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Shoal Bay Yacht Club Newsletter
I spent the most part of yesterday working on the old back-up generator. It has not been running for about a year, or since I bought the expensive new one. (The one that is currently a blob of melted metal and plastic on the shop floor.) There was a stage in my life, when I spent most of my time running around L.A., Paris, or London, wearing Italian-made suits and driving a German-made sports car, when I would kind of look down on a mechanic. A nice guy, who due to no fault of his own, just knew that he was somehow poorly equipped to compete intellectually at the higher levels. Destined to spend his life covered in grease, performing a needed and appreciated service for those of us who were. This train of thought kept rolling through my brain like the Orient Express as I tried to fix that generator. I was absolutely covered in grease from head to toe (cold and soaking wet as well). I had parts strewn all over the floor of the shop, far more than I had any idea what to do with. There were wires, bolts, pins, gaskets, bearings, and seals...and not the kind with flippers. I was lost, beaten, and miserable. I have never really enjoyed working with engines. I am quite happy with a hammer and nail, but not at all so with wrenches and oil-can. I say that as if I had spent a large part of my youth experimenting with such things. I did not. I did successfully change the starter on the ol' 66 pickup on the farm when I was about 14 or 15. What I remember about that was not enjoying the act, but enjoying the feeling of victory when the ol' boy started right up when the job was done. I have never had the chance in all of my mechanical endeavours since, to savour that same taste of victory. In spite of countless bloody knuckles, unknown amounts of ruined clothing, and all of that disgusting dirty grease everywhere, not one engine since has been grateful enough to fire up and grace me with even the smallest feeling of accomplishment after hours of filthy dirty hard work. I now hold all mechanics in the highest regard possible. And in a complete reversal of opinion from when I was a Porsche owner, they are massively underpaid.
So the other night, I am getting ready to make myself a little dinner. Haven't seen another human being for a few days. Got my pj's on, poured a glass of wine and fired up the bbq. Absolute serenity and solitude. As I am laying the t-bone on the hot grill, while simultaneously having a sip of my comes-in-a-box red, I lose my balance, and with a windmill like motion of the arms, I fall off of the back deck. I always find it somehow funny how your mind can process an entire range of thoughts in a very small amount of time. During the fall itself, I thought at first, "this might hurt a bit." Within a millisecond I was wondering if the bbq just might come down behind me, increasing substantially the chances of pain. By the time my ass hit the mud, the only thought on my mind was "thank f%#king god there isn't anybody around here to witness this one." By the time I had surmised that survival was imminent, that my ass was getting wet, and where the hell did that glass of wine end up?...I heard this voice query "Are you all right?" There, standing on my walkway, unsuccessfully trying to maintain a straight face, was some guy in uniform, with a badge. Turns out the Dept. of Fisheries and Oceans enforcement officer chooses this exact moment to stop in and introduce himself. When he left a short while later ya gotta know what was going through this guy's mind. Never miss out on an opportunity to make a good impression I always say.