Chickenhawk: Back in the World

The next day, the Namaste sat motionless in a vast wasteland. The water was thick with seaweed and trash. The place is called the Sargasso Sea—which we immediately changed to the Elephant Sea—where several currents converge and swirl together, keeping the seaweed in huge mats. It’s a unique kind of seaweed called sargassum which is native to sea currents. Branches of the plant are called fronds, inhabited by unique animals like the sargassum frog fish and sea slugs. The seaweed was alive with little fish that looked like they were made of seaweed, little silvery darting ones, and baby jellyfish. They say baby sea turtles live here until they get big enough to survive open water. The trash—six-pack rings, Styrofoam cups, bread bags, light bulbs, bottles, tin cans—was obscene. We were hundreds of miles from any land, and here was a trash dump that covered many square miles. “It’s like the world is a bunch of rednecks,” Ireland said.

We waited for wind. I sat below reading the Air Almanac. In the back of the book there’s a section that describes the process of plotting your position from your sighting—in case you’re on a bombing raid and can’t remember how to do it and the captain’s yelling, “Where the fuck are we?” I read that and worked the sample problems.

I went above with the sextant and made sun shots and plotted our position every hour. We were moving at less than one mile an hour. We had the radio on, listening to an evangelical show from Puerto Rico, the only station we could get clearly. I wanted to hear them pitch the autographed picture of Jesus Christ with eyes that glow in the dark, but they were just asking for money. Ireland was drawing a picture of the Namaste. John was reading a Captain Homblower book (who, along with Errol Flynn, was one of his heroes). At lunchtime I made some beans and rice.

After lunch I went below and pulled the ladder away from the engine hatch and crawled in. I studied this fuel pump thing. You could see the copper tubing that fed it coming from two places on the fuel tank above. There were five junctions in the tubing where air could be leaking in. Or the seal at the pump itself could have an invisible pinhole. Start with the obvious. I took the pump off and took it on deck. John and Ireland glanced over as I wiped the seal with a rag. The rubber gasket was immaculate, but I smeared it with a layer of silicon rubber, for insurance, and went below and bolted the pump back in place with the silicon wet. A couple hours later, I suggested we try it again.

The batteries were very low from trying to start the engine for the last two days, but the engine caught. We had been through this enough to know not to get crazy about the fact that the fucking engine ran, so we just sat where we were and waited. She died in less than five minutes. I nodded. John got back into his book. Ireland drew.

I went back into the engine compartment and stared at the fuel pump. It was stifling in the small place because of the heat of the day, and now the engine was hot from its little workout.

So, if you prime the pump full, it works—the engine runs until the fuel in the pump is gone. I knew the seal was tight; they use silicon to seal fish tanks. Obviously, the lines feeding the pump must have a leak. I looked at the tubing. Air could get in at a connection, or in through a pinhole in the tubing itself. It could be anywhere. There wasn’t a hint of fuel leaking out, so it was so small that only air leaked in. I took the fuel pump off again and studied the primer pump mechanism. The lever pushed a piston which squeezed out fuel. I pressed it until all the fuel squirted out. Then it just hissed as it pumped air. It pumps air. Idea jumped into my brain. What if I put the pump back on backwards? Then when I primed the pump, I’d be pumping air, under pressure, into the fuel line. Brilliant.

I went below and reversed the connections. I let the pump hang loose beside the engine. I attached the pump’s outlet to the fuel line.

I went into the cabin and got some Joy detergent, put some in a coffee cup, and mixed it with water. I got a rag and crawled back under the cockpit, next to the engine. I swabbed the soap mixture on each joint, one at a time, and pumped the fuel pump. If the problem really was an air leak, then I should see bubbles at the hole. At the last junction, a T-connector mounted on the engine compartment bulkhead, I saw foam.

“Hey!” I yelled. I was standing inside with my head out the hatch. “I found the fucking problem!”

“No shit?” John said.

“What’s it ees, Ali?” Ireland said.

“We got an air leak in a coupling. C’mon.” I waved. “C’mon, I’ll show you.” I was practically giggling. John crawled in with me, and Ireland squatted on the cabin deck. “Watch,” I said, pumping the fuel pump.

“Son of a bitch!” John yelled. “That’s it! That little fucking leak is all it takes!”

“Right. All we have to do is epoxy the joint, seal it up. That’ll fix it. At least well enough to get us cruising again.”