Halifax was unable to solve all my problems. I found there neither a spare alternator nor a spare starter motor, and the engine fuel line hose I wanted could not be got locally nor, in a timely manner, from the manufacturer.
The first two issues have since been sorted, but what to do about Mo’s old, rubber fuel lines and their specialty fittings plagued me until yesterday, when I met Jerry.
At the time I was canvassing the yard for a local shop that could fill my order. Jerry was my third interviewee. He s
“What kind of engine have we?” he asked. Jerry wore a tweed flat cap. His accent was Irish.
“A Bukh,” I said. “Made in Denmark.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, knowingly. “Good little engine. Designed for lifeboats. Runs under all conditions, even inverted.”
“That, at least, I’ve not tried.”
“Nor recommended,” said Jerry. “But she’ll do it.”
Having found a knowledgeable source, I pressed on to my desire for new fuel lines and the issue of how to replicate the custom crimped ends on the engine’s difficult-to-jury-rig banjo fittings.
“Not hard at all,” said Jerry, “You just cut the f—kers off. Do it all the time. I presume you have a hack saw aboard that fine yacht of yours.”
At the appointed hour Jerry arrived. He handed me a business card, which I examined while he donned orange coveralls. His title, “Marine
And then we dived right in.
I explained that I like to do my own work, but Jerry would have none of it. For one thing, I was too slow. “And you hold the hacksaw like a girl,” said Jerry.
Mo’s engine access is quite good, but that doesn’t mean everything is easily got at, and Jerry spent the better part of two hours achieving yoga poses difficult even for the limberest of Newfoundlanders.
Jerry had another job calling him, so he wrapped up Mo’ project quickly. But when we stuck our heads out the companionway hatch, we found a cold rain had set in; so, we retired to the club for a quick lunch and hot coffee.