Henry and the Red Truck

 The other ancient truck in the island fleet is a bright red 1995 Ford Ranger, which hadn't moved since some time last September or October. My crude diagnosis was a bad fuel pump or wiring or fuses because if I fuffed in a good charge of starting fluid, it would fire until the ether was gone and not a moment longer. I couldn't hear the buzz of the fuel pump. I had replaced that component once before, but not so long ago in the mileage life of a truck limited to a habitat of a 1x2 mile island. There it sat until this morning.

I woke to what sounded like the thump of sliding barn doors if they're not latched during a windy day. Looking out the northerly bedroom window to my wind-gauge, which is a large horse chestnut tree off the end of the house, I saw no movement. I started to fall back asleep, but heard more shuffling and was concerned that I'd left the shop door open, inviting raccoons- after they finished looting the bird feeder- to rummage through my pantry totes. 

Descending the stairs at 5:50 a.m. on a Sunday, I see Henry walking from the mini-bike he salvaged and revived off the beach over toward the red truck with his prospector head lamp illuminated. Henry is my nephew, and he and his iPhone can pretty much figure out anything mechanical. I went outside to offer coffee and a warm place to take a break, but didn't stay long owing to my bare feet on a morning in the high 30s. 

I checked in a couple more times in between making coffee, starting the diesel heater and getting a fire going in the wood stove. Henry quietly mentioned relays and went about putting the multi tester into various crevices and places mechanically minded persons know about. He also had pieces of wire stripped at the ends and talked of hot-wiring this or that component to figure out if the problem was upstream or downstream of the pump, connector, relay or other things Henry has insight into, but which, to me, are just pieces of the unknown. 

At one point, I looked out the kitchen window and saw him bending over the engine and then taking a sudden small jump upward. "Did ya get bit?" "Yeah. I think I'm hot on the trail though." Looked like. 

After coming indoors to plug his phone in, he pulled up the wiring diagram for the truck and explained in a language I've no fluency in about the issue being upstream of the fuel pump relay. I saw lines and markings on the diagram, but could not follow. 

After a bit more fiddling, I joined him again at the engine compartment. Henry was trying to figure out some element of the chain of wires and components, but then opted instead to wrap his sweatshirt sleeve around a wrench and place that across 2 poles or bolt ends coming off the fuel solenoid. This created an impressive display of sparks immediately prior to the 'careful what you wish for' moment. 

After coughing a few times, the engine started. With great enthusiasm in fact, owing to a stuck throttle linkage, and then roared loud and high enough to possibly disturb the shore birds on the far end of the island. There was also a luxurious cloud of white smoke engulfing the truck and ourselves such that it was more like the early stages of a spacecraft liftoff than a small pickup truck waking up. Henry moved very quickly to shut off the ignition key. He does not tend to overstate things and suggested in his steady way that we "probably want some WD on that."

The culprit turned out to be a different relay which Henry left on the seat of the truck where I couldn't miss it. All of this at a very early hour on a Sunday with no fanfare or trace of self congratulation. That is Henry.