The Dak makes it (read crashes in) to the gas dock

For a reason known only to my maker I can only write with my feet off the ground. A five-gallon bucket, foot stool, window sill – even a sleeping dog will do the trick.

I knew one guy in New York who would dress up in his best suit before killing off a character. He was a playwright. The last time I saw him he was red-faced and sweating in Penn Station. I gave him a bottle of water.

Unfortunately, I cannot figure out to upload video of the Adak moving down Sitka Sound – a victorious moment. But here’s the link: http://vimeo.com/28147059.

As so often, moving the Dak was down to the last minute. She had to go before the end of August – and I had a plane ticket back east for the 24th. We managed to get the boat dialed in on the 22nd. Then discovered a previous owner had bought bargain diesel which had since gone bad – so spent 20 hours split only by dinner and sleep installing three filters, changing out old filters, and switching the fuel manifold to run off the starboard aft tank. This all well and good – except when we installed the site-glass, or site plastic tubing as the case may be – we saw we had not enough diesel to get us to the gas dock across town.

And this where Alaska shines. Paul from the Beguine and Bob from the Bertha R and others pooling and scrounging and coming up with 60 gallons of diesel, not to mention more engine oil. Sometimes I think my greatest skill in this life is finding good, giving people. I hope I live long enough to pay it forward.

Of course the whole thing could have gone up in smoke – including us – thanks to Kyle.

Gassed up now – we built 200 pounds of air, threw the valve, and untied from the docks. Kyle and I were in the wheelhouse, while Marat ran the engine room. Reader, to be untied, the wooden throttle in the right hand, wheel in the left, giving her air, to hear that beast of an engine move, throttle up – and lo and behold the boat moves forward – a feeling of blooming wonder spectacular.

Spencer on the Snorkel stood by, screaming over the radio as we veered too close to the Mt. Edgecumbe pull-out. We cut the engine afraid of busting the prop, and just drifted, like a submarine trying to avoid detection. Breath held, waiting for the scrape of grass on seabed. Nothing. Exhalation.

The spot at the gas dock was filled – so we pressed farther on, to the dock beneath O’Connell Bridge. We came in too hard, and threw it in reverse not soon enough. Marat had the presence of mind to throw a sacrificial buoy ball between the hull and the dock. Two people stood slack-jawed watching the performance.

“Would you grab a goddamn rope!” yelled Marat in fine Fishtown fashion.

But let’s call it what it was. I crashed into the dock.

But there we were! Made fast with gas coursing into the tank – the price tag going up up up.

Tying up at Eliason would be the big challenge – because that dock would crush if we ran into it hard. We cruised down Sitka Sound – blanketing the Harbormaster’s office in our exhaust. A pleasant Top Gun moment. We turned the corner, considered anchoring for a moment, then decided to make it home, as we had folks waiting to catch lines.

This time we came in easy – drifting with our momentum before throwing it into reverse, kissing the dock as folks caught lines and made her fast.

I do indeed wish we had footage. But driving the thing and shooting – impossible. Anyways I was too happy to do any great video work – it would not be a stretch to say tears filled my eyes as the boat came to a rest. Few things have given me such pleasure – Bella was pretty happy too. Publishing a novel I suppose would be the next great hoop. Winning a boxing bout similar. But this – with the help of so many people, getting this boat, which had not run for a good five years, operational, gassed moving – and docking her, nothing less than extraordinary.