watering hole in the center of town, watching ecstatic fans at the Euro Cup go crazy on several flat screens, perking us up.

"You have to talk to Ronnie!" commanded the captain of a Belgium-based Jeanneau back at the marina, puffing on a Marlboro before an early morning departure. Two days later, up a spiral red staircase in a dungey warehouse, we tracked down a white-haired ex-hippie with kind wrinkles around his eyes.

"Are you Ronnie?" we asked.

"I don't know any others," he smiled. He looked at the stump of our broken halyard, shaking his head.

"The old polyester line could only withstand two tons of pressure," he said. "These can stand five to seven tons," he counseled, pointing to a wall of colored spools of 10mm ropes. The next morning, Gero and Ronnie floated up to the top of the mast on a crane, threading the new halyard.

Ronnie called down to his son Jakob, who climbed up the mast to a narrow opening. He poked a wire hook into the hole. Finally, he snagged the line. The repair cost $657, only $98 of that for labor.

Ronnie's next customer on his last working day before vacation, a Canadian with a custom 48-foot circumnavigator, was already waiting as the crane returned to earth.

"I'm sailing to France tomorrow," Ronnie explained as he hopped off the crane. To where, we asked.

"It depends," he shrugged, as his face stretched into a wise North Sea sailor's grin.

Thank you, Ronnie! Thank you Ship Support! Thank you Belgium! 😀😀🇧🇪❤️

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