Isn't it entrancing? Let's take a closer look!
I’d had a bad feeling about the trip from the beginning; something down deep in my waddayacallit. Understand that I make no claim to precognitive powers. I just always have bad feelings. On my way to the grocery store I’m figuring it’ll be just my luck one of those automated jungle forest misters in the fresh vegetable section is going to spritz Swine Flu in my face while I’m selecting broccoli crowns. That’s if a text-messaging soccer mom in a Humvee doesn’t take me out in the parking lot first.
So getting back on the boat for a mini-cruise is bound to stir up some mental dust bunnies. But there were Deb and I in the middle of summer with little to do thanks to the economic meltdown, and a favorable weather report “looking forward,” to tax the idiom de jour. I made a lame effort to incite my meager impulsive side to relax a little and take on some real human risk.
Naturally the report began to get more realistic as we approached our week on the water. As the launch date approached, what had previously looked to be an unabated stretch of bucolic weather began to resemble what we’d been experiencing most of the summer: hot, humid, with the ever-present possibility of afternoon thunderstorms. I tried to forget about the recent squall that had taken the life of a local sailor, terrorized others, felled healthy climax vegetation and provided me with footage for my very first YouTube video (search "manhasset bay microburst"). Still I heard the rumblings. They came from the pit of my stomach.
Harpies, I think they're called
This despite the cheery parade of jerrycan-laden cruisers who continued to pass through on their visits to here and beyond. All were yucking it up despite living in floating fibertubs hundreds of miles from their real homes.
We’d just visited new friends, Susan and Tom, two researchers turned sailors in enviable harmony with their new lifestyle. We’d rendezvoused with them on Long Island’s North Fork, we naturally arriving by motorcar, to enjoy a day of wine tasting, camaraderie and a bonus night on the water aboard Gypsy Soul. The BreatheRight had held fast to the bridge of my nose, and we’d all slept like babies.
So off east Deb and I went again, this time by boat, with the thought of checking out the Thimble Islands, or whatever.
Whatever arrived early on day two, after about an hour of motoring in light wind. I was preparing to try out our cruising chute, a colorful gewgaw that had been roused only once prior a few seasons back, it having then nearly killed me in a rapidly escalating breeze. It had taken me a couple years and near stillness on the water to convince me to give it another go.
Then our engine, the same one that had ticked like the watch Leonardo Di Caprio wears all the way to the Bahamas and back (inspiring me to give it its own chapter in my book), started to make a noise. It was like a… a sort of a… Deb how would you… The kind of noise we used to try to make as kids with our bikes using some clothespins and a deck of cards.
I was below when the clackity-clacking started. Deb was at the helm. We immediately exchanged TV close-up looks. Deb put the engine in neutral. No change. She said white smoke was coming out the back. I opened the engine compartment and saw nothing. The sound continued. I told Deb to kill the engine.
This is where I typically begin to channel the spirit of Ralph Cramden, doing that “omina omina omina” thing until Deb tells me take a deep breath. Then I go over everything I remember from my Mack Boring diesel engine seminar, which now consists solely of the mandate, “Run your engine hard on a regular basis.”
Oh, I tried a few things. I checked the inboard sea strainer. I dismantled the raw water pump. I dove on the prop and outboard sea strainer, I burned my hand on the engine. After we let it cool down I checked the coolant level. Why did I do these things? Because I knew how. It made me feel like I was trying.
While I was pretending to be a mechanic, Deb was attempting to sail with what little wind there was in a homeward direction. Which meant we were actually heading further away from home at a slightly slower pace because of the current pushing us toward Maine. This is pretty much par for the course when you own a sailboat, which is why you should get one with a reliable engine.
After a while, since there was little else I could think to do (please don’t bring up the thermostat), I told Deb to give the engine another try. She turned the key and hit the button. It ran like a top, and has ever since. This fortuitous shift in fortune, however, did not compel me to turn around and resume our original course away from home. What are you, some kind of adventurous type?
This actually is fun
Over the next several days Deb and I zigzagged our way back toward home. It is very easy to take a long time to get to somewhere in a sailboat if you really want to. We stopped at new locations along the way, visiting places we had no intention of visiting prior to the noise. We island-hopped, explored some new-to-us landmasses, watched sunsets, got mooned once, flew the spinnaker just fine, thank you, and solved all manner of earthly problems over glasses of moderately priced wine.
All the problems except the one.
All's well that ends.
