Extra! Extra! Adak almost goes up on the rocks!
“Life only avails, not the having lived. Power ceases in the instant of repose; it resides in the moment of transition from a past to a new state, in the shooting of the gulf, in the darting to an aim.”
So says Ralph Waldo Emerson. Well, we were sure availing the other day. The harbormaster made it clear that Adak’s welcome on the end-tie of float two was over; the “Mixer,” a fancy-schmancy yacht, was on its way back, and we were being kicked back out to the transient dock – or, what I like to call “the country home.”
The move over here had gone smoothly. I went through all the systems, built air with the generator, started the engine on the dock. I had maybe ten folks on board catching lines, bringing up buoy balls, taking pictures, and just generally checking out the situation. And Brooks on the “Roamer” was jockeying us around, along with his brother and father.
So we got off the dock, and everyone was gathered in the wheelhouse, and I gave the engine air, and then moved her into forward – a distant rumble, like some far-off thunderstorm, then silence. Heike and Rachel, two onlookers, watched, their smiles fading ever-so-slightly. More air. Then gas. An even more distant rumble from the engine room, followed by an even more deafening silence.
Meanwhile a western wind had blown up, and we were being blown toward the rocks. The boat drafts 12 feet – 12 feet lies beneath the surface of the water, and although the tide was coming up, with a high at 1:56, we were in about 20 feet of water. Brooks, who was doing his best to maneuver 220 tons of boat with the wee Roamer, kept reading off his fathometer.
“You’re in sixteen. Down to fourteen.”
The wind was blowing us broadside. And the engine wasn’t starting. I ran to the bow and hit the hydraulics on the anchor – thankfully the continued to work. And then the lights and electricity went dead on the boat. We were pulling off a Jerry can to run the generator – and that Jerry can was empty.
And then Brooks was gone, speeding toward the dock, attaching a toe-line, with the idea that we would attach the line to our winch and toe ourselves back on in to the dock.
That kind of worked. But what worked better was Mike on the tugboat “Thunderbird” coming out in his skiff and, in his soft voice, standing behind the windshield of the skiff, giving direction – or more like suggestions that you just knew were products of year of dealing with this shit. Brooks ended up side-tying to us, Thom stood on deck pulling on the toe line, while Mike buzzed from side to side, persuading the boat with taps to head back to its cage – the dock from whence it came.
And slowly – everything with this boat seems to happen at such a glacial pace – we came back to the spot we had left a good hour before. We threw a line, some good Samaritans tucked it under the bullrail, and we pulled ourselves back in, heave-ho style.
Except this time, as Mike pointed out, we were aimed in the right direction for our next shot.
I’ve spent the last two days in the engine room, blowing through diesel lines, replacing filters, and generally not knowing what I’m doing. We’re hoping to give a shot moving her tomorrow. This afternoon I turned the valve to fill the water-jackets on the engine with water to preheat. All of a sudden water was raining all over the engine room, spitting out from the uncapped radiator lines, soaking the clothes of my two renters. That was awesome. The only thing better was that we lost water entirely a few hours later – followed by electricity.
I dunno. Things will all get better tomorrow. We’ll give another shot at moving, and the sun is supposed to shine. In the meantime, I’m enjoying this wee instance of repose – chillin on a Friday night, barely awake, powerless and content.
