Oiling The Dog

The following story originally appeared on the Trailer Sailor Bulletin Board, otherwise known as the TSBB. If you would like to see me mocked in third person as opposed to first, feel free to head over to the TSBB at http://bbs.trailersailor.com/forums/trailersailor/index.cgi where you will find the world’s most knowledgeable group of individuals on Absolutely Every Topic, nautical or not. If they don’t know the answer to your question, they’ll make one up and promptly forget that they made it up.

One of the denizens of the TSBB stands out because a) he is included in the following story and b) he actually knows what he’s talking about. That would be Charlie Jones, master carpenter, seaman, axe thrower, fisherman and all the other things that all men and most good women wish they were good at. I consult Charlie on a regular basis whenever I attempt a mechanical repair. As I never do recall what he tells me, these consultations are more for his amusement than my edification.

My daughter and partner in adventure, Emily, has been known since birth as the L’il Pirate.

On to the story…

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When most of you face an unexpected mechanical problem, you rely on a combination of hard earned experience and intrinsic skills to overcome the difficulty. I must rely on other methods.

Typically I will try and fix the problem myself with whatever tools happen to be around and a lot of very innovative approaches. After several hours of bruised knuckles and colorful language I seek refuge among virtual friends at the TSBB and politely ask for suggestions regarding how to undo what I have done.

So it was with my reluctant auxiliary – the typically reliable Honda 4 stroke, 2 horsepower, air cooled, lightweight piece of perfectly useless stern ballast that hangs from my transom. (To those unacquainted with such nautical terminology, I am referring to a small outboard engine.) Apparently this little piece of engineering got jostled a bit while sailing and it just threw a fit at the outrage. First, the cursed centrifugal clutch would only clutch at high speeds. This led to a particularly exciting docking maneuver I am not planning on repeating. Apparently out of embarrassment, the engine then cried tears of petrochemicals all over the lake and refused to start. In fact, even with my mighty muscles, I was unable to budge the starter cord although with one particularly mighty heave I did nearly send the engine off its mount, over the cabin and into the next county.

Extensive on-line consultation revealed that a) the shear pin had been shorn, b) there was oil in the cylinder, c) the lower unit had fallen off, d) I should take up knitting as a hobby, e) the piston and cylinder had welded themselves into a solid mass, f) I should pack up the engine and send it far, far away and g) I should learn how to scull.

Taking last things first, I headed for the backyard pond and my trusty Walker Bay dinghy. Sculling is the ancient art of propelling a watercraft with the use of one long oar. Invariably, the sculler is a distinguished gentleman looking thoughtfully off into the distance. Innocent observers of this obviously knowledgeable, skilled, anachronistic mariner are impressed with peaceful artistry of the single oar sweeping gently through the water. I, on the other hand, know that I’m just looking at a stupid sailor who dropped his other oar.

I rowed myself to the middle of said pond in the normal fashion, shipped the extra oar and began to scull. Following some excellent directions provided by TSBBers, I actually succeeded in sculling my way all over the pond. Unfortunately, not once did I go in the direction I intended. Charlie Jones had told me that sculling required practice so I immediately gave it up and whistled to my dog for a tow home.

Bailey, the Brainless Beast of Bull Valley, decided, finally, that it was time to get in a boat for the first time. I really wished she had decided that when the boat was ashore. One thing led to another and soon the canine and I were splashing around together in the water. Relying on her inbred instincts to save her drowning master, I called to the beast and she responded with amazing alacrity. As I attempted to float on my back, she attempted, quite a bit more successfully, to press me under the water by standing on my chest. Good doggie.

I finally got a half nelson grip on the stupid fur ball and flipped her off of me. I then grabbed the scruff of her neck as she attempted to flee the scene of the attempted murder. Her flight continued with master in tow and she didn’t stop until I was properly beached. She then immediately rediscovered the joy of digging in the sand and shoveled gravel into my open maw. Nice doggie.

Satisfied that I had practiced enough, I headed for the lake with nothing but my wits since I had left the oars at the pond. I decided that, while I was now an expert sculler, it might be better in certain situations to have a slip with direct access to the lake rather than the meandering path my current slip required. As luck would have it, a slip fully exposed to wakes, party barges and suicidal ducks had just opened up so I plunked down my cash and upgraded. All I had to do to complete the transaction was move the boat down aforesaid meandering pathway into the open water and around the marina to the new slip. Lacking both wind and engine, I was forced to resort to the two short paddles aboard Big Windy. Good thing I brought along a couple of crewmates for the muscle work.

While I steered and supplied encouragement in the form of lashes, my diminutive crew attempted to paddle through the maze of drunken boaters attempting to dock at the local roadhouse for a refill. Since those short little arms combined with short little paddles failed to reach the water, I reluctantly gave up my position and relinquished the helm to the L’il Pirate.

I paddled like a crazed waterwheel for a good 20 minutes before exiting the hundred yard long slipway and bade farewell to the astounding line of powerboats awaiting my exit. Another 50 yards and a thousand calories found Big Windy snug in her new berth.

Exhausted, I admitted a setback in my human powered plans and returned home to stare at the engine. Nearly 30 years ago I took a small engine repair class in school and actually got an A. With that kind of education I should certainly be able to resurrect the ailing engine. I remembered how four stroke engines worked and mentally pictured all the components. Piston, piston rings, cam shaft, cylinder head, carburetor, crankcase, fuel lines – heck, this should be easy, I thought as I conveniently forgot that I had never repaired any engines outside of class.

I reviewed the official TSBB instructions and determined that, no matter what was wrong with the engine, everyone agreed I should buy a new sparkplug so I headed off to the local Farm and Fleet with the part number for the plug all too temporarily memorized. On the way I explained to Emily that the engine didn’t really need a sparkplug but that everyone else would feel better if I got one. Trailer sailors seem to love new sparkplugs more than they love their boats – certainly more than they love their spouses. You all think a shiny new spark plug will solve all the world’s ills. Fine, I’ll get one.

Now while the Charlie Jones’ of the world may be able to disassemble a Boeing 757 with nothing more than a pocket Leatherman and while Charlie and I are often mistaken for each other, I freely admit I am no Charlie Jones. I needed a few additional supplies. Over the course of three trips to various retail establishments, I acquired the following crucial items:

1. Folding work table
2. Saw horses
3. Quart of oil
4. Fancy measuring oil spout
5. Bag of rabbit litter and bedding
6. Bucket
7. Big screwdriver
8. Bigger screwdriver
9. Truly massive screwdriver
10. Lumber
11. Rags
12. Nuts, bolts and nails
13. Funny looking bladed drill bit
14. Three foot socket wrench extension
15. Fish hooks
16. Two orange street hockey balls
17. Japanese pull saw
18. Garbage bags
19. Bandages

As I left each establishment, the L’il Pirate reminded me that I had forgotten the sparkplug.

My supply list may seem a bit short for the task at hand but I only acquired what I truly needed. Before I could begin working on the engine, I needed an engine stand and I figured it was easier and cheaper to build one than to buy one. The dog would need amusement whilst I worked, thus the need for the orange balls. I have no idea why I bought fish hooks.

After an hour spent assembling the work table, I was both exhausted and inspired. This little table had an integrated vise with (I am sure) very durable plastic threads. Why not just throw some lumber into the vise and mount the motor on them? Why not, indeed.

With the motor precariously balanced, I began surgery. I removed the sparkplug, examined it closely and determined that there was distinct evidence that it was, indeed, a sparkplug. I filed away this information for later use. I then decided the best way to rid the cylinder of oil was to simply turn the engine over.

No, I did NOT turn the engine upside down.

As I pulled on the starter cord I was amazed at the ease with which one can turnover an engine without the plug in. I will design a compressionless engine while waiting for the orthopedist to realign my shoulder.

I am not a real fan of oiling tools. I think this age old practice tends to leave the tools a bit…well…oily. Nonetheless, I oiled all my tools rather vigorously as I yanked on the starter cord and oil flew all over the garage.

As the rust protectant was applied to all tools within range, I noticed a sad gurgling noise emanating from the cylinder. At first it sounded like oil to me but then my prime time television training took over and I realized that the patient needed an emergency tracheotomy. I lunged for a knife and attempted to slice the oil line but, failing to find such a line, I was powerless to do anything but standby and watch the engine wheeze and ease her way to a better place.

Once the gurgling stopped I figured I could do no more harm to the little machine so I put the plug back in and pulled the starter cord. And pulled and pulled and pulled and pulled and pulled. Then I attached the sparkplug wire and recommenced pulling. Dripping with sweat, I moved the throttle from off to start and yanked mightily for a while. With nothing better to do on a sunny afternoon, I pulled out the choke and pulled until my arm hung uselessly at my side and the motor hung at a rakish angle on my makeshift mount. Lying on the floor in a pool of precious bodily fluids, I looked up and saw the fuel cutoff switch. I painfully pushed it to the on position and feebly gave the line one last tug.

The resultant smoke and roar terrified the neighbors, excited the dog, worried the coyotes, shifted the magnetic poles and filled the garage with noxious fumes. Lost in the smoke was the wildly spinning propeller which made a valiant effort to get the motor out of the garage and into clear air.

As the improvised motor stand started skipping towards the door (that’s a sight that will give you nightmares), I lunged for the throttle and twisted it down to idle which idled the motor rather effectively by shutting it off.

I knew that my TSBB Council of Advisors would want a thorough analysis of the situation before advising me further so I decided to give the beast one more try so I could record all the colors of smoke and oozes of fluid that resulted from starting the little import. Seriously out of breath, I gave a half hearted heave and lackadaisical ho and lo and behold the engine roared back to life again!

Leaning over the table to keep it semi-stationary, I looked for telltale signs of mechanical trouble. First, there was smoke. I dimly recalled that the color of smoke mattered so I noted that white, blue, black and gray smoke all emanated from the machine. I tried to see where it was coming from and decided that “everywhere” was a fairly adequate description. Smoke poured from the lower unit, the exhaust, the general area of the carburetor, the recoil line, the crankcase, my ears and the throttle handle.

Next I noted fluids. Thin oily stuff was dripping, streaming and flowing from every orifice and from additional places as well where no known orifices existed. Gas was coming from who knows where and a strange, ominous looking black sludge crept out from near the anti-cavitation plate.

Sounds, well, the sounds were too horrible to describe.

The Little Engine That Could shut down again with a mighty heave, a heartbreaking clatter and a hissing sigh.

I wondered if she was ready to go back on the boat. When I briefly decided the engine was in fine working order I realized that carbon monoxide must be seriously impairing my judgment so I rather belatedly opened the doors and windows. Life giving air rushed in along with the life threatening dog who seemed to appreciate the mess I had made and quickly stepped in every noxious mixture she could find.

I sat down to contemplate my next innovation. For such a cool day, I seemed to be sweating buckets. I limped over to the engine and realized it was hot too. That sent a cooling shiver up my spine. What if this really was water cooled or at least intended to be water cooled? I hadn’t seen a cooling water intake but, honestly, would I have recognized it if I had? I grabbed the manual and while it didn’t specifically mention anything about water cooling, it did warn against running the engine out of the water. I suppose that unimpeded prop rotation could also have unhealthy effects.

Realizing that I was now simply one step from finishing my engine repair, I grabbed a handy bucket, filled it with water and dragged it back into the garage. While I was spilling all the water out again while tilting the bucket under the engine, Emily wandered in, shook her head and went out. A minute later she returned with the business end of the hose and refilled the bucket while it sat under the motor. Hmmmm….takes after her old man I guess – always thinking.

With an audience now present, I checked all the connections, switches, knobs, hoses and other things before rearing back on the starter cord. Just as the engine turned over, I was struck with a nasty thought. This happened simultaneously with the striking of the bucket on the dog’s head, the shrieking of children and even more chaos than the last “successful” test.

Even if the engine hadn’t been water cooled to begin with, it sure was now because there was water everywhere. Steaming, greasy, oily, slippery water. Well, I reasoned, that takes care of that. The engine runs, it needs more water and I’m tired of breathing fumes. Time to take it to the lake. And yet…..I vaguely recalled an important thought I had before the bucket prop walked into the canine’s cranium. Something about danger, heat, seizing, explosions. What was it?

Oh yeah! The smoke! The smoke had to be the result of something burning and what was more likely than oil? And if it had been burning, leaking and expelling oil all day…well, might it be down a little? I knew that was not a good thing so I fetched my quart of oil from the beginning of the season and promptly poured 24 ounces of Arabian gold into an 8 ounce crankcase. Hey, if a little oil is good then a lot just has to be better. Besides, at the rate I was burning oil, I was going to need all I could get.

I decided to try one last start before heading to the lake just to make sure the engine was up to my standards. With a strength that comes only from knowing a job is well and completely done, I threw my shoulder into a classic starting pull and ripped that engine right off the vise and onto my foot.

Too much oil is a bad thing.

At least I knew what to do next. I removed the spark plug and gave another cleansing pull. Oil shot out of the cylinder, past the rabbit litter, beyond the garbage bag, onto the dog, across the road, down to the pond and (some of it anyway) all the way back to Arabia.

Ever seen a yellow Labrador with a black head? I was really building up my store of future nightmares.

Fortunately, most of the oil was new. It had only traveled through the crankcase, into the cylinder, down the valves, into the lower unit and out the exhaust so it was still fairly clean. So clean in fact, that the only oil I saw was on the dog because she had taken an early, dirty headshot. The rest was on the floor mixed with the litter, water and other debris. How do I know this? It was a lot easier to see when I was flat on my back and staring at it.

Once again, let’s remember, too much oil is a bad thing.

I knew what had to be done. I grabbed the biggest screwdriver I had and tried to unscrew the oil drain plug. No luck. It was jammed, seized, welded into place. How come the filler plug can be a cheap plastic thumbscrew but the drain hole a piece of aircraft quality tungsten? I went to the store and bought a bigger screwdriver. I tried again and again and again. I started to swear mightily at the offensive little screw and reached for my hammer. Just then, Emily scootered in, skidded to an oily stop and grabbed me by the lapels.

“Dad! Stop it, stop it, stop IT!!!! Just call Charlie!”

Oh.

So I did.

Charlie immediately diagnosed my problem as too much oil in all the wrong places. Yes, the dog’s face was definitely the wrong place. He suggested I remove the drain plug and empty the crankcase. Yup. He then suggested I use an impact wrench to remove the screw.

Huh?

While I paged through the yellow pages looking for a place that would rent me an impact wrench, Charlie explained that this particular tool was NOT the same kind used to put on lug nuts at the tire store. No, this was a hand tool that you struck with a hammer. It would get all torqued up and twist that screw out without a problem.

Charlie even suggested that if he were nearby he would use his very own impact wrench. Personally I think he just would have unscrewed it with his fingers but I think he was trying to make me feel better.

Well, at least I now had a clear vision of what needed doing. I had seen these hammer powered tools before and always wondered at their purpose. Now I had the opportunity to own one of my very own and be the object of definite neighbor tool envy. I headed for the Ace hardware store.

I soon found what I was looking for but the end really didn’t look like it would fit the slotted screw head. I puzzled over it awhile before the helpful hardware man ambled over and asked if he could help.

“Yeah,” I drawled knowledgeably, “I need some bits for this.”

“Bits? You mean cartridges, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course that’s what I mean.” I would have spit tobacco out if I had had some – that’s how manly I was feeling.

“Well, here you go,” he said, handing me a package of unlikely looking things.

“That should do the trick,” I confidently assured him without having the faintest clue as to how these would solve any problem. Heck, Charlie said it would work so I was willing to give it a try.

“Are you sure this is what you want? Do you know what this is used for?”

Now I was feeling a lot like the kid at the pharmacy counter in Summer of 42 trying to buy condoms for the first time.

“Of course I know what it’s for! Everybody knows what an impact wrench is for!”

“Sure but this is an impact hammer,” he explained as if to a child.

“That’s what I meant! Hammer, wrench, whatever.”

“How are you planning to use it?”

“I am going to loosen a screw on my outboard, ok?”

“Really?”

“Yes. I know I look strong but this screw is seriously seized.”

“Well, there’s no doubt this tool will do the job.”

“I know that.”

“Yup. As soon as you hit this with a hammer, the enclosed .22 caliber gunpowder shell
will explode and send that screw right out. Right out through the crankcase, through the cylinder wall, through the cylinder, through the other cylinder wall, through the carburetor, the fuel line, the cowling, the wall board, the siding AND, if you are lucky enough, through the head of an unlucky deer thus supplying you with meat for the rest of the year!”

“Well, I AM on a low carb diet,” I whimpered.

“Just be careful because a lot of deer hereabouts have that chronic wasting disease that addles their brain along with the brain of anyone stupid enough to….hey, you been eating a lot of venison lately, boy?”

“You don’t think it’s a good idea to use this tool, do you?”

“I think it’s a fine idea IF you want to drive hardened steel bolts straight into concrete. For your job, I would use a screwdriver instead but, given your puny arms, I would suggest an impact WRENCH like I did in the first place!”

He then handed me a much less dangerous looking tool and shooed me out of the store.

I strode into the garage armed to the teeth (although not as well armed as I would have been with the .22 caliber hammer) with proper tools and determination. I lined up that wrench on the screw head and gave it a mighty WHACK with the hammer.

The dog tilted her head at me.

WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK

Nothing.

I sat down and began innovating again. I figured that I could rather easily turn the engine from a four stroke into a two stroke by whacking off a few knobs from the camshaft. Then my problems would be done. After all, I was getting pretty good at whacking things.

As I noodled this latest idea I idly played with my nice new useless tool. Then I broke it. For such a sturdy looking piece of steel I thought it cracked rather easily. The top slid freely and then got stuck halfway around. Great. Broken AND stuck. I looked at the base and saw an arrow now lining up rather beguilingly with the word “Reverse”

Hmmmm….

WHACK!

Black gold! Texas tea! I started humming the Beverly Hillbilly’s song as I danced a West Texas wildcatter’s jig and unscrewed the drain plug. Oil flowed, oil pumped, oil nearly gushed! Ok, it dripped.

I emptied the crankcase, the cylinder, the lower unit and all sorts of cracks and crevices. I wiped down the engine and carefully poured in eight ounces of pure sweet 10W30. I then replaced the drain plug and poured in another eight ounces.

Now an experienced small engine mechanic, I turned the engine over a few times to void the cylinder of residual oil. I placed a 30 gallon garbage can full of water under the engine in place of the 5 gallon bucket with the Labrador head impression on the side. I turned on the fuel, set the throttle, adjusted the choke and pulled with supreme confidence born of hard earned knowledge.

And then I pulled again. And again and againandagainandagainandagain.

Emily suggested I place the sparkplug in the engine. Brat.

Started on the first pull.

Water flew around, smoke swirled, the dog barked and the engine ran and ran and ran. I ran it idle for awhile, I ran it at ¼ throttle and the prop engaged as designed. I ran it at ¾ throttle and the roar announced my success to all the residents of the valley. Coyotes howled, deer danced, raccoons watched and birds of prey swooped low to behold the sight. I ran her up to full throttle and the garbage can tilted and went whack a whack a whack a. I shut it down.

The smoke cleared and there stood my engine. My self REPAIRED engine. With the swelled chest that comes from a job well done, I untied the starter code to put the cowling back on and at the last second – and I mean the LAST second – the cord slipped from my mighty grip and shot into the recoil spring.

Half an hour later, following sprung sprockets, flying cams, inebriated springs and a lot of creative use of single syllable words, I reinstalled the starter cord assembly and put the cowling on.

Now I know that the cord hangs a little loosely and I know that the creature will smoke for a week and I know that I will probably drop her in the drink when I try to hang her on the transom but, by golly, that engine WORKS!

I never did need the sparkplug.