Built at a slip in San Diego by someone who got tired of not knowing.
Deckhand started the summer the impeller went. The boat was overheating six miles out, the MFD was flashing numbers I didn't understand, and the service writer at the yard told me it would have been fine if I'd caught it earlier. The data had been there. Nobody was reading it.
There are eleven million recreational boat owners in the United States. Almost all of them are flying blind between service visits, relying on vibes and a paper log if they're lucky. The fleet software that solves this for commercial operators starts at ten thousand dollars a year. The companion apps from the MFD makers are allergic to admitting that anything is wrong.
Deckhand is the thing I wanted to exist — and couldn't find — on the Friday I was limping back to Shelter Island.
Offline is the default, not a fallback.
Boats lose signal. Software that breaks when the cell dies isn't marine software — it's a demo.
Numbers without meaning are noise.
Every metric Deckhand surfaces has a plain-English 'so what' attached. If we can't explain why a number matters, we don't show it.
Your boat's data belongs to you.
We export everything, always. If you leave, you walk out with every trip, every hour, every service record.