CHAPTER 24
Before any serious work, we first needed and deserved a day’s break. We piled into the Avon. The Amazon was first ashore. Taking a half-dozen steps on the sand, she dropped to the ground to make sand angels with her arms. Tony, Kyle, and I followed suit. Jim collected shells. We broke into groups with Tony, Kyle, and me following a flower-lined dirt path we hoped would take us to Poste Restante and the clearing officials, if there were any. The Amazon and Jim searched for ice cream and hopefully went trolling for a new boat to call home.
No one we encountered spoke English. It didn’t matter. Life wasn’t complicated and hand signals worked. The people were hospitable, but we noticed, not overly cordial. We wondered why?
Missing town center, we wandered aimlessly, taking in unusual sights like horses in car ports with no cars, gravestones in front yards telling their own stories, and houses so choked in fragrance-laden vines it appeared buildings had been reclaimed by the original inhabitant, the jungle.
We hiked to Paul Gauguin’s grave and agreed with the master painter—it’s a wonderful view. There were no golden arches or whirling buckets of chicken in the sky on this island. In fact, there were no restaurants, so we purchased our first wild range chicken (meaning from a backyard), with somber directions to pluck it before you eat it.
We took vendor assistance for the crucial first step. The chicken was alive when we chose it and dead when we paid for it.
At Poste Restante, a damp dark wooden structure offering paltry relief from the sweltering heat, a folded piece of paper, palmed by the person opposite Tony, was slid across the counter to Tony with a whispered, “See me first!”
“What’s that about?” asked Kyle.
“Nothing good, if you ask me,” said I, who hadn’t been asked.
Tony took (and probably flunked), French in school, but we elected him spokesman. Following backroom negotiations, Tony found what the note-passing mail guy wanted was guns, but more than that—bullets. If we had them, they would pay top dollar.
“No guns, no bullets, no dollars, we got nuthin’,” Kyle adamantly proclaimed. He did not know about the $60.00 revolver secreted aboard long ago, and used so far only to frighten birds. We huddled, and since we had seen no officials, we could probably sell it without getting a free ride to the slammer. Tony presented the buyers situation: “The guy told me there isn’t enough meat in paradise, so they go to the hills hunting goats, but they don’t have enough ammo because the gendarmes restrict the sale of bullets hoping to reduce crime—simple as that.”
We helped cure the economy and food shortage by parting with our pistol and two boxes of bullets for a criminally unreasonable $750.00. Yankee money. That left us only a flare pistol to fend off birds or bad men.
The following morning we got to work. Jim headed for the engine room to service the Perkins diesel and the small diesel generator. The Amazon happily shined the galley and scraped away mysterious oddities lost from forks or mouths during assorted moments of bashing seas or panic caused by humans. Kyle and Tony, in the inflatable, scrubbed the hull removing a nasty coating of algae clinging to fiberglass above the waterline—it happens to all vessels on long crossings and looked wretchedly horrible. I tore down and lubricated winches, and, like jigsaw puzzles, put them back together. I hadn’t expected so many picayune pieces so precisely fitted. Days were intensely hot and we felt it more because we were not moving. For Jim and the Amazon working below, it had to be torture, so they took lots of breaks. We consumed gallons of liquid compensating for sweat.
Shortly after noon our second working day, Jim appeared on deck: “Well, that’s it, Skipper. The Perkins and the Ferryman (our small generator) are serviced and ready for action!”
“Really, Jim, including the complete 200-hour service on the Perkins?”
“Yup, even zincs, filters, belts, and oil change!”
“And the generator, Jim, you changed oil and filters?”
“Sure did, Skipper,” Jim reported. “I just need to find a place ashore for the old oil and waste parts, and it’s a done day for me.”
“Good stuff,” I said to Jim. “That was fast. Have a beer to cool down, and on your way below, how about firing up the generator; be nice to have ice. OK?”
“Right on it,” said Jim as he disappeared down the companionway. I continued working—a small cloud of doubt hovering above me. The generator was only 3 kilowatt, but mounted on steel brackets that held it above the Perkins diesel. The engine room was tighter than the skin on a grape. To compensate for the inaccessibility, bulkheads to the engine room were removable on all four sides. Even checking the generator oil level, much less changing it, is difficult work. That Jim finished so quickly seemed a little off.
“She’s purring like a kitten,” Jim boasted as he emerged from below, beer in hand. The Amazon, also with a beer, was taking another breather.
I don’t know why I asked, but I did. “Jim, the generator oil cap.
It’s a bitch to reach. It’s on tight?” “All’s well that’s done well.”
The Amazon tersely added, “Jim’s a top mechanic. If he says something, he means it, so you don’t need to harass him, Skip.”
I didn’t acknowledge her jab and continued my winch work while they sat quietly sipping beer in the beanbag chairs.
Maybe everything is fine, I thought, I’m probably pushing too hard.
Then I smelled smoke—faint at first. I couldn’t quite get a handle on the source, but I knew something was wrong.
“Holy shit,” said Jim, looking toward the hatch. Inky dark smoke billowed from the companionway.
“Looks like—smells like engine fire,” I screamed and raced toward it, Jim a step in front of me. Below decks Endymion was filled with smoke and the wretched stench of burning oil.
“Hold this,” Jim shouted, removing an oil-soaked engine room panel, allowing more acrid smoke to pour out. Big drops of oil showered in all directions like sparks from a flare, targeting everything from our clothes and faces to the galley and our comfortable salon upholstery. “Shut ‘er down quick!” Jim spoke with urgency. I was already choking off the fuel, causing the generator to sputter. It stopped with an unnatural grinding sound.
“You damned idiot,” I screamed. “I specifically asked about the friggen oil cap! It wasn’t on the generator—look—it’s on the galley counter. What’s the matter with you, you dope!”
I couldn’t stop—didn’t want to. “This is a fucking mess! You did this, Jim—to a brand new boat and new generator. What kind of crazy asshole are you? Get the fuck outta my way.” I pushed Jim roughly aside. Anger welled in me.
“Dickhead!”
Oil was everywhere. I was pissed, and Jim knew it. He cowered in the companionway, unable to speak.
Tony and Kyle had rushed below, each with a pile of rags. We all started wiping, while I continued attacking Jim in front of everyone. It wasn’t how I’d been taught to behave. I didn’t care! This was a grade school mistake that should not have happened.
“Christ Jim, how could you be so stupid! The generator’s toast. You’re an idiot!”
I spun on the Amazon. “And don’t you say anything, Goldilocks.”
She looked at me with open hostility and disbelief, her eyes glazed, color drained. But she wisely held her tongue.
Very slowly my enormous rage gave way to reality. The whole of Endymion’s engine room, workshop, companionway, galley, chart table and salon were oil drenched, including insulation and headliner—covered with ugly dripping slippery black stuff! It was an impossible situation that would take weeks, or months, to make right again. I was also worried about the generator.
“OK, Jim, you’re the proclaimed expert, dipstick the damn thing, and let’s see what we have.”
Jim didn’t want to. With others looking on, however, he couldn’t say no. We watched. The stick came up dry.
For the rest of the afternoon everyone worked in the confined engine room. Removing hatches gave access, but the hatches themselves were oil soaked. This was our toughest, nastiest, most grimy job since the birth of Endymion, and we worked without breaks. Even the reluctant Amazon lent a hand, later volunteering a nice dinner, a ‘peace offering,’ she shyly said.
There comes a time, after a satisfying meal, when we wander to a favored spot, to retire with private thoughts. I chose that time to make my way slowly to the aft deck beanbag cushions, for an overdue private discussion with Jim and the Amazon. I dove right in: “Denise, Jim—I want you off the boat by noon tomorrow. I’ll see that your bond is forwarded to local officials before you leave.”
“And just where do you expect us to go?” asked the now more humble Amazon.
“I’m sorry to say, Denise, but I really don’t know or care—just get away from the boat, and take a wide berth around me! And one other thing—don’t expect a referral!”
“You’re the dickhead,” she nastily replied, tiny beads of sweat breaking out, and she was about to spit at me—almost getting booted from Endymion that moment. Our hearts beat rapidly. I mentally worked through the increasing issues and knew I was right. Only the late hour and unavailability of an official to post their bond prevented me from having them ‘walk the plank’ that night..
Jim and his moody partner departed Endymion at 1130 the following day. I had taken care of the paperwork ashore. Before boarding the inflatable, with their belongings, Jim agreed in writing, to pay for all parts necessary in the repairs. But how? Where would this drifter find even a fraction of the required money?
I wondered also, what boat might take them aboard?