If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, He Will Break the Oven: Espiritu Santo

Espiritu Santo, Las Perlas, Panamá.

The Spanish name for this island, Espiritu Santo, means Holy Spirit. Long before the occupation and massacre, Indians settled here, nurtured by the sea’s abundance and nearby fresh water. They didn’t leave behind a name for their home, only bits of pottery and their wandering spirits.

Offlying rocks near the south entrance of Espiritu Santo offer good snorkeling.

A course outside offlying rocks and reef delivers SV Hanalei to the south end of a roomy channel.

We drop anchor in five meters, protected from brisk afternoon northerlies. Blessedly, there's no phone service or internet.

We’ve come here to self-isolate, regroup and relax while we wait for our vaccine numbers to be called.

A plethora of socially-distanced activities await: kayak explorations or a dinghy trip around Isla Mamey, snorkeling and diving, long walks, beachcombing, bushwhacking through jungle.

Isla Mamey, for dinghy and kayak forays.

Two other cruising boats are anchored off a white sand beach. By pandemic standards, it’s a crowd.

Thousands of stars keep us company at night.

Next morning at mid-tide we’re all alone. Almost.

A family waves as they speed past us in a panga on their way to town. Four cheeky young hunters drop by to show us their kill, a large green iguana. We give them crackers for iguana canapes.

The falling tide uncovers a dramatic beach and islets, reveals the rock pile behind us as peninsula. The changing water color–teal, aquamarine or celadon–invites a swim. At slack tide–or what I think is slack based on an Isla del Rey reference–I jump in. It’s cool and clear, but the current doesn’t let up until thirty minutes past the advertised time.

At true low tide we swim to a squeaky-fine beach. An eagle ray hovers near shore, looking for action. We spend an hour walking among shells: purple and white scallops, heavily ridged clams, carnivorous murexes, mother-of-pearl the size of abalone. We reconnoiter snorkeling spots, look for–but don’t find–the short trail that leads to a seaward beach, then swim back to the boat for a smoothie.

It’s perfect.

Blame the Stick Blender

Stephan wants to make us smoothies, so he turns on the generator.

I say the following to add context. The few appliances we have are 220v, like our electric system. The only way to get power is to (1) plug into a 220v outlet at dock or (2) run the generator. It’s how we charge computers and the dinghy’s electric engine, and operate our toaster or stick blender.

So, Stephan decides to make us smoothies, so he turns on the generator.

From the forward cabin I can hear something is wrong. The engine is too high-pitched, overspeeding.

I call out but Stephan doesn’t answer.

He’s in the engine room, frantically monkeying with the genset. The engine is gunning like the lead-up to a drag race.

He yells over the noise, “It won’t stop.”

“Let’s turn it off,” I yell back, always helpful..

“I’ve tried.”

Not funny, generator.

“This is how cruising goes. One minute you’re swimming in a perfect anchorage; the next, you’re clutching your abandon ship bag.”

First, Do No Harm

Being prone to errors that cascade into catastrophe, I’m of the first, do no harm school.

My job is to pull out manuals and troubleshooting guides, mechanical reference books, and read them aloud in an increasingly panicked tone. The Chief Engineer filters the onslaught of information until the right answer appears.

The manual suggests a problem with the solenoid, says to slide the emergency “off” lever.

“Done that. No help.” For good measure, he turns off the batteries.

I tentatively press the on/off rocker switch in case it’s tired of its practical joke.

Nothing.

The Chief Engineer invokes Nigel Calder, supreme deity of marine diesel..

Diesels are simple. To run, they need compression, air and fuel.

Compression

We definitely have compression. It’s relentless. Let’s skip ahead.

Air

He stuffs a rag up the air intake to choke it off. Instead, it informs us our air line has developed more than a few leaks. The pitch downgrades from impending drag race to passing band of dentist drills.

Fuel

All that’s left is fuel.

Stephan pulls the fuel shutoff valve to cut off its supply. It can’t run without access to diesel.

Nevertheless, it persists.

The genset, undeterred, sounds like a pack of scooters on a fast track to escape velocity. It’s loud. It’s scary. It seems possessed, not by a holy spirit but a wholly mystifying one. To me, the workings of an engine are as foreign as an ancient priestly rite. But Stephan isn’t supposed to be baffled. He’s scared, too.

It’s been running with no fuel for ten minutes when the Chief Engineer removes the fuel filter. He clamps the rubber section of the fuel line with vice grips, the equivalent of squeezing a garden hose to stop its flow. The genset keeps on ticking like an Energizer Bunny from hell.

Now What?

Over at Christine’s mind, a multiple choice quiz pops up. Now what?

(a) We ignore it, as we would any temper tantrum. (This is also my approach to most routine maintenance.) Eventually it sees reason and stops of its own accord.

(b) The generator continues to run until it has sucked dry every drop of diesel in the tank, approximately five more days. Solution (b) is not incompatible with (a).

(c) The generator explodes. End of problem. And us.

(d) Christine, heeding separate advice from Nigel Calder, strikes generator with a hammer. Solution (d) may increase likelihood of (c), but is more satisfying in the moment.

(e) The Chief Engineer finds a way to make the generator stop. The likelihood of (d) shortens the time CE can spend on (e).

This is how cruising goes. One minute you’re swimming in a perfect anchorage; the next, you’re clutching your abandon ship bag.

Use Your Words

What I do understand is asking for help.

Use your words, Christine.

Whatever the outcome, I should send an emergency message to someone. Anyone. If the boat explodes, the record ought to show what caused it. Maybe it will give our kids some comfort.

I turn on the VHF radio. It’s the opposite of the genset. Dead.

Not going to panic. There’s a sat phone.

The Iridium Go! can’t find a satellite. Okay, the radio. This is why we have backup emergency systems.

The SSB has no power. None of this is the fault of the genset. Communications are wired to… oh, yeah…Stephan turned off the battery bank.

While I’m composing dramatic pleas for help/last words, the Chief Engineer remembers the arcana of the ancient Calder.

Diesel engines are designed to lift more fuel than they can use. What isn’t burned enters a return line to the fuel supply to be re-used.

He picks up a wrench and heads determinedly back to the engine room. Whether he plans to assault or exorcise the spirit, I don’t know.

He gives the metal portion of the return fuel line an everso-slight twist and…

And…

and….the copper fuel line breaks, pouring diesel into an open pan.

Stephan’s own return line is driven by adrenaline, inspired by the hyperactive, fuel-spewing spirit below. He grabs another clamp and races back to stanch its flow, by clamping the rubber section of the return line.

That does the trick. The overspeeding genset halts, not with a bang but with a whimper.

Me, too. Fear is exhausting.

Loose Lips Sink Ships

“Is it safe?” I look for reassurance though I know nothing is certain.

“Yeah.“

It’s over. It won’t run away again. “I thought it might explode.”

“Me, too.”

Unfortunately, the boat’s engine needs the fuel return and we need the engine to get back to Panama City. It’ll take a coronary bypass to isolate the genset from the fuel source.

Later, an oil dipstick will pinpoint the problem. It comes out looking like licorice mousse, a steely gray that no oil should ever know. The raw water pump has committed pump-icide. Salt water has mixed with the oil, turned it into a toxic smoothie. A leaky lip seal is the culprit.

Loose lips sink ships.

Salt water corroded a spring in the fuel pump, which led to the overspeeding.

If you give a mouse a cookie. . . .

Unchecked, it would further damage and eventually destroy an engine. That mouse would break more than the oven; it would take a sledgehammer to our power source.

Who knows how long it will take to fix the generator and its collateral damage?

We have a fuel return line to jury-rig, a raw water pump to rebuild, a fuel pump to repair, another fuel leak and a problem with the shore power transfer switch to solve.

If you give a mouse a cookie. . . ..

I make my most genius, helpful suggestion yet. “Can we go snorkeling before we leave?”

The reef off the south anchorage is alive with vibrant blue damselfish, parrotfish, schools of something small and black. I exchange looks with a lone grouper, out of place among yellow and pink fairy basslets. It really is a perfect anchorage.

Our snorkeling spot at the tip of this reef, south anchorage.

This is how cruising goes. One minute you’re panicked, facing certain death; the next, the magic of the sea lets you forget.

Fair winds,

Christine

Espiritu Santo lies off Isla del Rey, an hour southeast of San Miguel.

Do Tell!

You’ve been lots more scared than this. Tell us the story?