Lloyd kept talking, “CAT builds the best damn motors in the world. They still got oil in ’em, so we might just get lucky. Look, here,” he said, breaking off some white and green powder that had formed a thick crust around the raw water pump. “The seal is shot, for sure. No use trying to even start ’em until we pull these pumps and go through ’em all. Heat exchangers, the works.”
“You said we.”
In the dim light from the flashlight and the single 100-watt open light bulb I’d rigged earlier to hang from an “S” hook in a ceiling beam, I saw the old man smile. His eyes sparkled as his entire face lit up. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye. “Leave you alone down here? Who knows, you might have tried to start ’em without even bleeding ’em out first. That’d screw up any chance in hell we might have of saving these babies.” He shot me another smile. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Not knowing what to say, I simply nodded.
“So, why are you still just standing there? We’ve got to get all the old fuel siphoned out, dump it and get these tanks polished. They’re stainless, so they should be fine. We gotta pull the injectors and replace them. Filters, belts and all these hoses are cracked and shot to hell. Grab something to write on. We’ll start pulling numbers and making a list.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Like I said, they’re CATs.” Lloyd was in his element. Giving one of the eight inch stainless steel exhaust pipes a loving pat, he continued. “These three-forty-threes were built to last a lifetime. Best engines CAT ever built. Let’s take care of what we know needs tending to, then see if she wants to run.” He paused. “You ready?”
With a nod, a friendship was born. It’s hard to explain, but when people commit to something outside of themselves, they transcend time and space. Sometimes you catch a glimpse of it watching a championship team on TV. There’s a chemistry that can’t be defined by words or stats. One of the benefits about working on a boat is it gives you time to think. Lloyd and I spent the rest of the day in the engine room. When it was time to quit, we were covered in oil, grease and sweat. Standing on the deck, I reached out my hand. He took it, once again leaving my fingers numb.
“Thank you,” I said. “What do I owe you?”
He looked over at me, shaking his head. “Did I ask you for anything?” he inquired politely.
“No.”
“Then don’t worry about it.”
“Can’t do it. Can’t have you working all day for nothing.”
“Who said it was for nothing?”
“Well, if you don’t want any money, what do you want?”
“Let me worry about that.”
“That isn’t fair,” I told him. “I wasn’t brought up like that. An honest day’s work deserves an honest day’s pay.”
“Good motto to live by,” he agreed. “Then let’s settle up.” This time he took a deep breath before speaking. Turning to look me in the eye, he said, “Do you want me to help you, or not?”
“I do. Yes sir, you know that. We got more done today than I would have been able to do in a week.”
“Then you trust my work?”
“Completely.”
“Fine. Then trust me, too. I’ll let you know if I need anything.” He paused. “You quit worrying about paying me, or any of that nonsense, and I’ll be glad to keep lending you a hand.”
Our eyes met again. I didn’t understand where he was coming from, but decided not to argue. I nodded in agreement, grateful for the much needed help, and that was that.
Lloyd and I spent the better part of the next two weeks below deck, ‘the heart of the beast,’ he called it. Bolt by bolt, piece by piece, part by part, we tore into the big iron. He taught me more about diesels in a week than I’d learned in my entire life. The maze of manifolds, valves, injectors, lines, pumps, hoses, fittings and filters slowly started to make sense as we worked to simplify the systems, each independent part working as part of the overall system, and each system supported and interdependent upon the next. I was learning from a master.
I was working on one of four bolts holding the salt-water pump Lloyd had rebuilt the night before when he shouted, “Hold it! Hold it! Think about what’s going to happen if you button that down all the way.” I paused to think for a moment. He smiled patiently at me. “Just like we did with the valve cover. You want to apply the pressure evenly, one bolt at a time. Snug it up, and then move to the next one. Snug that one and so forth until they all have about the same amount of pressure. Then go back and run the rack again … a little tighter each time. Nice even pressure across the entire surface so the gasket’ll seal evenly. We don’t want it leaking. Got it?”
I should have remembered that from earlier. “Sorry,” I said.
“As long as you’re learning, there’s no reason to be sorry. She’s trusting herself to your hands,” he said affectionately, patting the motor. “You take good care of her, and she’ll do the same for you when you need it most.” He was right. I would have had to loosen that initial bolt to get the pump properly aligned, and compromised the seal. Reading my mind, Lloyd added, “Every single detail’s important. Like a domino. If one fails, it affects the entire system.”
As the weeks went by, Lloyd completely redesigned the engine room. “There’s only a few things that belong in an engine room,” he said. “The mains, generators, the fuel manifold, filters and the tools to work on ’em. Everything else belongs somewhere, but not in here.” Once so cluttered and messed up you could hardly get around the generators, the engine room was soon open and spacious. The only exception to Lloyd’s rule regarding engine room equipment was a new set of deep cycle batteries. We’d built a custom battery box outboard of the starboard stringer. It fit in there perfectly. It kept the weight low and made the cable runs short. Given all its advantages, Lloyd had agreed to bend his rules.
Everything in the engine room had been meticulously thought out. Each piece of equipment in its proper place served a unique purpose. But as I lay upside down, half wedged under several tons of metal, working to break free a frozen bolt on the underside of the alternator, I wondered which rocket scientist had designed this system. “I’d like to see that asshole climb in here and do this,” I complained to Lloyd. “What a moron.” Lloyd chuckled as I handed him the bolt I’d finally freed.
Through it all, we were making significant progress. We’d managed to pump all the old diesel oil out of the four 600-gallon tanks and had them hydro-washed and inspected with remote fiber optics. Fortunately, the boat had been impounded with full tanks, so the tanks were rock solid. The fuel oil had prevented the tanks from rusting from the inside out. We were learning to count the smallest of life’s blessings.
Every evening after work, Jennifer would bring us dinner from Hodad’s. She and Lloyd took to each other immediately. She became the daughter he never had. She loved doting on him. They made me smile. In the evening, sitting on the settee together, Lloyd would spin tales of his early days as a merchant marine, and then jump to when he crewed on a tuna clipper.
“Those four pole fish were incredible,” he’d recount. “There were days when we’d be in the racks for ten, twelve hours straight. You’d be so tired by the time the bite was over you could hardly make it to your bunk.”
“About the way I’ve felt lately,” I said with a sigh.
With sparkling eyes, he replied, “This is nothing, son. I’m talking about real work.”
And so it went. Day after day.