Engines

We had just got through Lewis Channel, between Redonda and the north end of Cortes Island, and had hardly worked round Bullock Point and got out of the tide which was bothering us—when the engine stopped. It was almost dark, nine-​thirty, and we were still five miles from the inlet on the north side of Cortes, and there was no place else to go. I cranked and cranked, again and again—evidently there was something really wrong. I couldn’t crank and watch the engine at the same time, so it was hard to find out just what it was. We couldn’t stay where we were. There was just one continuous cliff and forty-​seven fathoms right off it. There was nothing else to do but tow the boat the five miles to the inlet.

I helped John into his sleeping bag, in spite of his pleas that he was not sleepy; told Jan to steer and follow the dinghy—and took Peter with me in the dinghy. There was a slight current with us, which might increase later if the tide ebbed that way. It might go either way; for we were close to where the tides from the south met the tides from the north. The tides in these minor channels could easily vary in direction according to their height.

There was no use trying to hurry—we had a long pull ahead of us. If it were not blowing at this hour, it was not likely to later. If it did blow, it would be just too bad. I settled down to a short steady stroke, trying not to let the rope slacken. If it did, you took the weight suddenly on your shoulders and neck. After two hours, I had a rest, ate some peanut butter, and made Peter go to bed. Then, with Jan, we looked at the chart again. We decided that we could probably anchor in a cove where the cliff ended, about a mile our side of the entrance to the inlet. That would leave only about one more mile. It had taken two hours to come less than three miles.

I told Jan to use the flash in half an hour’s time to try to pick out the end of the cliff and the beginning of the cove. In about three-​quarters of an hour she hailed me and shone the light again for me to see for myself. That was obviously the end of the cliff, and there was the cove beyond. I kept on for some distance, and then turned in at about the centre of the cove. The arms of the cove gradually folded about us and shut out the wide sea . . . I let the boat gradually lose way, and sounded with a fish-​line. Two . . . three . . . four fathoms. I let the anchor down slowly—worked my way along the side deck, and stepped on board. Jan was already in her bunk. She must be tired too—it was a long watch for a small girl, but I couldn’t have managed alone. I crawled into my bag . . . could anyone as tired as I was possibly recover?

It was nine the next morning before we woke. I looked over the engine while I drank my second cup of coffee and soon found out what was wrong—a pin had come out of the coupling on the timing shaft that ran off the magneto. Another look at the breeze that was coming up, and I decided that I should have to tow another mile into the inlet. There we would be completely sheltered; there was a stream of fresh water, and I could take my time over the engine. The missing pin meant that the whole inner workings of the engine were upset. It might mean quite a long job.

In the end it was about a two-​mile tow, because I wanted to get in as far as the stream. The tide was flooding into the inlet, so after I limbered up a little, it wasn’t so bad. Once anchored, we got into our bathing suits, put all our clothes into a pool in the stream to soak, and tumbled into the lukewarm sea water.

After lunch, the children went ashore to tread out their clothes and get them out to dry. I went reluctantly into the engine room and had a tentative look at the engine. I wasn’t in any particular hurry to find out that I didn’t know how to re-time an engine. As long as I thought I could, I was reasonably cheerful. After all, I knew the theory of the thing. It would have been sheer madness to take the trips on the part of the coast where we did unless I knew something about an engine. After a lot of thinking I decided to leave it until the next day. I was stiff and tired with the towing, and I hadn’t got to bed until after two that morning.

Catching rays and drying clothes—no spell of raincoast sunshine is to be wasted.

We swam and fished, and caught a good-​sized salmon. We lay in the sun. We explored. Jan and Peter rowed back, all excited, saying that they had found a salt water waterfall. So John and I had to row back with them to see it too. There was about a six foot fall, and it was perfectly salt. It must fill at high tide. We climbed up beside the fall, but it was impossible to explore. It just disappeared round corners, like a meandering lake, but salt. I think it must have had another, wider entrance somewhere. Cortes is a very large island, with many deep bays and gorges. On the chart, this salt water lake is just marked with a circle of unexplored dots. The dots would have to remain—we couldn’t explore it either.

That evening we made a fire on the sloping rocks and ate our supper on shore. We grilled salmon steaks over the hot bark embers, and ate without benefit of forks or knives. It is really the only way I enjoy fish, fresh from the sea, to the grid, and eaten round a fire on the beach.

The sparks floated up like fireflies in the quiet darkness. Then I had to tell the children what fireflies were and describe them. We don’t have them on the Pacific coast. A grouse was drumming on some tree or log. We had a guessing game on what direction it was coming from. One moment you could swear it was coming out of the rocks you were sitting on. Then it would be somewhere from overhead . . . then back in the woods again. It was quite unearthly, and vaguely disturbing. When the granite under our fire exploded with a loud bang, John said he thought he would like to go to bed. The other two didn’t argue at all . . . we rowed out to the boat, and the grouse drummed no more.

I lay in my bag, long after the children were asleep, thinking about the engine. I hoped my subconscious mind would sort it all out, in the night, better than I could.

I put the children ashore after breakfast with strict orders that I was to be left alone and not interrupted.

“We wouldn’t even want to,” said Peter, sitting down on a point as close to the boat as he could get—he likes to hand me wrenches.

Engines were invented and reared by men. They are used to being sworn at, and just take advantage of you; if you are polite to them—you get absolutely nowhere. The children were better on shore. Peter would soon get tired of sitting there.

I sat on my heels, cursing softly when the wrench slipped and took a chunk off my knuckle. Finally the sparkplug co-operated, and came out with the porcelain still intact. Then I stuck the screwdriver through the hole and felt around for No. 1 piston. That piston seemed quite inert . . . but after some turns of the flywheel it came up on top. No. 1 valve should be either opening or closing, I wasn’t sure which. The only valve I could see through the small hole was doing either one or the other. Then I decided that that part of the internal workings must be coupled together and had probably not been upset . . . well and good.

Then I turned to the shaft where the pin had come out of the coupling. “Hell’s bells!” All that bother with No. 1 piston being on top dead centre would be wasted if it didn’t fire at that moment . . . the magneto must be the key to the whole thing. The engine was an old four-​cylinder Kermath with a low-​tension magneto. The distributor was on the face of the magneto, and the wires from the sparkplugs led down to the distributor . . . (Dots for a very long time.) Then I found that, by turning the shaft by hand until opening of the points on the magneto coincided with No. 1 lead, then No. 1 sparkplug at the end of that wire—fired.

I made myself a cup of coffee and drank it while thinking that one over—I wasn’t quite ready to believe it yet. It seemed just a little too easy to be true, Then I remembered my subconscious that had worked all night on the subject, and I rather grudgingly gave it the credit, while all the glory I had was a bashed knuckle. I finally committed my subconscious and me, put a nail in place of the errant pin in the coupling, and secured it with some electric tape. Good! That hadn’t been so hard. Everyone should know how before they go off cruising in a boat. On the other hand, this had taken years to happen: I might have been worrying all that time if I had known it could happen.

I connected the battery, I turned on the switch, I consulted my subconscious, and I pulled the crank . . . The most awful backfire shook the boat from stem to stern. Looking towards the shore, I could see the children jumping up and down and could see that they were shouting, but I couldn’t hear them . . . I switched off and sat down limply—I was completely shattered.

I called to my agitated children to come out and have a cup of tea. I would have to think it out before I took a chance with another bang like that . . . The children looked a little dubious about coming on board at all. John asked to see the blood—a bang is not a bang to him unless there is blood. I showed him my knuckle, which quite satisfied him.

Then I sorted out the jumble of things I knew about engines . . . and of course it must have fired on the exhaust stroke. If I turned the engine over until No. 1 came on top again, perhaps that would be the firing stroke. No, that would still be firing on exhaust stroke. Out came the nail again and I redid all that part. Only then did I remember that the markings on my flywheel would have told me quite a bit. The subconscious is all very well, but it is sometimes not very practical.

The children fled to the safety of the shore. I put in my rubber earplugs—switched on—and pulled her up. At first I wasn’t sure if anything had happened—but there was the flywheel whizzing round. Then I remembered the earplugs . . . there she was . . . purring away. Me and my subconscious solemnly shook hands.

The engine is normally so well checked over in the spring that nothing very much is likely to happen—I am sure the pin will never come out of that shaft again. But there is no accounting for dry batteries. The engine started on coil ignition from a dry battery, and then I, personally, had to switch it over to magneto. That was one of Peter’s chief duties as mate—to see that I had made the switch. He used to get rather bored, as I hardly ever forgot. So now and again I would pretend to and he would feel most important.

Then the life of dry batteries seems to vary—or I like to think it does and so divide the blame.

We had spent two weeks poking into all the unknown bays and inlets to the north of the approach to Knight Inlet, checking on all the white-​shell beaches, and generally exploring.

Then our bread gave out, and the sourdough that old Mike had given me died (I forgot to feed it) and we had to find some place for provisions. If we left in time, before the fishermen got all the fresh provisions, we should be able to get bread. There were only two trading stores and gas in half a day’s run—one away over off Blackfish Sound, and the other back on Minstrel Island.

So, we packed up the boat for running. Peter was shortening up the dinghy rope, Jan had pulled out the chart, and John had climbed up on the steering seat.

“All set?” I asked, glancing round.

I pulled the rear starter up sharply. Again—and again—and again. “If it isn’t spark, it’s gas, and if it isn’t gas it’s spark.” I reminded myself. I checked the gas tank, and the shut-​off valve. I raised the float-​level in the carburetor and enriched the mixture a little. I switched on and tried again . . . so it must be spark. I took a terminal off the battery and tried the spark . . . the most sickly, yellow, slow spark.

“You may as well go on shore and play,” I said. “The battery is practically dead.”

They looked at each other silently—and faded away.

We were at least thirty miles from where there was any hope of finding another dry battery. There was practically no chance of another boat passing our way—to get a tow. We had purposely gone where we would be by ourselves.

I put the battery out on deck in the sun. I polished the terminals. I took out all the sparkplugs and cleaned them. Knocked their points a little closer, and laid them all out in the sun with the battery to get hot. I would give everything another hour to really heat up—including the engine room, before I tried again.

I studied the chart—it would have been impossible to find a more out of the way place, or a more awkward place to try to tow a boat. By cheating a little in measuring the course I gained three miles. But in terms of trying to tow a twenty-​five foot boat—it didn’t help much. If I got the engine started, and made for Blackfish Sound, we would likely strike wind. We couldn’t stop and take shelter, for I might never get started again. If we headed for Minstrel we would strike bad tides—but it was the only possible place to tow to; so either way, it had better be Minstrel.

I reached for the tide book. Tides would have to be worked out chiefly in relation to towing. I couldn’t possibly tow more than one tide—so there had to be a good place to hole up for the night at the end of six hours . . . that meant waiting here until noon. That would be better, even if the engine started.

I called for someone to come out and get me. Then I lay on the beach and tried to think how many hours’ rowing it would take to tow the boat thirty miles—even with the tide. By the time the tide was at the right stage to try the engine again, I had used up enough energy thinking about it to have towed the boat there and back.

We rowed off to the boat. I rechecked everything. I connected the hot battery—I primed each cylinder with naphtha gas—I screwed in each hot sparkplug. Then I pulled up hard on the crank. “Grr-r-r-r-p-p-p,” she started, and when I hurriedly threw the switch over onto magneto she settled down with a melodious “pur-r-r.”

I nursed that throttle for ten minutes before I dared to leave it long enough to pull up the anchor. If she faltered, I should never be able to get to the throttle from the forward deck in time.

We were all singing as we worked our way out of that god-​forsaken little hole. For the moment, I had lost my taste for places where no one else ever went—a state of mind begotten of a dead battery.