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Solo Women and Motor Repair
The sailing had been day-dreaming easy and serious, hard and smooth all day.
I’d come up from the slow, lazy downwind leg in the twenty-six mile long Collins Inlet into some rough
seas and stronger winds as I crossed a part of Georgian Bay open all the way to Detroit!
Motoring through Killarney bumped my wilderness attitude down a notch as I warily wound my way
north through the traffic. I stopped at the store wharf and was so totally ignored!
It was, I imagined, as if Peapod and I were invisible. It must have been the gallon gas can in my
hand! I’d had to dock alone, completely ignored by the bored dock boy. No one came to take my
lines, no smiles of hello, nothing. Just ignored.
I mused: I supposed small boat folks are seen as poor tippers. Little did he know, I thought.
Never judge a giving heart by the size of the boat! The facts are those with the least give the
most. For all he knows, I groused, Peapod could have come from the insides of a larger boat!
Oh, well, it’s not about prestige. It’s all about sailing. I got my gallon of gas and chastised myself for
the pity wallow and nasty thoughts. The truth was, and still is, that Killarney is one friendly little town.
What had happened was that I was treated like a local in a boat smaller than the average runabout
and was viewed as a regular capable of taking care of myself. So much for self pity.
I meandered on north and west, leaving the cut between George Island and the Killarney Bay
mainland. The wind was variable and strong once again when the seas opened up to let in the stiff
wind off Lake Huron. Down the bay and nearby were nine boats in full sail skimming over the blue
water. It was a beautiful sight, white sails, white quartz mountains in the background, green fir trees,
flashy white wavelets and the intense twins of sapphire blue sky and cerulean water.
Peapod reached along on a romp as she caught the breezes. Ever an active boat, she was a lively
and a squirrelly boat that day. At 475 pounds empty, she moved under foot and it was certainly a
balancing act to be aboard. At least the waves were not as big as they had been when coming into
Killarney. With her sails full, she stiffened up and behaved like a well trained thoroughbred. Actually,
more like a well trained duck! Bouncing over the wavelets, charging along, the sailing was full of
spirited movement, exhilarating and fun.
All too soon, Badgley Island sheltered the Landsdown Channel and the wind swung more aft as it
found the way. Loaded with all the gear for a summer, plus my not too thin body, Peapod settled into
security and hit her stride with the wind abaft of beam. She sailed her lines and made me smile until
my cheeks hurt. I loved that little boat like a good friend. She was my summer cottage, my vehicle, my
hard-shell pup tent. She was a fiberglass duck! The sheer line brought smiles and shaped her bow
into a fine wave thrower, keeping me dry. Every nuance of wind and wave is felt directly on a boat
like that. She communicated so much that the intimacy of pilot, boat, wind, water, is refined into
sensations blended together unlike any other sailing I had done.
In the distance, there were two larger trailerable boats. As I got closer, I could see they were set up
for a tow. Both of the sailboats appeared to be in the 20 to 24 ft. size range. They made for Snug
Harbor, my destination for the day. I followed along behind, keeping well back so I wouldn’t interfere
with whatever they had in mind.
I hadn’t been into the protected anchorage in several years and wondered what I would find. Various
publications and people I had referred to said the anchorage was deep and stony. I like to go ashore
and hoped I’d find a little beach.
The boat that had been towed in was soon swinging gently at anchor. I motored slowly near the 22
foot Catalina and a head popped out of the companionway. In short order I had met Nell, another
woman solo sailor, my first in the four years I’d owned and sailed Peapod. Nell appeared to be
somewhere near my age. I moved nearer the shore and dropped the anchor. The boats swung to the
gentled wind and we talked a bit across the water.
Nell was widowed and, since she loved to sail, she found a good used boat and sailed. She was
originally from Holland and had emigrated to Canada years ago.
Somewhat older than me, she was finding out that she didn’t know enough about outboard motors.
Hers had quit and wouldn’t start, therefore the tow. Her son was to rendezvous with her after he got
off from work and would be along in a few hours. His boat was bigger, she said, and more of a racing
type boat. They planned to have dinner. Nell was to do the cooking. She asked me over for tea.
I put my things in order, secured and covered the sails and swam over to her boat with my towel and
a shirt in a dry bag. When I got to her boat she prepared the tea stuff. We talked about her motor, an
older Johnson brand. I offered to take a look at it. She was having problems with the gear shift and I
focused on that. With the cowl off the motor it was soon apparent that the gear shift cable had slipped
from its setting and the whole assembly was misaligned. That was soon put to the correct and
tightened position. Next came the focus on the motor starting problems. It wouldn’t have started in
forward but would, or should have, in neutral.
Now, you must understand that I only know that outboards need three things: fuel, air and ignition. I’d
kept an old tractor style lawnmower and snow blower running so I figured I wouldn’t be doing any
harm by checking these three things on Nell’s motor. I asked about fuel first. Nell said she had lots of
fuel so I tried to see what might be stopping fuel. With some poking around there appeared to be
good connections to the carburetor. I pulled out the sparkplug and it actually looked as if the motor
had hardly been run. So, what was the problem? I poked around and came up with no solution.
At Nell’s suggestion, we began to focus on the tea. She put water in the kettle and started to deal
with the propane camping stove set on the counter. I settled onto the wee table bench. The radio
broke into our conversation and let Nell know her son was on his way. Musing on that and wondering
some more about the motor problem, I waited for my tea. We didn’t get the motor going but we did get
the throttle fixed.
The next thing I knew, Nell was screaming about FIRE and moving away from the stove. I immediately
saw large flames coming from the end of the stove nearest the one pound propane fuel canister. She
was hollering and I got up, moved her sideways, picked up the stove and threw it overboard.
The stove spun around wildly on the water, spitting fuel and flame, hissing like a giant snake. I said to
Nell that I’d go get it when it quit burning and had cooled off a bit. The tea kettle was on the counter.
How it got there I have no idea. It wasn’t long before I dove over the side and swam to the still floating
stove. It was cooled. I towed it over to Nell’s boat. I was able to stand on the boarding ladder and
hand it up to her where she drained it. When I got back into the cockpit, we could see a cracked
fitting where the fuel line joined the stove. It was a part easily replaced.
Shortly after that, her son motored into the anchorage and found a spot to drop his anchor.
We all had a nice dinner Nell had cooked aboard her son’s boat. We were able to go to his boat in
his dinghy.
After dinner, we all went over to the Catalina. Her son tried to start the motor. He then dug down into
a cockpit locker and changed the gas tank. He started the motor.
She had been trying to run on an empty tank! She did have plenty of gas but it wasn’t in the tank the
motor had been hooked up to. The throttle worked just fine. I was disgusted with myself that I hadn’t
checked the gas tank and hose hook-up. The propane stove was repairable. No one was burned or
injured. We were fat and sassy after the good dinner, and I had made some new friends. It was a
Snug Harbor after all.
Anne Westlund
westlund@lighthouse.net
The sailing had been day-dreaming easy and serious, hard and smooth all day.
I’d come up from the slow, lazy downwind leg in the twenty-six mile long Collins Inlet into some rough
seas and stronger winds as I crossed a part of Georgian Bay open all the way to Detroit!
Motoring through Killarney bumped my wilderness attitude down a notch as I warily wound my way
north through the traffic. I stopped at the store wharf and was so totally ignored!
It was, I imagined, as if Peapod and I were invisible. It must have been the gallon gas can in my
hand! I’d had to dock alone, completely ignored by the bored dock boy. No one came to take my
lines, no smiles of hello, nothing. Just ignored.
I mused: I supposed small boat folks are seen as poor tippers. Little did he know, I thought.
Never judge a giving heart by the size of the boat! The facts are those with the least give the
most. For all he knows, I groused, Peapod could have come from the insides of a larger boat!
Oh, well, it’s not about prestige. It’s all about sailing. I got my gallon of gas and chastised myself for
the pity wallow and nasty thoughts. The truth was, and still is, that Killarney is one friendly little town.
What had happened was that I was treated like a local in a boat smaller than the average runabout
and was viewed as a regular capable of taking care of myself. So much for self pity.
I meandered on north and west, leaving the cut between George Island and the Killarney Bay
mainland. The wind was variable and strong once again when the seas opened up to let in the stiff
wind off Lake Huron. Down the bay and nearby were nine boats in full sail skimming over the blue
water. It was a beautiful sight, white sails, white quartz mountains in the background, green fir trees,
flashy white wavelets and the intense twins of sapphire blue sky and cerulean water.
Peapod reached along on a romp as she caught the breezes. Ever an active boat, she was a lively
and a squirrelly boat that day. At 475 pounds empty, she moved under foot and it was certainly a
balancing act to be aboard. At least the waves were not as big as they had been when coming into
Killarney. With her sails full, she stiffened up and behaved like a well trained thoroughbred. Actually,
more like a well trained duck! Bouncing over the wavelets, charging along, the sailing was full of
spirited movement, exhilarating and fun.
All too soon, Badgley Island sheltered the Landsdown Channel and the wind swung more aft as it
found the way. Loaded with all the gear for a summer, plus my not too thin body, Peapod settled into
security and hit her stride with the wind abaft of beam. She sailed her lines and made me smile until
my cheeks hurt. I loved that little boat like a good friend. She was my summer cottage, my vehicle, my
hard-shell pup tent. She was a fiberglass duck! The sheer line brought smiles and shaped her bow
into a fine wave thrower, keeping me dry. Every nuance of wind and wave is felt directly on a boat
like that. She communicated so much that the intimacy of pilot, boat, wind, water, is refined into
sensations blended together unlike any other sailing I had done.
In the distance, there were two larger trailerable boats. As I got closer, I could see they were set up
for a tow. Both of the sailboats appeared to be in the 20 to 24 ft. size range. They made for Snug
Harbor, my destination for the day. I followed along behind, keeping well back so I wouldn’t interfere
with whatever they had in mind.
I hadn’t been into the protected anchorage in several years and wondered what I would find. Various
publications and people I had referred to said the anchorage was deep and stony. I like to go ashore
and hoped I’d find a little beach.
The boat that had been towed in was soon swinging gently at anchor. I motored slowly near the 22
foot Catalina and a head popped out of the companionway. In short order I had met Nell, another
woman solo sailor, my first in the four years I’d owned and sailed Peapod. Nell appeared to be
somewhere near my age. I moved nearer the shore and dropped the anchor. The boats swung to the
gentled wind and we talked a bit across the water.
Nell was widowed and, since she loved to sail, she found a good used boat and sailed. She was
originally from Holland and had emigrated to Canada years ago.
Somewhat older than me, she was finding out that she didn’t know enough about outboard motors.
Hers had quit and wouldn’t start, therefore the tow. Her son was to rendezvous with her after he got
off from work and would be along in a few hours. His boat was bigger, she said, and more of a racing
type boat. They planned to have dinner. Nell was to do the cooking. She asked me over for tea.
I put my things in order, secured and covered the sails and swam over to her boat with my towel and
a shirt in a dry bag. When I got to her boat she prepared the tea stuff. We talked about her motor, an
older Johnson brand. I offered to take a look at it. She was having problems with the gear shift and I
focused on that. With the cowl off the motor it was soon apparent that the gear shift cable had slipped
from its setting and the whole assembly was misaligned. That was soon put to the correct and
tightened position. Next came the focus on the motor starting problems. It wouldn’t have started in
forward but would, or should have, in neutral.
Now, you must understand that I only know that outboards need three things: fuel, air and ignition. I’d
kept an old tractor style lawnmower and snow blower running so I figured I wouldn’t be doing any
harm by checking these three things on Nell’s motor. I asked about fuel first. Nell said she had lots of
fuel so I tried to see what might be stopping fuel. With some poking around there appeared to be
good connections to the carburetor. I pulled out the sparkplug and it actually looked as if the motor
had hardly been run. So, what was the problem? I poked around and came up with no solution.
At Nell’s suggestion, we began to focus on the tea. She put water in the kettle and started to deal
with the propane camping stove set on the counter. I settled onto the wee table bench. The radio
broke into our conversation and let Nell know her son was on his way. Musing on that and wondering
some more about the motor problem, I waited for my tea. We didn’t get the motor going but we did get
the throttle fixed.
The next thing I knew, Nell was screaming about FIRE and moving away from the stove. I immediately
saw large flames coming from the end of the stove nearest the one pound propane fuel canister. She
was hollering and I got up, moved her sideways, picked up the stove and threw it overboard.
The stove spun around wildly on the water, spitting fuel and flame, hissing like a giant snake. I said to
Nell that I’d go get it when it quit burning and had cooled off a bit. The tea kettle was on the counter.
How it got there I have no idea. It wasn’t long before I dove over the side and swam to the still floating
stove. It was cooled. I towed it over to Nell’s boat. I was able to stand on the boarding ladder and
hand it up to her where she drained it. When I got back into the cockpit, we could see a cracked
fitting where the fuel line joined the stove. It was a part easily replaced.
Shortly after that, her son motored into the anchorage and found a spot to drop his anchor.
We all had a nice dinner Nell had cooked aboard her son’s boat. We were able to go to his boat in
his dinghy.
After dinner, we all went over to the Catalina. Her son tried to start the motor. He then dug down into
a cockpit locker and changed the gas tank. He started the motor.
She had been trying to run on an empty tank! She did have plenty of gas but it wasn’t in the tank the
motor had been hooked up to. The throttle worked just fine. I was disgusted with myself that I hadn’t
checked the gas tank and hose hook-up. The propane stove was repairable. No one was burned or
injured. We were fat and sassy after the good dinner, and I had made some new friends. It was a
Snug Harbor after all.
Anne Westlund
westlund@lighthouse.net