Engine Maintenance

 March 25

As everyone (probably) knows, Ayelet and I have been sailing for three and a half years now in “the big league” — ocean crossings, distant (very distant) destinations. Sometimes people ask me if I’m not afraid. And the answer is: yes, absolutely! But not of what everyone imagines — big storms, giant waves, and so on. Well, those too, but I try, and so far manage, not to meet ones that are too scary. 

What I’m really afraid of, though, is the boat, “Ester”. What could be scary about a boat, you may ask? The answer is malfunctions. And unfortunately, there are plenty of those. That’s how it is — a boat has so many parts, all exposed to a marine environment full of salt, intense radiation, and winds pressing from all directions, stretching ropes and cables under crazy tension.

The problem is that I’m supposed to take care of all these parts so that they don’t get damaged — and when they do (which happens all the time) — to fix, repair, and refurbish them. And every time something happens, a few questions arise right away: first — how badly does it stop us? Can we keep going and reach safe harbor? Second — do I even have a clue what happened and how I’m supposed to fix it? And finally, a small secondary question: how much will it cost? But that one doesn’t stress me too much, because I already know the answer — a lot!

Today I did an engine service. I’ve done dozens of these before, but still, it’s an emotionally complex process, which I’ll try to describe.

It starts with postponing it as much as possible, with the excuse that it’s better to do it somewhere where there’ll be someone to rescue me if something goes wrong. What finally pushes me to do it is my super‑ego — Yaakov. Yaakov is a wonderful mechanic and an even more wonderful person who used to maintain the first “Esther,” and by accompanying him on all those services, I learned how to do engine maintenance — and much more. So when I see that 150 hours have passed since the last service, I immediately think of Yaakov and try to remember whether he said to do it every 100 or every 200 hours.

In the end, there’s no choice — I get organized and start the job. Step one: drain the engine oil, replace the oil filter, and refill. Again, I remember Yaakov — arriving in neat office clothes after a day at work and performing this filthy job without getting a single stain. I try my best to imitate the process as I remember it — plastic bags, paper towels, and so on — but despite his spirit hovering above me through it all, clean it is not.

Okay, oil clearly needs changing, and so does the primary fuel filter, which goes pretty smoothly. But then comes a tough inner debate about the other parts — like the fine fuel filter. I immediately recall Scott, the previous owner of the boat — an authority in my eyes — who said he never replaced that filter. On the other hand, in my notes from the last service, I wrote to myself that it’s important to change it because it gets very dirty.

Here I must explain the dilemma — and it’s a key point. The guiding principle is the phrase “If it works, don’t fix it.” The deep truth behind it: any job on a boat, no matter how simple, will get complicated. That’s just how it is. A law of nature. Udi’s first law.

So should I remove and replace the fine fuel filter or not? On one side, there’s the fear of disassembling and getting into trouble. On the other, the fear of not disassembling — and getting into even worse trouble. Here enters another voice, with an interesting psychological complexity. The “super‑ego” — that inner voice that tells us how we should behave — usually originates from our authoritative father, or at least from someone like Yaakov, with his professional authority. But here I discover something new in psychology: my son Tomer joins the choir of super‑ego voices in my head. Tomer, besides being my son, is a certified submarine mechanic and the coolest sailor in the world, never stressed about anything. So his voice is there too. Well, not exactly a “voice” — just his image, calmly doing it without hesitation. He doesn’t tell me what to do, doesn’t criticize my doubts — he just does it. Effortlessly.

St. Tomer in action 

So in the end, I removed the filter (which was indeed filthy), and everything went smoothly.

Then came disassembling the water pump for inspection and/or replacement of the rubber impeller inside it. The first step is to detach it from the belt that drives it. There’s the “proper” way, which involves removing screws that are hard to reach and then reinstalling them while tightening the belt — not easy at all. But, to the best of my memory, that’s how Yaakov would do it.

Now another figure joins the party in my head — Mario! Mario is a cheerful Italian who runs the boatyard in Arbatax, Sardinia, where “Ester” wintered two or three times. He showed me an easier, more convenient method. But he’s an upbeat Italian — can you really trust that? After all, the Italians built the FIAT car factory — “Fix It Again, Tony.” How am I supposed to choose between the two approaches?

Well, no choice again — I’ll have to use my judgment. Ouch! A sore subject — my judgment. New voices join the choir: first (finally!) my own voice, telling me I don’t trust my judgment. The second — that of my beloved partner, Ayelet — who often says (or hints) that I’m lazy and sloppy, and if there’s a harder way to do something, that’s probably the right one! Her voice rings in my head, and I get annoyed that she thinks that of me — and even more annoyed because I think she’s right (that I am lazy and sloppy).

So what do we have so far? The list of participants in this engine service: Yaakov, Scott, Tomer, Mario, my judgment, and Ayelet.

There are a few more I haven’t mentioned, hovering in the background: Hans, the German we met a few days ago, who has been sailing for 28 years with his wife, Eva. Their boat is older than ours but looks like a pharmacy, with a workshop where every tool is perfectly arranged. I think of him and feel bad for myself as I rummage through my messy pile of tools for pliers and wrenches.

And wandering in my mind too is the generic, over‑confident Israeli sailor who’s been fixing tractors since age five, speaks fast and loud in a deep voice, and is sure he knows everything, quickly and easily. At least he’s easier to deal with — Ayelet can’t stand him.

You might think it’s nice to recall and “discuss” things with so many people I actually like — but for me, the combination of fear of the next technical disaster waiting to ambush me, together with these intense inner conflicts involving all my dear ones — it’s not easy!