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| Lock tender at work |
At last report we'd limped to a mooring at a lock a few
miles above Trenton. The diesel engine refused to start, and our solar
system was essentially out of juice.
The forecast for the next day: “rain.”
Lock 8 is in the wilderness, at the edge of a lake, accessible by a narrow road paved with gravel that runs past derelict farm fields. No town of any size for miles. Coyotes howl at night.
Lock 8 is in the wilderness, at the edge of a lake, accessible by a narrow road paved with gravel that runs past derelict farm fields. No town of any size for miles. Coyotes howl at night.
Quite early the next morning, the Captain descended into the
engine room.
Loud clanking sounds and loud, frustrated muttering ensued.
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| Don't mess with this man--he has a wrench! |
The solenoid is part of the starter system. That’s all I can
tell you; for technical details check with the Captain.
After the new cranking battery failed to solve the engine
problem, the Captain discovered that messing with the solenoid sometimes did
the trick.
Messing with the solenoid involved much agile jumping, into and out of the engine pit. Below decks, the Captain was assaulting the solenoid with very large screwdriver. On the stern deck, he was operating the starter. Very exciting . . . but not exactly convenient when you are dead in the water before open lock gates.
Messing with the solenoid involved much agile jumping, into and out of the engine pit. Below decks, the Captain was assaulting the solenoid with very large screwdriver. On the stern deck, he was operating the starter. Very exciting . . . but not exactly convenient when you are dead in the water before open lock gates.
And now the diesel engine was completely dead. The skies were gray. The clanking and the muttering
continued.
The Crew did what any sensible wife would do--vaulted up the
100 or so concrete steps to the top of the lock and consulted the lock tenders.
Lock tenders on the Trent-Severn present a perpetual air of
summer camp; their uniform consists of forest-green khaki shorts with very
large cargo pockets and a white polo shirt with the Parks Canada logo, accented
with mirror shades and beach sandals of their choosing. These lock tenders were
camped out in a couple of plastic lawn chairs beside the lockhouse, enjoying a
smoke.
The younger one, with shaved head and multiple earrings, quickly
offered me his seat, his phone, and a long list of phone numbers for auto parts
stores and marinas in the next two towns, along with helpful
commentary about which guy at what store would be most likely to fix us up. “Call
Brad,” he urged. “Course he might
not be up yet, or he might be taking the day off.”
My calls reached shopkeepers who did their best to help but failed to
yield a promise of the desired part. The locktenders dug deeper into their
collective knowledge of local engine gurus.
Hours later, we had a line on a shop in Campbellford. Much banging and muttering had failed to revive the engine, but though the
morning was cloudy the solar panels had gathered enough juice that we were able
to limp away. Our new friends
waved us off.
Lock tenders call ahead to let the next lock, to let their
co-workers know when to expect the next boat. (We are a constant source of
amazement to the lock tender community for how long it takes us
to move from lock to lock.) This
day, at each lock upstream, we were greeted by solicitous inquiries about the
state of our engine, suggestions for businesses that could help, and offers of use of the phone.
At Campbellford, our destination, the lock tenders were
hovering, consulting their watches. It was the end of the day. The auto parts store of choice was
closing soon. Could they offer us
a ride?
I was so impressed by the kindness, I sent an admiring email
to Parks Canada.
But this wasn’t the end of the story. The next morning, as we ate breakfast at the Campbellford marina, a pick-up truck pulled up with a little screech, and we heard a banging on the roof.
But this wasn’t the end of the story. The next morning, as we ate breakfast at the Campbellford marina, a pick-up truck pulled up with a little screech, and we heard a banging on the roof.
“Ahoy the
Dragonfly!” It was the next
lock tender, an athletic-looking blonde woman with a weathered face and a smile. She was just stopping in to see if we
had gotten our engine part . . . and
whether we needed any further help.
Posts
Hi Cynthia and Bill... The Solenoid problem was the bane of Mom's existence with our old Pontiac. A couple times a day you had to open the hood..tap on the solenoid with a screwdriver..restartt the engine and move on.
ReplyDeleteThe solenoid in Dragonfly must come from that old Pontiac. Dad
I thought that was the purple and white Studebaker?
ReplyDeleteWell, Mom should definitely come crew on the boat then, since she's a certified expert in Solenoid Repair!
ReplyDelete