***
Such a strong name for such a small sailboat and a brief story,
a little story in which not much happens,
but it is a story of love. About working on a boat engine,
work that has to be done. It may not sound interesting
if you don't know about boat engines, but don't
worry about that, neither do I, and I wrote the story.
My wife and I lived on a 37 ft. powerboat docked at the Marineways: docks with boat repair, in Sausalito, the first village north of the Golden gate. Across from our boat staring me in my face was an old wooden sloop: Navigator.
It looked terrible and cute at the same time.
I bought the sailboat and kept it on a hook near our boat...forty yards behind our boat, a non-busy part of the channel. We came up from Los Angeles three or four years before. The sloop was made locally and had been here a while. On a hook means: tied to something underwater. Instead of dropping an anchor there was something in the water with a float on it. I tied to that. About my boat, I'll tell you what I know.
From the eighteen seventies to the mid-1930s Anderson and Christofani built boats South of downtown San Francisco in the Hunter's Point area. As builders these men were renown. Their boats were crafted in a tradition of quality and caring. Navigator was built for a contractor in 1931, or so I heard. The provenance of the small wooden sloop is cloudy. A second owner had the boat for twenty-five years, then came a succession of owners. Then it came on the market again when I bought it as a near cast off from a Sausalito boat dealer for a giveaway price. As best I can recall, I paid twenty-five hundred dollars in l984.
Navigator was old, worn and spurned, although quite a sturdy dog. Everything about it original as fifty-six years before when it left the shipyard, including the engine. The sails, of course, were changed over the years. I kept the twenty-four foot sloop moored nearby in the harbor and used it to sail the bay and occasionally out the Golden Gate. Naturally I had to take it out under the Golden Gate. The first time the current was so strong I had to wait three hours, listening to an entire base ball game, before the tide turned and I was able to renter San Francisco Bay. After that I kept a careful eye on the tide tables and stayed mostly in the bay. I found plenty of sailing room there.
This week the engine wouldn't start. I'd had engine difficulties at other times during the two years I owned Navigator. Other than cleats and lines, paint, varnish and cringles, adjustments to the engine timing and carburetor, I had few repairs. I installed new batteries one time, another time I changed the points and plugs. I cleaned out the water jacket and repaired the water pump, cleaned the fuel system and painted the engine the original fire-plug red. Overall, I felt I maintained the boat and engine.
I'm not a mechanic and readily admit. However, as owner, I desired to keep her right. I did have a vague history with engines. When I was young Phil Jenkins ran his car repair garage and gas station across the street from my house. His son George was my first playmate, and from my earliest reckonings, we hung out at the garage. I wouldn't begin to pretend that Phil gave us instructions about engines, because I don't remember it that way. We were in his garage often; in summer heat and heavy winter snow. We stayed in while Phil worked on the engines on a variety of cars and trucks of the 1950's; when vehicles were mechanical and electrical and not computerized. We watched sometimes when Phil would pull a carburetor, place it on his bench, take it apart, clean it, and put it back together, sometimes with a new float or spring, or just with the cleaning and oiling. Phil probably had a timing light to set the firing of the plugs, but I don't remember a timing light. What I do remember, and this is the part that stuck with me, is Phil leaning over countless cars and trucks with his screwdriver, adjusting the air and gas and idle settings until the engine sounded just right.
It is that exacting tuning, and ultimately, the perfect sound that stayed with me. George and I played a game of it, trying to hear when the engine was right so we could say "That's it," just a second before Phil gave the nod that went with "That's it. That's as good as she's gonna get." I know I heard it then because I hear it now. For all those years that came after I left the 1950s, Phil's garage, and our town limits, to venture faraway places into the world on my own, a part of me has remembered those days, Phil Jenkins, his helpers Nick Orshaski, later Bill Orshaski and Dick Harmon.
Here and there along the way opportunities have come for me to listen for that perfect engine sound. Whenever someone had the hood up on a vehicle I always took a peak and a listen. Worked on my own vehicles when I could. My '55 Ford had the idle too high. It was a small job, but it needed doing. From that point I expanded to other repairs, adjustments and replacements on a list of vehicles that drove me from my childhood in the 1950s right up to my Navigator's engine in the summer of 1986.My mechanical skills are limited. Although I never had a teacher or mechanical training, I did have patience and curiosity. I'd always felt that I could do what I term monkey work, maybe Phil called it that: that is, I could remove parts and put them back where I found them. I could also disassemble larger parts and put them back together. It is monkey work because I didn't know what I was doing. To begin, there has always been someone to look under the hood and say, "It's the alternator." So I would take out the old one and put in a new one. Sometimes I'd even have to ask, "Is this the alternator?" But I could always take things off and put 'em back. And, thanks to Phil, I can hear what the engine is doing. I hear the timing and the idle and the belts and the cylinders. There is music in the clicks and pops and spins and whirs, and when the song is played out of tune you can hear that. Like loving music, some people love the melody that a well tuned engine plays. I am not a mechanic, but have a fond attachment to that music.
At least once, and usually twice a week I rowed my skiff out, climbed on board, ran the engine on Navigator and washed the boat and wiped it off as I let the engine warm to operating temperature. Fifty-six years old. They don't make those old Universal two-cylinder gas engines anymore, and they don't manufacturer any of the major parts. The last replacement parts left the shelves years ago. A well-respected boat mechanic that I phoned told me he hadn't seen a part for that engine thirty years, since the l950s. Navigator's engine could run, and more than that it could humm the sweetest, little engine music imaginable. I tuned and adjusted so it would be dependable; more than that, when someone heard it purr for the first time the little Navigator engine could illicit unsolicited comments like,"Hey, it sounds good." Sound good indeed! Little did they know that their morsel of a compliment barely nicked the surface of the fact: Navigator's engine was wonderfully sound. No qualifying statements warranted, statements like, "Good even though it's an old engine." or, "it's good for a baby dwarf", or, "good, even though I don't know what I'm talking about." Indeed! Replacement parts? Well, my idea was to keep that wonderful machine running. They don't build them like my Navigator's Universal two-cylinder 1931 gas engine anymore. So every five days or so I make sure the engine ran to keep the internal condensation down, to keep up with how it's doing. Use it or lose it. That saying is very true for little, salt-water boat engines. I don't want to lose it.
The next day the tide was way out and when I looked out I saw Navigator leaning heavily. It was one of the very low tides for the year. twelve hours later when the tide was in I went out and moved Navigator out about fifty yards to deeper water. There were buoys to tie to, so it was no problem.
Monday of this week I rowed out to Navigator. I live on a powerboat in a slip that has water and shore-power. Navigator is moored in a good location within sight of my floating home. Navigator is twenty-four feet in the eater, twenty-nine end to end. My skiff provides reliable transportation out and back. I had run the engine a few days ago on Sunday and wanted to take a few minutes to row over, run the engine for ten minutes to warm it up, charge the batteries and row back. On shore nearby, is the boat dealership where I bought Navigator. A two man operation, occasionally some other men filling in. Eric was a tall, thin, blonde haired, German fellow, not sociable unless you are in the market for a boat. Ken is the good guy. I see him and we wave.
The day was fair as are most in Sausalito. Never too warm, usually just right. For sailing craft there is always a breeze on the bay. Aboard Navigator, I put the battery switch on One. The day before I started it with battery Two. Alternating batteries to keep them both in use. The gear shift in neutral, the choke out full and I turned the key to the start position. The flywheel turned, the starter cranked, the engine didn't start. I tried a few more times. Each time I listened more intently. There was no sound of the engine exploding in combustion. It wasn't firing.
Then, a transition, my thoughts and plans for the day abruptly corrupted. New, unplanned thoughts leaped in and took over. "My engine won't start," I said aloud. That primary thought took over. Immediately I had a new purpose for the day, other demands and interests were put aside. I looked toward shore. There was no choice. The engine must run. It was old and needed tenderness. Other demands had to be put aside. The longer the engine sits, the harder it will be to repair. I will fix it. The transition made, I rowed back thinking of the problem. I glanced around and thought how beautiful this a place is to live. Another good day in this paradise on earth.
My problem: to fix an engine when I'm not a mechanic. first I had to remove the thought that I'm not a mechanic and proceed. Aboard ship the engine is behind the ladder. The ladder releases with two hooks. After I moved it out of the way I had access to the old red engine. Without tools I sat on a convenient side bench and began looking. Looking is my teacher, my assistant, my method. When I can't listen to my engine, I can look. I never asked myself what to look for when I didn't know what to look for. It's like a habit I had of asking questions. Children do that. Maybe that's when I got the habit. If I asked a question, I got an answer. Years later I would notice the answer began to form regardless.
I learned by looking I could find the answer before knew what question to ask. Answer: "Look, the wire is not connected."
Question: "Do you think everything is hooked together properly?"
So for me the beginning of fixing an engine is the looking.
I looked at my engine, and in my heart I was having a discussion about the looking. "The engine worked fine yesterday, it should work fine today. I don't think I am going to see anything." And I kept looking and kept
thinking.
"It didn't sound like it was going to start," I said aloud. It didn't start. I didn't hear the engine firing.
"It was turning over but wasn't firing." It only took a few minutes of looking and reasoning to tell me that I would have to examine more closely, as I rowed back to Tranquility Base, my home boat, for a few tools. The next few hours I searched. I cleaned the spark plugs, they were thick with un-burned fuel. In the distributor I found worn points. They looked flat and spent.
"The engine worked fine yesterday," I told myself and kept looking. It was afternoon and three or so into my problem when the "I don't know what I'm doing" feeling began to sink deep, like an anchor not set, drifting above bottom.
My friend Ken sold boats at the shop where I bought Navigator, the office was on shore across from where I docked. It was a two-man shop that now and again had a third, a younger salesman do some work, but the office wasn't that busy. Either Ken or his partner would handle
the place. The partner, Erik, a tall, thin, blonde fellow with a slight German accent. He was harder, more business
than Ken. I never had a rapport with him. He always seemed to be thinking of his next sale. I bought my boat from them, so I was done for. He didn't need to hear from me. Ken seemed easier going, had time to be friendly. He liked people and so did I. He would be around on the dock and
that's how we met.
Ken used to hire a dirty looking guy to clean boats, that was Bob, Something-to-do-Bob. Bob could have been in his thirties, it was hard to tell. I don't think he shaved, but didn't have much facial hair, a bit of a mousy-mustache sometimes. He looked dirty, his clothes were shabby, worn and wrinkled. They were dirty. Bob looked okay physically, stood up straight, but he was a mess. He wore sloppy, baggy clothes, not much better than rags. Anyone's impression of Bob, seeing him the first time, would have said that he was filthy with messy attire and never combed hair. That covers it. Head to toe he was a mess. Hung his head in such a way that he only seemed to make eye contact in rolling glances.
He was a soft-voiced fellow.Ken was a very presentable boat dealer at one of the Sausalito's upscale boat sales stores. He was personable and friendly to all, said Bob was from a wealthy family. He got messed up from too much drink and drugs. He said Bob came from a nice family and now didn't have anything to do with them, slept and lived as best he could.
"Oh, I know his family. They've lived here a long time. Have a nice house up there on the hill." He pointed up toward the direction of the library, a good part of town.
I spoke with Bob the first time behind the boat repair shop at the Marineways. There was an old rowing skiff that looked abandoned, lying bottom side up alongside the back of the building, just off the parking lot. I walked by that way when the boat moved. I saw Bob crawling out from under the boat that morning. It was obvious he was sleeping there, fully dressed with his old military-looking jacket on.
After the skiff moved then he emerged. I happened to be ten feet away and stopped cold. He looked at me and said, "Dayjahave."
He spoke to me, there was no doubt he spoke directly to me. "What?" I know he asked a question, I could tell by the flat inflection. I had no idea what he had said. I remained silent looking at him.
"Dayjahave," He repeated the words in a soft American accented voice.
I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you're asking me." I stood frozen in the presence of this creature from another world. I recognized him, I had seen him before, around the boatyard, but his emergence from under the row boat caught me off guard. I wanted to respond to his query, to be of assistance, but I remained completely perplexed as to the words he said.
Knowing he had failed to communicate he said quite plainly in a soft, even voice, "What day do you have...what day is it?"
"Oh...Uh...it's Wednesday." What day did you have? That was it.
He nodded at ny response and turned away. I had answered his question. There was nothing more he wanted from me. I was on my way to my truck parked twenty yards away in the lot. I kept to my business and continued on to the truck. I don't know what he did. That's how I learned he was close around. After that I'd see Bob working on different boats out of water in the boat yard, polishing, washing, easy yet necessary labor. Not a lot of skill involved, but persistence.
After I met Ken at the boat sales yard where I bought Navigator I'd see Bob working there some afternoons, hauling buckets around, rubbing wax of boats, that sort of thing. Light work, clean-up mostly. From my houseboat Kens sales yard sat on shore directly behind me.
At all times, everyday, Bob looked the same, the same garb. a total mess. I asked Ken about Bob and he told me, "Something-to-do-Bob...that's what we call him, I know his folks. Was a real intelligent kid, really smart. Started drinking...got into drugs. He really dropped out." Ken shook his head, lamenting.
"I'd say he looks like he did," I said.
"I give him jobs to do. Easy things. Clean up, that sort of thing." He looked at me and touched my arm, "He'll do a light job, clean=up, that sort of thing. He's trustworthy. Honest and all that, you don't have to worry about him. Just don't pay him more than three dollars a day. He doesn't want anymore than that. He's afraid he'd start drinking again."
Three dollars a day? That was incredible. I could see that
even by the slow way he works he'd have to be would be
worth more than three dollars a day...but still.
"He's not worth much more...but he does ok, clean up kind of stuff.”
"Something-to-do."
"That's about it."
Later in the day I rowed out to Navigator. The sun was high, the breeze light. The air thin, not humid, fresh, perfect. The sound of the city a low purr, resonating in the background. Seagulls squawked now and them, there would be a boat motor, but overall, an easy, quiet afternoon. I sat on the deck smoking a cigarette, enjoying the scene, caught between going below deck to look again or rowing back to Tranquility Base and walking around by the boat workers to ask questions to some of them. Some of them knew about engines. That's when Tim came along. He was passing by on his motor powered Zodiac, a small rubber raft craft. I called him and he came over.
Tim was the parking lot mechanic at the Marineways. I liked Tim, he was easy going and we got along well. He'd done work on my truck. He also drilled two holes in a replacement part that I needed altered to fit on the Navigator engine. At that time I let him put the gasket down and then bolt the part into place. I could have done that, but since he drilled the holes he wanted to set it into place. He's proud of his accomplishments. It's his work. He earns a little money by working on the cars and trucks of the boat owners that use our parking lot. He lives in a van, sometimes on a boat. It's good for his self esteem to successfully fix something, and I think it is very important for him to have that pride and boost his self esteem because he tells me about the automotive successes and he doesn't charge very much. If he charged twice as much his costs would still be reasonable, and I would think he worked for the money and perhaps for the satisfaction and enjoyment of doing the job. he charges very little and he often complains about how difficult the work is, and I see him working late at night with his tools spread all around and himself covered in grease. Other times he'll stop by to tell me he is tired and will list his automotive successes. We have talked many times, Tim and I, and he has confided to me that he was beaten often by his father and that he used to have a quick temper and that his dreams are sometimes disturbing. I listen and tell him my things, that I had a strange dream and that my schedule was busier than usual and that I don't get to see my parents often because they live far away. The time Tim drilled the holes in the metal piece and put the gasket down and bolted it into place he also adjusted the timing and the carburetor settings, I didn't want him to. It happened so quickly that I just let him do it. We had the engine running to check the water system, I cleaned the entire water system and an old piece of pot iron broke when I removed it and the part I got needed to be drilled
to fit. They don't make replacement parts for the old Universal two-cylinder engine.
Often I will hire someone to do a piece of work that I don't have the tool for, or that is beyond my knowledge or skill, or perhaps it is not a thing that I particularly am interested in performing. Tim claims metal working among his areas of expertise. I didn't have the right file, didn't feel like filing metal that day, so I let him drill and file the part for the water system.
When Tim began to adjust the engine's timing and fuel mixture I didn't like it. I couldn't stop him. I tried with a phrase like, "You don't have to do that, I'll get it." Tim answered with something like, "That's okay, I want to do it." Both statements, his and mine, were clear and final. No more could be said to change it unless I crossed the invisible line that would have harmed our friendship.
"I don't want you to touch the timing or the fuel mixture because I don't trust anyone to hear the music my engine makes."
He could reply, "You go to hell. I need to set the timing and the fuel mixture to show you that I am a very good person in this world and you should think a lot more of me than my father who beat me did."
I had learned from experience that I had to do the jobs that I could do well. To delegate a task that I am an expert in would mean that the task would not be done to my satisfaction. So many times I was shoved aside by an expert who I allowed to do a task that ultimately was not satisfactory. After a while I would see those false experts coming and divert and avoid their assistance. Not this time. Tim was too quick for me. Already he had begun adjusting the timing and the fuel mixture and I was not going to crumple his self esteem.
After a few minutes he rubbed his oily hands on a rag as he looked up at me to say, "Do you have the specifications for this engine?"
When I heard that question all of my fears became reality. It confirmed to me that this bit of tuning was not going to work out to my satisfaction.
"That's pretty good," I said with some finality.
"I'm used to working on car engines, and with timing lights. You don't have a timing light here, do you?"
"No that's all right. I think it's pretty good. Don't worry about it."
"I've got a light in the van. I can bring it out."
I told him it wasn't necessary. That it sounded pretty good and I was real happy with the part he drilled and installed. I pointed out to him that it wasn't leaking. That small distraction was to take his mind off of what he wanted to do. After more discussion Tim decided that he had adjusted the engine as well as he could without a manual and a timing light. Thank goodness he was ready to wrap it up for now.
One day I came across Bob early in the day, standing along the dock, not going anywhere, not doing anything. I asked him if wanted to go out to Navigator clean it up some, wash the deck, that sort of thing. He new the routine. I'd seen him working on other boats anchored out and on the docks. He was ready to go now.
"You can get out there?" I asked him. "You've got a skiff, right?"
"Yeah, I do...I can get there." He was shaking his head after he quit talking. I could tell he got the idea. I was still appraising him. We knew each other from being around, but it was still testing time for both of us to see how we'd get along.
"You can do it today?" I asked. "I'm working on the engine out there, but I'll be down below and out of your way."
"Today I am finishing up some for Ken." he rolled his shoulder and pointed. "Tomorrow, first thing though. I can be out there tomorrow morning."
"Okay, Bob. I'll see you then. I don't know what I've got tomorrow. I'll be out there or maybe not."
"That's okay. I'll row out there, no problem. I'll take rags and a bucket."
And so it was set. Something-to-do-Bob had another something to do.
The next day I went out early to start the Navigator's engine. It ran, but poorly. The timing was too far advanced and the fuel mixture was too rich. I made the adjustments, and when the sweet purring of the engine came to my ears I put the episode behind me. The engine sounded a little
raggedy, but it was running. The sun was bright, clouds were light, the wind only the softest breeze. It would be
another beautiful day.
* * * *
So I was sitting on deck thinking. Looking down to the engine, up at high thin clouds and blue sky, and back to the boatyard where Grover and a few guys were moving around, where I could ask some questions about my engine's performance, when Tim happened by. At that point I needed his input. I was stalled as my Navigator's engine. Tim pulled alongside, tied on and came aboard. He came below with me and as I told him the symptoms. He popped open the distributor cap and had a look.
"The points are bad."
Was he sure? Yes, he showed my how worn and burnt they were. I would have to change the points. That was it. Nothing more to say. That was easy. I thanked him for taking a look. He had to get some tools for a job he was working on and soon departed. I would get the points for my engine.
* * * *
The next day I had to go into San Francisco, I left about eight-thirty and saw Bob row out and tied his skiff off the side of Navigator. When I left for the city he was still sitting in his skiff doing something. I came back before noon and Bob was still tied up to Navigator and sitting in his skiff doing something. I changed clothes and made lunch. An hour or two later I rowed out to Navigator. Bob was still in his skiff and didn't notice me until I was alongside.
"How are you doing Bob?"
He looked up and grunted a hello. He had papers in his lap. It was pages from a book.
"What are you up to?" I asked him. "What's the book?"
"Uhh...it's just uh...my I Ching...I was uh, putting it in order."
I saw he had the worn book all apart and it looked like he had whole sections of the book spread out and was stacking them. He was rearranging the book to suit his desire. I just shook my head in understanding, although I didn't understand. He remained quite involved in his work.
"I saw you from my boat. You were hear this morning...I
haven't seen you get on Navigator yet."
"You don't have to pay me for today ... I'll get to it tomorrow."
I pushed off my skiff and picked up the oars. "Tomorrow
then, Bob. I'll see you then."
He nodded in agreement and that settled it. The next day he
was out there again in the morning, and this time he worked most of the day and cleaned up Navigator. When it was time to pay him I pulled out five ones. He had his hand out and pulled it back. He only took three.
No matter how much I wanted to make the engine perfect there were other matters that got in the way. I had work to do in the city. It was time to clean up and get dressed to go. The engine would have to wait.
Tuesday came and the day started cool. Grey damp mornings are not my favorite for working in the Navigator's engine compartment while I sat on the bottom of a damp boat that dangled from it's mooring. There was other business to tend to. My work, the mail, phone calls.
Later in the morning I went to the parts store and picked up the points I needed. I also got plugs, since I was having trouble with the spark I should change the plugs as a good measure. After I returned from the parts store I realized forgot to get a condenser. You always change the condenser whenever you change the plugs. I don't know why, but that's what everyone says. Oh, well, one thing at a time.
I don't believe everything I hear. People will tell you anything. There was a time when I believed what people said because they looked like they knew what they were saying was true, or they said it with great conviction, or they worked at a service station or parts store and should know what they were talking about. Then I found out that most of them were wrong. They seemed so right at the time, but I
would find out that most of them were wrong. They seemed so right at the time, but I would find out from someone else that they were wrong. So I learned that different people would say different things and I had to be cautious about who I believed. that's when I started to ask the same question several times to different people. I learned that I have a better chance of finding the truth about something if everyone believes it. If there's one opposing opinion then I will take the cautious middle ground. When everyone
says the same thing, then it's good enough for me. Everyone says you should change the condenser when you change the points. I don't know why, but that's what everyone says. I rowed back to Navigator Tuesday afternoon and took out the old points and put in the new. It had been a long time since i had changed points so I had to use my monkey method of paying attention when I took the old ones out, then put the new ones in the same way. It worked fine. I knew they needed to be adjusted so I adjusted them so they opened and closed. They would work just fine without a measurement. I also changed the old plugs for the knew spark plugs. About then I realized I hadn't purchased the condenser. No problem, I was in no hurry. With the engine back together I tried to start it. It didn't fire. It sounded the same, only the battery was going dead from so many attempts to start the engine. I took the battery back to tranquility Base and put it on my charger. Brian was working on a boat at the yard. I would get his assistance. Boat yards and boat docks and boat towns have an inclination toward collecting foreigners. No matter where the port is, there will be persons from other countries there. They come by boat. They work on boats. Some stay a while and some stay forever.
Brian is from England. He graduated as an engineer from a college there. He worked his passage over as an engineer on a diesel powered sailboat. He married here, and although he was planning a sailing trip to the south Pacific, his bride was not in favor of it. The last time I spoke to him about it he said the trip was put off for a while. Brian works for Harry at the Marineways. He sands and paints. That's the kind of work that is done when a boat is hauled out at the Marineways. Brian assisted me once before when I needed help with Navigator's engine. He pointed the problem with the water cooling system. That's when I learned a bit of his history. I paid him well at the time, and we got along, so I knew he'd be willing to assist me again.
* * *
Brian came out at five p.m. after his work at the yard was through for the day. I rowed him out and he listened to my engine story. he used my meter to determine where the electricity flowed and where it didn't. His verdict came within five minutes. At last. here was an engineer who knew engines of all sorts. he could determine the trouble. Here was the wise physician making a house call.
"You're not getting enough spark," he said.
I thought, Ï knew that. The engine is not firing. I'm not getting enough spark is like saying the same thing. You're an engineer. You told me which direction the water flowed in the water cooling system. You sailed across the Atlantic ocean under the title engineer. You speak with an English accent.
"I didn't row you out here for a boat ride. How can I pay you anything if you don't do anything?"
the sun was going down. Brian told me he had a friend who would be around tomorrow. He assured me that his friend knew everything about engines and would be able to go right to the problem. The music would pour out and it would be sweet and clear once more. I said fine and rowed him back. it was getting too hard to see my engine. He told me to re-wire.
* * *
On Wednesday I met Craig, Brian's friend. Craig looked normal. He wasn't from England. He looked like
anybody else. I thought he would look special and talk like a mechanical genius. he didn't. Brian explained the problem with my engine as I stood there. Brian hadn't mentioned that he'd volunteered his friend's services. Craig wasn't hesitant. He would look at my problem engine.
He did say something about not knowing about my engine. it wasn't familiar to him. For some reason I wasn't concerned. Brian told me that Craig knew all about these old gas engines. I still wasn't worried. Maybe I was desperate, although I had confidence in this very normal
looking Craig who said he would take a look at my Navigator's engine.
I rowed Craig out to the Navigator after five p.m. when the boat yard work was finished for the day. Craig liked my boat and that pleased me. he looked around and examined the spark. it took just a few minutes. In less time than Brian observed Craig announced, "I think the coil is bad." We left it at that and I rowed him back with promises of returning for assistance from him if a new coil wasn't a cure.
Good old Craig. "I think the coil is bad" is what I wanted to hear. I thought the coil was bad. I had no way of knowing for sure, but I thought it was a reasonable conclusion. I was ready for his words and I accepted them. I would get a coil and fix my Navigator's engine.
* * * *
Tom Hall has engine parts. many places in the San Francisco bay area have engine parts for boats. I could have gone to several shops near Sausalito and in Sausalito to fine new engine parts. Tom Hall has expertise. He's old. My engine is old. tom Hall has old engine parts and old expertise. if anyone could provide parts and answers for old boat engines it was Tom Hall, and he was just down the street. Early Thursday I went to Tom Hall's. Tom's shop is a boat engine museum in the far end of a group of low rent metal sheds located off the beaten path behind the Arquez Shipyard and known only to the locals and perusers of the Pacific Bell Yellow Pages. Tom was out. I picked up a 12 volt coil from Kelly. The girl that works there. She's Tom's bookkeeper but she found a coil. Thursday afternoon I had to work. Business kept me from doing anything more with the engine on the Navigator. It was okay though. I had passed from the state of mind that discovered a problem. To the state of confusion and anxiety over the problem. To the state of mind that told me I was closing in on it. The problem would be solved. Craig thought it was the coil. He looked very normal and not like a mechanical genius but I liked his thought. I've got time Friday to put in the coil. I would fix the engine. There was not longer any uncertainty about the problem.
* * *
Friday I put in the coil. Rechecked everything. Wiring, points, condenser, batteries charged, fuel mixture and timing were close enough to start it. Plugs were ready. I worked deliberately. I had spark. I put the battery to the ON position and turned the key. The engine turned and turned and I pulled the choke out full and it turned over and it fired. it fired. Several times it fired. and then it stopped. I had cranked the engine too hard. It almost started. It fired and huffed and almost started, and then it stopped. The starter was smoking. The engine wouldn't turn over again.
* * *
I gave it a break. I rowed back to Tranquility Base to check phone messages and just take a break. I went into the next state of mind that told me I was nearly there. The spark was back to the engine. It almost started. It would be okay. I could fix it. It was a good time to take a break.
* * *
When I rowed back to the Navigator the engine would not turn over. There was plenty of spark. The starter relay was working. it clicked. The starter was burnt. Tom Hall was there this time. He talked for a long time to a customer on the phone. I walked in and sat down in an old oak office chair. I didn't stand for five minutes, and then sat down. I went in and saw Tom on the phone and sat down. There was another customer at the counter. I didn't mind waiting. I knew Tom would have the old starter for my old two-cylinder engine. Sears wouldn't have one, that's for sure. I walked into Tom Hall's shop with a state of mind that felt like going into a landing pattern at the airport near your home town when you're headed back after a long absence. I sat waiting with the satisfaction that my job would be completed this day.
* * *
I like old people, always have. There has always been an easy relationship formed between myself and an old person. The older the person, the easier a relationship formed. Old people are wise. They have to be wise to survive for a long time. They are seasoned and tested. I have always known this and old people recognize the respect I have for them. Some old people immediately show me a return respect, as if to acknowledge my regard for them. Other old people are more cautious and feign indifference because
they are cautious with strangers. Tom is old and wise and cautious. He feigned an attitude of limited warmth to me; even though he could tell that I respected him and he could tell I that knew he was a pussycat at heart.
when it was my turn with Tom Hall I explained my engine problems. i took my time, giving him the full story and he listened intently. He confirmed that my starter was defective and that I should have used a six volt coil instead of the twelve volt coil that I asked for and received from Kelly the secretary on the day Tom Hall was out. Tom had the coil I needed. I returned the old one and the new twelve volt coil that I'd purchased. Tom also examined my old starter and showed me how it had rusted into the engaged position, thus burning itself out. In the back room Tom found another starter for my antique two-cylinder engine. He placed it on the counter and called it the only one left in the world. He was only half joking.
I know there aren't many. In all of Tom Hall's vast shop storage area he had just the one.
* * *
Back aboard the Navigator I installed the coil and the new/old starter. Everything was ready. I had no doubts. With the battery on I turned the key. The music played. Quickly, I made the delicate adjustments that Phil would have done and the music became even, sweet and clear.
After a few minutes of running the engine while cleaning up the mess of wires and old parts and tools, I shut down the old two-cylinder and rowed back to my home-boat. It was very satisfying to have the job completed and I was determined to immediately begin writing a story about it.
That story leaped onto the paper. Clearly it would be about fixing the engine with a dash of the people along the way. I stayed on the project. Several hours later, the story completed, I read what I had written and found that my story was really about my feelings and my friends, about
looking, learning, and persistence; ultimately, about listening to the music.
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