RED BUTTON

by Beth Tally

In the spring of 2005, we took our boat Up Jinks through the Exumas in the Bahamas.  Our trip southward down the chain of stubby cayes and larger islands terminated in Georgetown, the annual winter Mecca for many cruisers found on Grand Exuma Island.  Along with over 100 other boats, we anchored there for almost three weeks in Elizabeth Harbour, the mile-wide haven of water stretching between Stocking Island on the east and the town on the west. It was a long enough time to experience several weather changes and wind shifts. We learned how to do the “Harbour Shuffle” – when the wind came from the east, you moved to the shelter of Stocking; when from the west, you moved over towards town.

On a particular day, the morning forecast alerted us that we needed to move over to the east side.  While still close to town, we decided to make provisions to cover the few days we’d be hunkered down at Stocking Island.  After replenishing our food, drink and ice supplies, we secured everything, started the engine and carefully hoisted the anchor.  It took a few minutes to maneuver Up Jinks through the maze of boats congregated in the anchorage.  We swung around behind the sailing vessel Windy Liz, our buddy boat for the trip, and yelled to her owners Ray and Gail Thompson that we were on our way across the harbour.  They responded that they were going to hang tight where they were for a while, but we’d talk later.

John brought the boat into the main channel and pushed the throttle forward to give us some speed for the short trip.  Ten seconds into the ride an alarm sounded.  It took us so by surprise that at first we had no clue what it was.  Then John noticed the beaming red button on the engine instruments.  The engine was overheating and had climbed to over 200 degrees in the few minutes since we’d started it.

Immediately John cut the engine off which left us moving forward through the anchorage but loosing momentum and direction with every second.  He told me to get the jib winch covers off and be ready to pull the jib sail out – quickly.  Before we could do that, the wind started pushing us starboard into an anchored boat.  John started the engine for just long enough to get us moving again and instantly shut it down again.  The jib rolled out to starboard and we gathered speed enough to control the boat.  Once on the east side of the harbour near a place called Volleyball Beach, we pulled in the jib and John passed the helm to me.  He went up to the bow locker where he readied to drop our anchor.  He yelled for me to turn up into the wind which caused us to slow almost to a complete stop.  “Plunk!”  He shoved the anchor off the bow into about 12 feet of water.  Without the motor, we couldn’t back up on the anchor to set it properly, but the bottom was sandy and receptive to the prongs.  Up Jinks settled back to rest.

After a few seconds to catch my breath, I reached for the VHF radio and called over the hailing channel 16 to Windy Liz.  Gail answered and we agreed to go up to channel 68.  I found her on the channel and began explaining to her what had happened to us. She listened intently as I described the few minutes of sheer terror that I had experienced.(The actual definition of "cruising" is 95% boredom and 5% sheer terror.)   Ray was in the background asking all kinds of technical questions which sounded a lot like Greek to me.  I told her I’d have John call him back when he had figured out what was wrong.  Back to channel 16 I went to stand by.

Before I could get the radio mike back in its cradle, a dinghy showed up at the stern.  I should have anticipated this as the VHF in a cruising community is like a modern-day party line.  Pretty much everybody who’s on a boat keeps the radio on 24/7.  When somebody they know gets on the radio, they just silently follow the conversation.  It’s not being nosy, just the way it is.

Dave Butler, from the boat nearest to us, said that our friend Bob Sadler on Barefootin’ had heard us talking on the radio and maybe we needed help.  Barefootin’ was a good ways away from us and Bob knew Dave could get to us quicker.  John welcomed him onto the boat.  Before long, the “putt-putt” of another dinghy engine came up the side of the boat.  It was Bob.

For the next hour or so, the three men sat in our cockpit, drinking some beer and talking about the engine.  Every now and then, Ray from Windy Liz piped in over the VHF with a thought.  They threw theories and possibilities around like Frisbees.  It could be the thermostat or possibly the intake manifold or the exhaust manifold or maybe one of the pumps.  Each idea produced a litany of suggestions on how to determine the problem, how serious it was, and what to do about it.  The conversation became very animated and lively, almost joyous over the intricacies and ills of our engine.

In between trips down the companionway to retrieve beer, I listened intently to what they were saying.  And it struck me – maybe what I needed was a little red button that would go off when I overheated.  After all, if I could command this much thoughtful cogitation about what was wrong with me just by glowing red and sounding an alarm, wouldn’t that be wonderful?  It certainly would beat the subtle pouting, sulking, sighing and stomping around I usually employ – methods which bring minimal results if any at all.

Alas, I’m told by my husband that installing a red button in me just wouldn’t work the same.  He explained that when the red button on the engine goes off, it signals a problem for which there is a rational solution.  With me, all he would know is that I was hot.  He’d never be able to figure out why or what to do about it.

“Furthermore,” he said, “I don’t believe I got a manual when I married you.”

I guess he’s right.  A red button really wouldn’t do very much.  Besides, half the fun of “running hot” is to see whether your husband can decipher the crisis before it totally vanishes and you forget about it.  Think I’ll just stick to my nebulous techniques for a while longer.  If nothing else, it will keep me a little more mysterious than a diesel engine.