White Truck Tale of Woe

 I believe in Hell. With the capital H.  It is a place where the innocent must deal with the evil creations of automotive engineers. This subset/splinter faction of the engineering profession has the mission of placing as many impossibly small tabs, clips, bolts and retaining rings in the most unreachable, unseeable and unwrenchable places possible, and creating a gauntlet of steel and plastic torment for all those whose life choices brought them to this desolate and cramped Forum of Absolute Suffering. The most comfortable truck repair yoga pose for me was on my back in the driver's side footwell with my feet in the door pocket.

Perhaps I'm overdramatizing, and thank god Orris saved me from creating a practice fire for the Matinicus volunteer fire crew, or going all Jack Nicholson and putting my splitting maul first through the windshield and then through every other surface on my once beloved Silverado 2500 HD. I don't golf, so the maul would be the next best thing. Better really. 

The actual problem presented when Megan went to move the truck in order to mow the lawn. The shift lever was flopping about in all positions at once, none of which would result in the vehicle moving off that patch of lawn. 

After my routine assessment of everything I've done wrong in life which brought me to this place, and my usual self-blame for simple mechanical failures, I ordered a new shifter cable from NAPA. Henry, my mechanically gifted nephew, was coming out the next weekend and agreed to install it. 

The report back from Henry was encouraging with one exception, which is that he didn't get the new cable properly entwined around Satan's own support bracket, resulting in the new cable breaking apart when he shifted into drive. 'Support bracket' is a little misleading in that this is a sturdy metal silly-straw-shaped contrivance bolted to the upper and inner surface of the steering column in a place one cannot see or reach into. The DIY videos mostly skip this part because it does not cause people to like and subscribe. 

After a good bit of diligent procrastination, I ordered a second cable from NAPA and watched videos, including Henry's where he stuck his phone into the upper under-dash orifice to conveniently identify the proper routing of the cable through Lucifer' silly straw. 

I started fresh around 7 a.m. and promised if I wasn't making progress by 9, I'd just find something else to do. Aside from the really hard parts, almost every step of the process of removing the broken cable and installing the new new one showed me the malevolent face of pure evil from automotive engineers. Each fixture presented a fresh set of tests of my fingers and my sanity and my ability to be upside down for lengthy periods with flakes of rust falling into my mouth while I was trying to utter long strings of profanities.

The cable comes in an upper and lower segment and there are no re-do's when connecting them. Once joined, three bishops and a cardinal could not annul the union. 

And so I pushed the halves together. Pretty much. By pretty much I mean I couldn't get them apart, but things did not look right. There was much fiddling with plastic locking collars and other elegant horrors created by said engineers. When I thought I had things connected, I tried to start the truck with no luck. I assumed the battery was dead from sitting for 2 months, which would prove incorrect. 

For whatever reason, the automotive engineers also had great concern about 35 pound truck batteries floating up out of their snug sockets, and so placed a retaining bolt in a place requiring a very long socket wrench extender. Thankfully, this is where I called Orris for such an extension.

He and I wrestled, jumped and used a battery booster go-go box thing to try to start the truck with no luck.

Then he took a look at the not perfect union between the upper and lower parts of the cable and suggested disconnecting the cable at the steering column end. With that piece of mechanical insight and a good bit of shoving and growling, the ends and all the elegant plastic horror pieces went together properly, at which point the truck shifted into park and started right up. 

I like to find meaning in these struggles and I suppose this time it is the collective wisdom of Henry, Orris and I against the dark forces of automotive engineering. 

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. 

April and an Old Truck

 It’s a gradual awakening. For me and the house and various machinery as well as the lobstering business I insist on staying in contrary to any common sense.

Here at 33 South Road, Matinicus Isle, Maine, the Easter vibe comes not in pastel or fluorescent pinks, oranges or yellows, crocuses, daffodils or forsythia blossoms, but in dirt-crusted black. 

The truck Megan paid $800 for in 2014 is now in its 11th season here. Hundreds of trips have been made up and down the island with as many traps as would stay stacked on the bed. The black Mazda pickup truck has had its share of malfunctions and breakdowns, but picture tightening battery terminals after lugging the battery up out of the basement, tipping some fresh gas in, sweet talking the dodgy starter until she comes to life and then watching the black beauty rise up out of the dead grass as the tires are inflated. That is resurrection. 

The lawnmower obliges, though it feels wrong to just about need mittens to cut the grass. Buoys get inspected for weak bridles and cleaned prior to this year’s fluorescent blue and orange coat. A few need my initials and license number re-branded into them.

So it goes with me as well. I really do my best to adapt to the mainland, but once I’m boots on the ground here I realize how much I need the crazy that comes with this remote island; how much I need the raw connection to the environment; how good it feels to be picking up dry broken limbs off the yard and warming myself with them a little later by the stove. I realize how much I cram down and out of sight the suffocating sensations of the suburbia that the mainland coast is becoming. As wonderful as it is, it’s usually not working for me by April, and I don’t consciously realize why I’m such a drag. Then again in November, the fear of cold man winter will have me grateful for a comfy nest. 

Thinking further out than just the yearly migratory cycle, this place reminds me I need the wildness and impracticality, if for no other reason than to remember how showing up here one April long past felt like being released from confinement. I felt there was adventure ahead in life and I was right. I often do not feel that way these days, so it’s good I came out and fired up black beauty one more time in April.

Back to School (Boat School)

 One of my least favorite reminders of how little I know about boats is having the bilge pump engage, and then seeing an artsy, paisley or tye-dyed looking sheen spread across the water on account of a bit of petroleum being where it shouldn't. Culprits include engine oil, hydraulic fluid, transmission fluid and, most recently, diesel fuel, which creates a particularly vibrant, rainbow colored patch of shame. 

The shame is on account of me often not feeling confident about diagnosing these things. The whole nether side of both my vessels are dark, cramped greasy messes, so why shouldn't there be oily discharge when the pump kicks on?

To make matters worse, yesterday's embarrassment occurred at the lobster car, which could have contaminated lobsters floating there awaiting a trip to town. Fortunately, there weren't any crates and I took off pretty much as soon as I realized what was happening. 

Unlike some hazmat spills, this one looked fresh. Sometimes, it's just a nasty bit of broth that looks as though it's been marinading some while. Yesterday, it looked brandy new and alarming. 

Back on the mooring, I started with what, to me were the obvious possible culprits, the injection pump and fuel lines that cross under the motor to the filter. Wiping things down showed nothing. Rubber fuel lines running aft into terra incognito looked dry and in perfect condition. 

Already exhausted and knowing I still had an hour of hard labor trucking traps home, I gave up, promising myself I'd stew about it overnight. Promise kept. 

I found the problem by accident. The day was chilly and gray and the very last place I wanted to be was under the deck in a tiny cramped space with the enhanced feature of a significant puddle of cold and filthy liquid. I chose to treat myself to pumping and sponging out the puddles before laying down in them. The starboard side gave up nothing but dirty water. 

As soon as the first chuff came out of the hand pump into my bucket on the port side, I was onto something. The sponge agreed with the pump that we were definitely on the right track. 

The problem was that the right track led into an impenetrable appearing space blocked by frame pieces, a large exhaust elbow, raw water hoses and other dubious nubs and protrusions. 

I decided to try the easier way first. Into the big hatch on the deck, sit/lay down on the propeller shaft and shine a light toward the spare fuel tank. Nothing obvious presented itself, so, still nips-up, I wiggled and twisted my head and shoulders partway through an opening aft and learned no more, except to not try to go in there again. 

On to the less easy way. The forward hatch where I discovered the diesel infused water is too small to just get into. It's square and one my size needs to go legs first, then sort of corkscrew in enough to pull upper body and head in in order to lay down. Then it's a matter of twisting, pushing and pulling around the various obstacles and taking a break now and again to ponder whether I can get out again to reach the spare fuel tank. 

When I reached the spare tank, I had the sweet rush of 'yes, that's it,' when seeing the fresh fuel pooling underneath. The top was shiny as was the side below. With some confidence, I came up with a plan to empty the tank and clean up the mess. I never use it, it makes the boat list and any repair to the inaccessible fixture would require ripping up the deck. After I got out, the sweet rush of 'yes that's it' faded into a 'what if it isn't?' born of misdiagnosing things in the past. I repeated the journey, this time much more quickly and pretty sure if I got out once, I could again. 'Yes that's it' and 'what if it isn't?' then agreed to a stalemate where 'it's what I can come up with and seems pretty likely.' 

I've pumped fuel into tanks many times, but not out, so some equipment would be necessary. After showering off most of the accumulated petroleum residue, sludge and fiberglass fragments picked up in my burrowing, I grabbed a couple of 55 gallon barrels Jeb had rigged up so they could be hoisted, my hand operated fuel pump and a good slug of detergent. 

A couple more hours of pumping, hoisting, trucking and general jackassery and I have an empty-ish spare tank which hopefully, sooner or later, will stop leaking, the boat isn't listing any more and we have fuel for the hot water heater for the foreseeable future. And soreness. 

Graduation and Father's Day

 The week leading up to graduation day was not as it should be. In between work schedules, trying to get the fishing business into the water for the year and general hustle, what was lacking was any sense of excitement or pride for my son. In its place were immersive levels of grief and regret. Grief for the last of my babies leaving the nest. Regret for all I didn't do for them. 

I've been down the empty nest grief road twice before. We're all so busy keeping balls or knives in the air and racing from event to event that we don't see it coming. The emptiness slaps the face and echoes off bare walls. 

The actual graduation day was of course, joyful as it should be. The weather was perfect- sunny and hot- right up to 3:50 p.m. when the skies let loose and we scurried into the suffocation of a way-past-firecode gymnasium. My child walked across the stage, took their diploma and smiled the 'goodbye assholes' smile. We had a good party while waiting for the electricity to come back on.

The school had not been a good fit for them. This 4 year revelation process occurred after 6 years of post-divorce strife and constant financial panic. I was acutely aware that week, not of everything I'd done and fought for on their behalf, but of all of their suffering and my ineffectuality in making it better. 

When the 3 were little, I felt I knew my place in the world, my strength and nurturing, my value as a person. Perhaps for that reason, I got stuck. Very stuck. Stuck in wanting their 3, 5 or 12 year old selves and my life during that time to come back. It's of course irrational, but extremely powerful. A faded plastic toy half buried in the grass where it had been dropped a dozen years ago would bring on the flood, because to me it was last week. The colors were still bright; the sounds of play still so immediate. The small hand in mine warm and innocent.

Getting unstuck hurts like a motherfucker. And it's messy. 

The week after graduation started hopefully, with them and I sitting down on a miserable chilly Saturday afternoon to nail down a loan for freshman year. I thought co-signing was a check-off. I thought I was not the guy of 11 years ago in the midst of a financial meltdown. I'd relentlessly busted ass and somehow made a little something of myself. Well, the good folks and software at Campus Door did not share my improved self image. 

On the happier side, the 2 younger offspring came out to the island to hang in their childhood home and help with setting lobster gear. The moment they stepped off the ferry, their demeanors changed instantly. As was always the case, when they stepped in the door at 33 South Road, the weight and tension melted off them. A little later, one was quietly upstairs and the other was asleep by the wood stove. 

As healing as it felt and as happy as I was to have them home, I knew something was coming. I knew I couldn't stay in the warm pool of nostalgia with them. 

At the end of the week the three of us drove into the mountains for a couple of days of celebratory hiking and pool lounging. 

On the last night after a minor conflict, I wandered over to the motel playground. This was a portal to motherfuckering painful personal growth. The colors of the slide and swings were bright. It was empty. Grass grew long up through it. My babies were not going to come running and bickering and demanding pushes. They would not push and shove up the ladder to come down the slide. Still in some part of me, I waited. I was a ghost only now coming to realize it and finally seeing the long grass as it got dark. 

It took several more days to work through.

My adult children are amazing and I'm lucky to be part of their lives. It's a good time to move on.

Can We Turn Down the Contrast? I and II

 I. 

Thursday, 8:30 a.m.. I'm in the office, surrounded by files, computer screens, the smell of paper and books. The drenching outside is of no concern. The office is dry and well protected from the elements. The same insulation from the forces of nature that will be driving me batshite next March is just fine right now.

But...My pants are quite dirty. This doesn't fit with the rest of the professional picture one should present to clients. 

24 hours earlier, I had a front row seat to the nature show. My hair peeled back, eyes watering, standing while also swinging through many degrees off vertical on the deck of Compass Rose. Taking lobstering gear up for the season is always a tough part of a tough work cycle. Traps get untied and the rope coiled and bound up. Traps get cleaned of sea life, stacked on the boat, stacked on the wharf, stacked on the truck and then stacked in the yard. The process is often done in less than benign weather and less than ideal timing of tides. 

Wednesday, the forecast was for 10-15 knots gusting to 20 out of the northwest. Not fun, but with a few strings of gear to the southeast of the island, I should've been sheltered enough to haul, coil, clean, stack and head for the Steamboat Wharf. 

The 'should've' turned out to be 'wasn't.' Wind was ripping straight down from the northeast against an incoming tide, creating steep choppy whitecaps. They were not quite greybeards, but whitecaps. 

By the time I'd wrestled one pair aboard, I'd slid so far downwind that the next dayglo orange and blue buoy was barely visible in the distance. Trying to haul the next pair, the rope was nearly horizontal, with the boat being dragged downwind sideways, so I also had to start running the boat in and out of gear to stay on top of the pair while running the hydraulic hauler and coiling the incoming rope. I was about 4 arms shy of being able to do this effectively. 

Finishing one string out of the 3 I'd planned to take up seemed like plenty. It felt unsafe and irresponsible to continue. So I did. What made it ok was that the next string was just enough out of the rapid tide flow that the wind didn't kick up the waves quite so much, and slacked up just slightly. That second string was just work, just a matter of doing my job, which was baffling given how close the sets were to each other. The final string was a mix of the first two, but I just hauled the last couple of pairs aboard and headed for a sheltered spot to clean them up and coil the rope. 

During all of the 'what the F am I doing in this shit?!' I noted a most unwelcome rainbow slick from the bilge spreading on the water. After all the fun of taking up the load of gear and getting it onto the wharf, I wound up cramming myself into the space below deck to try and locate the source of the petroleum spooge on the water. That space is small and one cannot come out without having picked up a good slug of  slimy under the deck water/grease/algae. I was a few pounds heavy after that, and didn't really find anything. 

When I flew off Matinicus that Wednesday afternoon, it was sunny with a very gentle breeze. I was taking off a batch of lobsters for Joe in my building, which explains my dirty pants the next morning. 

Since Joe couldn't take the lobsters until Friday,  I needed to find a place to float a crate so they stayed perky. This ended up being Round Pond harbor where I lugged the crate to the public float and tied it off out of the way before heading to the office. My attire was not really suited to such tasks, so the dirty pants happened. 

This is my life in September. It is one of high contrast. Getting spanked by the elements one day 25 miles offshore, working with transactions and taxes in a comfy office the next. I'm looking forward to a little less contrast. It's emotionally jet-lagging to switch back and forth from one day to the next.

II.

Listen to Jud Caswell's The Great Divide. It's a fantastic song about our domestic political culture. The tune also resonates in the larger context of how we interact around war, climate change, health, inequality and justice. 

In this area of life, I find myself- like many I expect - troubled by what seem like irrational divisions and cultural combativeness. I'm leaving aside the batshite crazy stuff for the moment (Joe Biden died years ago and was replaced by an animatronic or CG animation facsimile, 5G vegan space lasers, bloodthirsty reptiles in D.C. (oh, wait.hmmm)). 

I'm fixated on the apparent need to find the dumbest, most one-sided way of looking at everything. This goes for left and right in my observation. 

The Ukraine war is complicated, and comes pretty much straight out of the post-Soviet morass of financial corruption, political manipulation, brutality and sham elections. People seem to see the war (speshil meelitary celebration) in black hat/white hat terms. I'm particularly troubled by my brothers and sisters on the left who wholeheartedly justify Putin's leveling of cities, trenches full of civilian corpses and nuclear blackmail by pointing to nationalists in Ukraine and attributing all of this horror to U.S. meddling and NATO expansion. One can read up on the Orange and Euromaidan Revolutions and see the connection to hardcore nationalists committing atrocities and to U.S. interference and gaming of foreign elections. My armchair colleagues don't seem to have the scope of imagination to see the genuine hopes of millions of Ukrainians to engage with Europe and to have the right to exist free from Russian intimidation and election tampering. It's all one way or the other. 

Pick your issue. Race, gender, climate change, economic justice, war. It's hard to find someone with which to have a meaningful conversation or free exploration of tough problems. With leaders playing to the Great Divide, there will be no solutions to great problems. 

My Turn as Village Idiot - Saved by the Rotten Crumple Zone

 Who knew such a heavy ark of a boat could push up so f-ing hard? 

These days, the cage on Compass Rose's propeller area makes an excellent garden sculpture and place for pea vines to climb up. Its intended purpose, though, was to prevent rope and buoys from becoming entangled on the propeller shaft and rapidly creating a many layered bale of gnarled and fused plastic fiber around this important vessel component. 

The cage, made of rusted cast iron and even sturdier barnicles, also looked like something out of Game of Thrones, rather than a hydro-dynamically efficient part of a marine propulsion system. 

My first cruise last June on Compass Rose was at a stately pace; statelier than expected by several knots. This spring, I gathered my courage to take off this maritime equivalent of training wheels in hopes of going faster. Based on how it looked, I would've thought getting rid of the cage would make the boat leap out of the water and run like Forrest Gump with his leg braces off. 

As a result of my bravery, I may have picked up one nautical mile per hour truth be told. I also managed to back over my own buoy last week and picked up my very own many layered bale of gnarled and fused plastic fiber around this important vessel component. 

Having this extra cargo necessitated bringing the boat alongside of the Steamboat Wharf, tying up and waiting for the tide to go out in order to clean her up. Ryan came down and helped with some maintenance tasks, and later, he and Megan cleaned up the hull and attacked the fierce tentacles of the many layer plastic fiber bale. 

The watched tide never rises, so after staring at it a while, I went home. When we came back, the davit, or metal arm that holds the hauling block/pulley had lodged itself under the massive wharf timbers and was completely deaf to my hysterical profanity insisting it dislodge. The timbers were even less reasonable. Megan and I hopped up on the starboard washboard hoping to tip it far enough to slip out. I tried a monkey wrench and every other metal lever I could lay hands on.

Orris and Erin showed up to lend their support by joining us on the washboard, and got the vessel moving to and fro all to no avail. We were seriously stuck.

I've not felt that particular sort of panic before, having the boat stuck and the tide remorselessly inching higher. That panic turned to brickshitting as I watched the wheelhouse frame and fiberglass begin to open up and part ways. I saw the lobstering season over before it really got into high gear. As I wrestled with the stuck davit, I saw fingers amputated or my skull getting caved in from the thing finally letting go with me too close to too much pent up energy and heavy metal items.

The last resort was to fire up the boat, put her in gear and yank her loose, which, duh, I should've done in the first place. 

After safely getting out of the inner harbor, Megan and I went out to clean up and test the hauler. I hauled up a pair of traps which didn't pull the wheelhouse apart after all. 

Some nervous observation over the next day of hauling and several trawls through boxes of metal this and that in my barn, the Owen barn and Clayton's shop presented some solutions. A couple of 90° braces here, fresh screws there, tighten the steel plate holding the works together and a very stout piece of stainless steel running vertically up the length of the unhappy places and I think it's at least as sturdy as before the mishap. 

As much as the rotten spot on the wheelhouse frame has bugged me since I bought the boat, it may have acted as a sacrificial crumple zone and helped absorb some of the force. 

I will probably not stop looking at the cracked places, but for now, we're good again.