Sailing Faith: The Long Way Home

Emily fixing a hatch on Faith

My grandpa could fix things. Oh, he was a little rough around the edges when it came to the craft, to the getting all of the little finesse-type details handled to make something feel like new again. But when it came to utility, to getting whatever it was that he was working on at any given moment to provide the function that it was supposed to provide, grandpa could squeeze it out of it.

Grandpa's next door neighbor could too, and so could the guy three doors down. The guy two doors away from grandpa was the banker, and he was lucky to get his shoes tied every morning until they came up with loafers, but it wasn't a problem, because he could hire any of a number of guys to fix things that he couldn't.

Puttering was an active verb, and a man could find a few minutes' solace as close as his garage. Garages are not made to hold workbenches anymore, but to hold stuff. If any part of that stuff breaks, it casts an air of almost depression-era gloom to think fixing it is an option in our throw-away world. But the throw-away world we know is only a small part of the planet we call home, and living on a sailboat for 4-1/2 years taught us that grandpa's world continues to thrive in most places.

The sailing vessel Faith takes her share of attention, and since I possess some of grandpa's puttering genes, it falls on me to give her that attention, or to at least find someone who can when the task at hand requires a way of thinking that I haven't got.

We increasingly rely on our water maker as we move west across the Pacific, but it's showing signs of fatigue. I have to thunk the casing of the motor every now and then to get it going. While running it one night, I smell the sweet, sticky smell of something electrical getting hot. I turn it off to let it cool down for a couple of hours, and then try again. I look at the casing and see blue flames dancing inside the vent holes. I know it's cooked.

The Galapagos Islands don't breed high expectations for getting things done, and Isabela is on the other-world side of the Galapagos. We need our water maker, so I ask if somebody here can fix it.

We stop at the guy's house who nobody in the States wants for a neighbor. Luis's parts inventory is prominently displayed in his yard: televisions, refrigerators, cook tops, and ovens, all at least three generations removed from today's models. We show him Faith's water maker motor, and he says to leave it with him, and check on our way back from picking oranges.

Picking oranges is our chore for today, and returning to the harbor, we check on the water maker motor. Luis tells me that a diode burned up and that the motor's winding needs re-winding. The diode is easy, but the copper wire to fix the motor isn't on Isabela. If it's available on Santa Cruz, he'll finish Tuesday. If it has to come from the mainland, it will be Thursday. I ask how much it's going to cost and he says US$200.00. A new motor would cost more than double that, plus shipping. I'm sure in the United States it's easier to throw away a perfectly good motor that needs fixing and get a new one. Nobody fixes stuff in the United States, where parts-changers masquerade as craftsmen, and the economy is built on the speed products move from the customs house to the landfill. Here, and in a lot of the world, things are different.

I go to the jetty on Tuesday to check on the motor. Luis is there waiting and helps load the motor into the dinghy. Then, he puts his tools in. I ask what he's doing and he says he wants to go with me to install it, just to be sure it's ok. He also wants to be sure our generator's output is correct, so it won't happen again. We install it, he checks it, I pay him, and we complete our circumnavigation with his fix.

I'm convinced our own world would be better if we all had Luis, or grandpa, as a neighbor.