The Wind Blows, the Waves Build, the Engine Quits

In our years aboard Maruba I never got sea sick. Never, that is, provided I managed to stay out of the engine room when heavy seas were running. When the ride was rough, one whiff of diesel fuel was all it took. That fact is pertinent to the following story. But it won’t be dwelt upon.

It’s the first day of November.^. We’ve ventured from the Strait of Juan de Fuca into the North Pacific, armed with determination, a sturdy vessel, and plenty of inexperience.

Though promising weather had been forecast, we’re now pounding our way down the Oregon Coast, the first storm of the winter season driving us south.

The engine cough, then quits.

Our world grows quiet except for the wind in the rigging.

No longer driven headlong by the high, following seas and her propeller, Maruba heaves to on her own.

Her bow swings round to meet the waves. Trying to correct her course, the autopilot locks her rudder full over, just as a live helmsman would do when heaving to.

Her head sail tries to draw her into the wind. When it loses its bite she falls off until the sail fills again. Then she climbs to meet the next crest.

Her motions have eased now that she’s submitted to the waves and has accepted their rhythms. Each rises under her powerfully but smoothly, then drops her bow and lets her slide down its back. Sailors call it riding out the storm.

The cause of the engine failure is easy to diagnose. The technicalities are not complicated to explain.

Maruba’s fuel tank is her steel keel. It holds 1,000 gallons of diesel oil, enough to power her across the Atlantic with her sails furled.

Every twelve hours we switch on a pump that transfers fuel from deep in the keel to a day tank mounted on the hull in the engine room. It feeds the engine directly.

The fuel is cleansed by four separate filters during its passage from the main tank to the fuel injectors.

 This is Maruba’s first passage offshore after several years in quiet waters. The stormy seas have stirred up the accumulated gunk that settled to the bottom of her main fuel tank. When I turn on the transfer pump, the four filters clog in succession. We lose propulsion.

Maruba’s engine room will not be a good place to be today. But at least she has an engine room. The skippers of many cruising sailboats perform engine maintenance lying on the floor, head down in a crowded engine compartment.

When I open the access hatch I’m struck by a blast of hot, diesel laden air. I squeeze through. Because the ceiling is low I crouch to move around and squat on a small stool to work. The boat’s constant motion challenges my balance and fine-motor skills.

After a sweat soaked hour I emerge. The pilot house is dank, slippery with salt residue. Nothing is dry.

But I breath fresh, cool air again. The system has been flushed and the four dirty filter elements have been replaced. Clean fuel is flowing.

The engine won’t fire. Knowing no other alternative, I keep cranking it in short busts. Then the starter motor refuses to kick in.

I explain to Barbara. The starter probably has an overtemp breaker. The breaker has probably disconnected to protect the starter from burning out. The starter just needs time to cool, probably. I hope I’m right.

With waiting our only option, we adopt the coping technique used by The Boys, our two young cats. We curl up together in a narrow bunk and sleep deeply for four hours.

The engine starts on the first try after we wake. We resume pounding our way south down the Oregon Coast.

In time I will learn that air needs to be purged from a diesel engine after its fuel system is opened up. I should have taken a wrench into the engine room, loosened one of the fuel injectors, and had Barbara crank the starter from the pilot house.

When the air was expelled and fuel began squirting out, the engine would have started. Then the injector could be retightened.

But lying down and taking a long nap worked too.

A Perkins 4-cylinder diesel marine engine. I got to know ours well.

Barbara and I are taking a vacation, going to Canada to be with family.

My next story will be posted on July 10^th.

Its title:

Norm Fruchter Told Me He Was a Jew