feeling.
CHAPTER 4
Things Fall Apart
M y descent into the engine room was accompanied by stomach-knotting, nearly nauseating anxiety. Fear of what I might find mounted with every step I took down the gangway. When I landed on the steel-plated deck, my field of vision was filled from frame to frame with backs and elbows. Archie and Tim were leaning over and on the engine, their combined mass dwarfing what I would otherwise describe as a hulking machine. I walked around the menâs backsides to the opposite side of the engine room, where I could now see the top of the Cummins diesel as well as the menâs faces. Arch pulled a long dipstick from its skinny tube, flipped his reading glasses from forehead to bridge of nose, and checked the oil level. He wiped the stick on his shirt, pushed it back into the engine, and withdrew it again to inspect. He gave a satisfied look and returned the dipstick to the tube. Arch squinted over his glasses and focused above my shoulder at the box with the Murphy switch that indicated the coolant level. I looked, too, and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, turned my attention back to the top of the engine.
Tim held a small electronic temperature gauge that he passed along head cover to head cover. He hesitated, showed the reading to Archie, and frowned. âThis one is hot!â he yelled to me over the din of the generator. A bead of sweat trickled down Timâs temple and dripped onto the collar of his navy blue shirt.
âI heard a rapping sound. Letâs start her up and listen,â Arch suggested. I agreed that I would like to hear what had set the big man into fluid, amazingly fast motion, and I walked carefully over to the remote starter, forward of the engine. I reached above my head to the ignition switch, looked for a nod from the men indicating that they were ready, and pushed the toggle up with my thumb. The diesel started without a hitch and ran smoothly at idle. Tim nudged the throttle arm up a bit, and we all listened nervously. Another 100 rpm resulted in a definite and sickening knock. Tim pulled the throttle back to dead idle, and Arch drew a finger across his throat as a signal for me to cut the engine, which I did. I went sort of numb at this point. âThe noise seems to be coming from that hot cylinder head!â Arch yelled above the painful, steel-ringing-in-steel clatter coming from the generator. Tim nodded agreement, pursed his lips in concentration, and went to the toolbox.
Two long minutes later, Tim had the cover off the cylinder head that had produced the knock, exposing a series of rusted engine parts. âI thought this engine was just rebuilt. It looks like it was full of water at one time.â Timâs disgust clearly pierced the din of our surroundings. âHereâs the problem,â he added, pointing at the arch-shaped chunk of steel known as the bridge, which supports the rocker arms. âThis is loose. Look, this arm fell off to the side and was banging against the cylinder housing instead of the top of the piston. Jim Budi said this engine had just been rebuilt. Pretty sloppy!â
âCan you fix it?â I asked.
âWe can put it back together. But we donât have a torque wrench or feeler gauges,â said Arch. âI guess we canât make it any worse, and we canât run it the way it is. But these straight-six Cumminses are great engines, and easy to work on.â Tim and I agreed that trying to fix the problem, even if the attempt failed, was better than doing nothing, and he and Arch went to work at their best guessing for torque, spaces, and lineups of the rusted parts. âThese are all loose,â Arch kept repeating, shaking his head in disbelief. There was a lot of conversation speculating on the condition of the parts that were used in the rebuild and the haste with which the job must have been done on the boat away from the docks. I tried not to contribute much in the way of
CHAPTER 4
Things Fall Apart
M y descent into the engine room was accompanied by stomach-knotting, nearly nauseating anxiety. Fear of what I might find mounted with every step I took down the gangway. When I landed on the steel-plated deck, my field of vision was filled from frame to frame with backs and elbows. Archie and Tim were leaning over and on the engine, their combined mass dwarfing what I would otherwise describe as a hulking machine. I walked around the menâs backsides to the opposite side of the engine room, where I could now see the top of the Cummins diesel as well as the menâs faces. Arch pulled a long dipstick from its skinny tube, flipped his reading glasses from forehead to bridge of nose, and checked the oil level. He wiped the stick on his shirt, pushed it back into the engine, and withdrew it again to inspect. He gave a satisfied look and returned the dipstick to the tube. Arch squinted over his glasses and focused above my shoulder at the box with the Murphy switch that indicated the coolant level. I looked, too, and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, turned my attention back to the top of the engine.
Tim held a small electronic temperature gauge that he passed along head cover to head cover. He hesitated, showed the reading to Archie, and frowned. âThis one is hot!â he yelled to me over the din of the generator. A bead of sweat trickled down Timâs temple and dripped onto the collar of his navy blue shirt.
âI heard a rapping sound. Letâs start her up and listen,â Arch suggested. I agreed that I would like to hear what had set the big man into fluid, amazingly fast motion, and I walked carefully over to the remote starter, forward of the engine. I reached above my head to the ignition switch, looked for a nod from the men indicating that they were ready, and pushed the toggle up with my thumb. The diesel started without a hitch and ran smoothly at idle. Tim nudged the throttle arm up a bit, and we all listened nervously. Another 100 rpm resulted in a definite and sickening knock. Tim pulled the throttle back to dead idle, and Arch drew a finger across his throat as a signal for me to cut the engine, which I did. I went sort of numb at this point. âThe noise seems to be coming from that hot cylinder head!â Arch yelled above the painful, steel-ringing-in-steel clatter coming from the generator. Tim nodded agreement, pursed his lips in concentration, and went to the toolbox.
Two long minutes later, Tim had the cover off the cylinder head that had produced the knock, exposing a series of rusted engine parts. âI thought this engine was just rebuilt. It looks like it was full of water at one time.â Timâs disgust clearly pierced the din of our surroundings. âHereâs the problem,â he added, pointing at the arch-shaped chunk of steel known as the bridge, which supports the rocker arms. âThis is loose. Look, this arm fell off to the side and was banging against the cylinder housing instead of the top of the piston. Jim Budi said this engine had just been rebuilt. Pretty sloppy!â
âCan you fix it?â I asked.
âWe can put it back together. But we donât have a torque wrench or feeler gauges,â said Arch. âI guess we canât make it any worse, and we canât run it the way it is. But these straight-six Cumminses are great engines, and easy to work on.â Tim and I agreed that trying to fix the problem, even if the attempt failed, was better than doing nothing, and he and Arch went to work at their best guessing for torque, spaces, and lineups of the rusted parts. âThese are all loose,â Arch kept repeating, shaking his head in disbelief. There was a lot of conversation speculating on the condition of the parts that were used in the rebuild and the haste with which the job must have been done on the boat away from the docks. I tried not to contribute much in the way of
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