A broken C-drive, that changed our course

We had only just left Vuda Marina on our way to Denarau, a short passage of five nautical miles against wind and waves, when it happened. Two-metre waves slammed against the bow, the engine hummed steadily, until we heard a strange rhythmic ticking sound: not loud, but unmistakable, as if somewhere deep in the metal something wasn’t turning quite right. We looked at each other, is this normal, or not? Ten minutes later, there was only silence. No bang, no smoke, no panic. The engine simply stopped.

During motoring, a line had become caught in the propeller. After Jeroen removed it, everything seemed fine at first, until we noticed that the propulsion was no longer functioning properly. It later turned out that the lower gearbox of the C-drive was broken.

The wind took over immediately. Slowly it blew us off course, so we did what sailors do: we sailed. We hoisted the headsail, trimmed the mainsail and mizzen, and calmly tacked our way toward Denarau. The closer we came to land, the gentler the sea became. The high waves flattened, the water turned lighter in colour, and the tension in my shoulders eased with every gust.

The final stretch was narrow, between two small coral islands, half a mile to the anchorage where, for years, a rusty giant has been resting: an old cruise ship lying squarely in the way of a long tack. While we were planning our course, two local sailing boats appeared in the distance. They were carrying tourists, sailing fast without AIS signals, and heading straight towards us. We called them on channel 16, but only static came back. So we estimated their course, stayed as far clear as possible, and tacked in short succession. Once, then again, and a final tack to port, just in time for the first boat to pass safely behind us. The second one followed without issue.

And then, finally, the anchorage. Jeroen stood on the bow, anchor ready, while I furled the sails. Once we were settled, Jeroen started the engine again, and to our surprise, it ran like a charm. Smooth, steady, as if nothing had happened. The gearbox responded perfectly: forward, neutral, reverse. The oil was clean and clear, and the Vetus coupling, that rubber-damped connection between engine and propeller shaft, looked as good as new. Which made sense, as the previous owner had replaced both the gearbox and the coupling shortly before we bought the boat.

Everything seemed fine, until Jeroen turned the drive shaft by hand. In neutral it rotated smoothly, except now and then, when there was a small hesitation, a slight jolt, as if something inside was holding it back. That was the first sign that the problem lay deeper, inside the C-drive, Amel’s unique system that transfers power through two gearboxes running down the keel to the propeller.

Underwater, when Jeroen turned it by hand, it spun freely once or twice, then suddenly… block, stuck. After a few small movements, it came free again, as if something tiny was catching between the gears and then letting go.

Slowly, the picture became clear: when the line wrapped around the propeller, it had likely caused damage inside the lower gearbox, deep in the keel, the C-drive’s lower gearbox. One or more gears were damaged, preventing the drive from rotating freely. At sea, that meant the propeller suddenly jammed, the engine could no longer release its power, and it shut down.

All evidence pointed to the lower gearbox of the C-drive. That part is built into the keel itself, completely encased in fibreglass and epoxy. It was once designed to last a lifetime. The downside of that construction is that you can’t reach it: no inspection hatch, no bolts, no cover. The only way to access it is to grind through the fibreglass until the metal becomes visible. Only then can the gearbox be removed and overhauled, if the parts can still be found.

Possible scenarios:

1. Rebuild: remove the gearbox, ship it off and repair it. If the damage is limited, this is the most logical and achievable route.
2. Replacement: if repair is impossible, a new C-drive must be installed. That is a precision job where everything must be realigned, coated and sealed watertight. Estimated cost: around 30,000 euro.
3. Creative solution: perhaps a local mechanic can open the gearbox partially without removing everything, but that remains uncertain until we know exactly what is wrong.

The engine is healthy, the couplings are fine, but deep inside the keel lies a mechanical problem that demands patience and precision. A tiny piece of metal in the wrong place, with big consequences.

We decide to change plans. The haul-out in Denarau is cancelled, because there you can only stay on the hard for a month, and ordering parts would take much longer. Vuda Marina has more experience with long-term projects and understands that sometimes waiting is the only option. They can take us in a week.

We had hired a local skipper to help us into the marina and now asked if he could guide us to Vuda as well. Unfortunately, we couldn’t reach him anymore; his phone stayed off. Typical for here, things go as they go.

We tried to sail first, but the wind completely died. So we tied our dinghy alongside My Motu and, at two and a half knots, slowly made our way toward Vuda Marina. Our dinghy was the hero of the day.

At the entrance of the marina lies a single mooring ball, and we hoped we could take it. On the AIS, we could see we weren’t the only ones heading for Vuda. On channel 11, one conversation followed another, a constant buzz of activity. At 1.4 nautical miles out, we heard the marina advising another boat to take the mooring so Customs could come to them.

I called the marina and explained that we were still 1.4 miles away, had no engine, and were hoping to use the mooring ourselves. The reply was better than expected: they promised to help us as soon as we got closer. So Jeroen and I kept slowly approaching the entrance, circling just outside. It was busy, boats coming out, others going in, but after about twenty minutes we saw two marina pangas heading our way.

They escorted My Motu safely inside, and soon we were secured in the middle of the bay, next to a motor catamaran scheduled to leave later that day. Once that boat departed, we would be right in front of the haul-out entrance. Then came the good news: someone had cancelled, and we could haul out the next day. What a relief, as if the universe had decided to cooperate for a moment.

And so here we are. Safe, but quiet. What does it mean? Patience, flexibility, and trust. It may mean we will go to the Netherlands earlier than planned, to work and arrange parts, or maybe not. For now, New Zealand is no longer a certainty. But as always aboard My Motu, plans are fluid. We move with the sea, with life, and with whatever comes our way. And sometimes, silence speaks louder than a bang.

The next day, we get confirmation that we’re on the schedule for the afternoon. When the time comes, two marina workers come aboard while a panga guides and pushes us into the haul-out bay. As I hold the helm steady, the men secure the lines. It’s always a tense moment, watching your home being lifted slowly out of the water.

Then the real detective work begins. It feels a bit like performing surgery, only this time on our own boat. Jeroen starts by unbolting the engine and carefully shifting it aside to make space in the engine room. Then comes the next phase: freeing the gearbox. The bolts come loose surprisingly easily. The sound of metal against metal fills the boat, interrupted only by brief silences and the occasional click of a wrench.

Next comes the Vetus coupling, that notorious connection between engine and C-drive, the heart of the propulsion system. Jeroen removes the coupling and inspects each part closely. Everything still looks remarkably good, no cracks, no play, no signs of wear that could explain the problem.

But to reach the lower gearbox of the C-drive, he has to go further, which means cutting. With the angle grinder in his hand, goggles on, and the sharp smell of fibreglass in the air, he begins the final step. The noise is piercing, and fine white dust drifts through the air. It feels strange, like opening the heart of our home.

Two days later, the gearbox lies free on the workbench, a compact block of promise and mystery. Jeroen opens it, inspects the gears one by one, and there it is: broken edges, broken teeth. Our worst fear confirmed. The lower gearbox is destroyed and beyond repair, according to Amel.

We look at each other. There’s no frustration, no curse, just quiet acceptance. We know what it means. We won’t be sailing to New Zealand this year; instead, we’ll return to the Netherlands to work, arrange parts, and discuss the only possible solution with Amel.

That evening, we shared a glass of wine in the cockpit, surrounded by tools and piles of towels that were once white. The air is soft, the marina lights ripple on the water, and somewhere in the distance music plays.
“Well,” says Jeroen, “at least we learned something again.”
I smile and say. “Yes, that is true.”