Down the Shadowy Hatch
“Adjustable
wrench. And ¾ socket. Fuck those guys.”
I hand
Captain L. the tools and nod in agreement. “Those guys” from the boatyard are
now 700 miles south of our stern and are the reason we are tossing about the
ocean without the ability to steer. They repaired the rudder this winter but
weren’t necessarily the most fastidious of workers. Fuck em. But cursing them
doesn’t help our situation now. So L. is crammed in the stern compartment of
the boat where the rudder post and steering cables do their magic. Or in this
instant, don’t, because something slipped out of place and now has to be jacked
up and tightened. But even with loosening and tightening, hammering and
shivving, something’s still wrong and the steering quadrant is hitting a bolt
and preventing the rudder from going to port so here we are doing circles to
starboard 100 miles off the coast of Jersey.
Our autopilot quit working on the second stormy night and the navigation instruments
keep shutting off at crucial moments. Half of the navigation lights shorted out. We lost the dinghy that was being towed behind. I lost my favorite hat overboard. L. continually tells stories about the last delivery where the engine crapped
out. What else can go wrong? He wonders if the rudder has slipped down (if it
slips all the way down and out of the boat it means we start sinking) but
quickly abandons that thought at closer inspection.
My first thought is: I am
so glad this didn’t happen last night when the wind was blowing 35 knots and
the seas were choppy 10 footers and the squalls dumped rain on us for hours
straight and if we had been spun around in circles it would have been a Very
Bad Scene.
My second thought is: SeaTow! If we can’t get this fixed then we can
get towed into port. I’m pretty sure they come out this far.
“Crow bar.
Hammer. This better fucking work.”
I am looking
down into the compartment full of sturdy metal plates and tubes and cables. The
aluminum hull of the boat curves to meet the deck where I sit, a pile of tools
next to me glinting in the sun. The breeze is light rendering our sails
useless, the swells are gentle but still cause the boat to sway with
every glassy crest, the smell of the briny water of the North Atlantic teases us about how close to port we have come. We
are just below the shipping channels of New York Harbor and the chatter of cargo
ships and fishing boats dominates the radio.
And here we float.
I want to
help somehow so I hand down tools and give words of encouragement. I don’t talk
of sinking or SeaTow. I ask questions about the mechanisms in the shadows and
try to absorb as much as I can about fixing quadrants. I want this to be fixed
quickly but I know that these things take time. The old “hit it with a hammer”
or “just caulk it” or “just wait and see if it fixes itself” solutions aren’t
usually actual solutions. They are ways to put off the inevitable repair or
replacement or abandonment of something that isn’t working.
In my own
personal life I often avoid the real work of sitting down with the parts and
pieces, taking the time to tune into the true damage at hand. Like my
experience with a broken transmission whose insides were decimated by
vibration: it wasn’t because of a faulty transmission but due to the engine
mounts not being secured properly to the boat. It was a foundational problem,
not a defect in mechanics. No matter how many times the transmission is
replaced, if you don’t get to the core problem, the health of the whole system
is compromised.
“It’s not
perfect, but hopefully it will get us in.”
L. climbs out through the hatch and
wipes sweat from his sunburned forehead. He’s grumbling but I can tell he’s
proud of his repair. I carry the tools over the deck and down below to the
canvas bag where they will wait patiently for another breakdown. This being a
boat, that won’t be long.
I step out on deck, look out to the blue sky empty horizon, and decide that I don’t want
to jury rig my life anymore. I don’t want to immediately call for someone to
come and save me when there is really no danger, no need to be saved. I am ready
to break out the tool box and sit with the problem until I can truly see what
is broken. I am ready to tinker and try different angles, different tools and
call in the experts for help if need be. Storming away from my problems hasn’t worked
so far, so I’m ready to turn around, lower myself into that shadowy hatch, and
get to work. I am ready to roll up my sleeves and get greasy in this life.
I take the
helm and steer us north. Back towards land, back towards “real life” where I will get a
chance to pull out my tools one by one and tinker and try.
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