An old friend dies a sudden smoky death
Issue 50 : Sept/Oct 2006
In spite of the forcast, Memorial Day dawned clear and bright. Faint whispers of clouds traced the western sky, suggesting potential afternoon storms, but the morning was perfect. Me and my babe, Becky . . . on our first sail of the season.
The old Volvo insisted on her morning shot of ether before reporting for duty but purred nicely while warming up. She’s a good old girl, and we’ve gotten to know each other quite well. Not that I was eager to pursue the relationship; her determined demands for attention slowly eroded my resolve. Our latest adventure involved tracing an oil leak to a faulty pressure-sending unit. With this repaired, we were ready.
“Light and variable” was an unfortunately precise wind prediction, but I took comfort in knowing that every minute the motor ran would result in an improvement in the motor — or so the latest oil additive promised. You had to use it for 500 miles before experiencing the full benefit of this magic potion. I decided that would be the equivalent of eight hours for the diesel and kept waiting for the surge in power and decline in smoke. The motor really was running well.
A couple of miles out, just before passing Lake Michigan’s Tawas Point Light, I noticed some new vibrations in the old engine. Probably tired places finally loosening up under my faithful ministrations. We chugged along at close to hull speed. We bore away to the east and then northeast on our way past Au Sable Point. I put up some sail and watched us top 7 knots. It was going to be a grand day. We killed the motor and basked in the glory of sailing.
Nap time
By mid-day I was feeling somewhat nappish. The winds were holding fairly steady from the southwest, and the autopilot was behaving admirably. Becky decided to stand her first watch. It was an exciting moment for both of us. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to sleep.
An hour-and-a-half later, a glimpse through the companionway showed the clouds swinging back and forth beyond the opening. But nothing suggested forward motion. The gentle gurgle along the hull had also ceased. We weren’t moving.
Time to fire up the iron genny. Zipping along at 6.5 knots we would reach Harrisville Harbor before 6 p.m. It’s a great harbor that not only offers numerous transient slips but also some really nice anchorages. The bottom’s a bit weedy, but with a little patience you can tuck away nicely for the night.
Broken sunshine painted shades of emerald in the forest along the shoreline. We tried not to be embarrassed by the cloud of black smoke that bloomed in our wake. At least we recycle. Six miles to go, and I was getting used to the new vibrations. I’d just tightened one of the engine mounts; maybe this was the way it was supposed to feel. Ka-chunk . . . clunk. Then silence. And I knew. Becky poked her head out from below. “Out of fuel?”
“No, I fear something far worse.”
For a month we’d been dreaming of one day repowering with a new Beta. Lighter, quieter, cleaner, more powerful. She’d even make hot water. Wouldn’t it be nice to just put the key in and start her up? How much more convenient than unscrewing the eight bolts from the cockpit sole, pulling off the intake silencer, and bleeding the fuel pump before even turning the key? Then the requisite attempts to start without the ether. Cheering her on as she turned over. Lifting the compression lever and dropping it down once the engine was spinning good and fast. Then, at last, surrendering to ether assist. How nice it would be to have a brand-new engine just waiting to serve. Some day . . .
Oil underneath
I sat in numbed silence for a few minutes. Then off with the cockpit sole, away with the companionway steps. Sure, there was oil under the engine, but not that much. And the water-temperature gauge had never moved above 120° F.
On the floor beneath the engine was a fair-sized piece of iron. It was green beneath the grease. It had to have fallen from the engine. She was gone. The starter only made the belts scream as they slipped around the unyielding flywheel. The hand crank was equally ineffective. She was gone. At 44° 34′ N and 83° 15′ W, she had breathed her last.
And then, as the sheriff kindly towed us into port, I was once again amazed by how well I’d married. Becky kept bringing up all the good reasons for the engine to have died at this particular time. It was a sunny afternoon. It was a scenic location. Our schedule was flexible. “And won’t that new Beta be nice? Quieter, cleaner, more powerful, more efficient — it’ll improve the quality of the whole experience.”
So here we sit, as midnight approaches, listening to the cheering crackle of the wood stove. A borrowed outboard is strapped on the transom and tomorrow we begin again. The MD6A is a legend, fallen in battle but brave to the end. She served us long and well. May she rest in peace.
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
