La Bomba

Para bailar la bomba, se necesita una poca de gracia.

To dance the diesel engine water pump dance, you need a smidgen of grace. Because the mechanic everyone recommends does not respond to text, phone, email, or WhatsApp. But you have marina angels on your side, and hard-won patience. You finally garner an appointment, to which he is an hour late. The sun is setting. He expects you to dinghy him to Habibi, but you have water taxied in, so he finds a skiff.

Alas. There is cream instead of oil in the engine. The failing water pump has injected seawater where no seawater should be. The oil and filter must be changed, the water pump reconstructed. “Mañana,” he says, “a las 11,” which is Spanish for five days from now. Radio silence ensues.

On Day 3 you try a cheery WhatsApp message, “Will you return this week?” No response. On Day 4, Hunger, Thirst, and Irritation row you to the marina. Hark! He’s working on a monster motor vessel near the dinghy dock. You repeat the question, and he says, “Yes.” You play the pity card while you’re face to face: you need to fill Habibi’s water tanks, but can’t because… no motor; you are injured, which makes lugging water back to the boat with the (motor-less) dinghy difficult. Mañana, he says. At 10.

Hah, you think, trying trying not to expect him the next morning. But just before noon you hear a dinghy motor in the distance, growing louder! Where are your glasses? You look astern. “¡Buenos dias!” you exclaim, and indeed, it is a good day. Look at that pump — la bomba — so clean and shiny in his hand!

While waiting for his assistant to return, you receive a master class in diesel mechanics. He explains the function of every hose, lever, filter, and cylinder. In Spanish.

The assistant arrives with more equipment, and a few hours later, after several tense moments — will it be fixed today? — the maestro asks you to start the engine. The pump is installed, oil and filter changed. “Both red keys to the right,” you tell his assistant as you turn the dial to START.

And she does. Start. He gestures for you to look at the pump. “¡No hay fuga!” you say. No leak! He shows you how to check the oil cap and dipstick, and instructs you to do so every day for the next week after running the engine. You must look for white cream again, something you DO NOT WANT.

The motor is loud, hasn’t been run for three weeks, but does not misfire. You point out a little bit of white smoke, but he says this is fine.

“Mañana, mañana,” sings his assistant as you uncleat the line holding their boat to Habibi. No! you think, please. I love you guys, and I hope to never need you again.

Para bailar la bomba, se necesita una poca de gracia. And 360 U.S. dollars. Soy Capitán, soy Capitán.