Extra-Step Island
Everything went smoothly until 7 a.m. It was a great day on the Northumberland Strait.
It’s already full light when the alarm goes off at 5:45 on Saturday morning. I didn’t sleep well and the bleary-eyed wakeup reminds me again that we’re on Atlantic time, two hours ahead of Minnesota. My internal clock is still adjusting.
An hour later, we’re pulling into Caribou Wharf to load up my mother-in-law’s boat, which will carry us across the Northumberland Strait to Hayley’s family cottage on Pictou Island. We’d decided that our currently-lame black lab, Duke, could make the trip. Hayley’s mother, Margo, is already there with her two border collies. I think about spending the afternoon on the beach.
We’re meeting Eddie Lyons and Steve Hansford at the wharf. Eddie is the hired captain who runs my late father-in-law’s lobster gear. He’s a step ahead of everything in the fishing boat and is among the fastest lobster banders on the Strait. Eddie possesses a winning combination of traits: he is both relentlessly positive and can fix just about anything. Outside of fishing season, he works at the shipyard in town with Steve, a millwright who specializes in heavy engines. They’re going over to replace the oil pan on the old island pickup truck. After talking with Steve for about 10 minutes, it’s clear to me that he’s cut from the same rare cloth as Eddie.
As it turns out, those skills are going to come in handy today.
Because it’s Pictou Island and every project seems to include several unplanned steps, this will be their second trip over to work on the truck. The first time, the wrong oil pan had been shipped in. They ordered another. More time for shipping, more calendars to align, a work week to complete, then another eight-mile round trip across the North Atlantic.
Of course, the pickup is an old Toyota that requires the front differentials to be removed before the oil pan can be replaced. With a different truck on the mainland, this would be a 30-minute job.
That’s not how Pictou Island works.
The first deviation from our plan occurs promptly at 7 a.m. when the boat’s motor won’t start. I’d been back and forth to Pictou Island on Thursday and fired up the engine Friday with no issues. I blame our early departure time and speculate that the solar charger hasn’t had time to overcome the overnight drain by the electronics. Eddie listens politely but looks skeptical. He says it’s no problem at all, really. We’ll just jump the battery and let it charge while we sail across the Strait.
Of course, we don’t have cables. Eddie drives into town to grab them along with a battery charger and extension cord. Hayley wrangles a whining Duke on the floating dock across the wharf, where she’s waiting with our bags and cooler.
Steve and I are down in the cabin berth hooking everything up—let’s be honest, he’s doing the work while I try to understand what’s going on—when we hear a clatter and a splash. I race out of the cabin to see the top of Eddie’s head peeking over the gunwale between the boat and the wharf. He’s soaked to the belly button, clinging to a buoy rope he managed to snag to avoid a complete dunking. I push the boat away from the concrete wall so he doesn’t get crushed as he clambers to the top of the wharf.
“Do you want to run home quick to—”
Eddie disappears before I can get the sentence out. I hear a car door open and shut, a trunk slam.
“All good, buddy.” Eddie squishes down the ladder in his wet boots and jumps on deck. He’s wearing dry blue workman’s overalls with yellow reflector bands around the waist.
“I never did fall in at the wharf before, but at least the water’s warm,” he grins.
With an assist from the battery charger, the motor turns right over. Eddie fires up a cigarette and takes the helm. Good weather makes for an easy sail aboard the mini Cape Islander that’s named in memory of Hayley’s father.
Mid-morning, I take the four-wheeler over to drop off water for the guys. They’re working in a garage that belongs to a Pictou Island year-rounder who’s been friends with Steve since their schoolboy days on the mainland. Relationships, I’m learning, are the currency of the realm on Pictou Island. Well, that and cash. And a lot of bartering, but then again you need relationships to know who’s got what you’re looking for or knows where to find it. I hang out in the garage for awhile, absorbing what I can, trying to sound at least somewhat knowledgable when I ask questions, and mostly just staying out of the way.
It’s always a delight to watch talented professionals ply their craft. Eddie and Steve work in a natural, easy cadence. With two top-notch mechanics paired up on the project, there’s little need for discussion. The only sounds are the rapid staccato of ratchets and the occasional request for a different tool. They communicate in a verbal shorthand that’s foreign to me. The nearby workstation is simple but immaculate, a plywood board laid over a folding table to protect its surface, each tool set carefully in its place.
It’s 10:55 a.m. The Toyota is still up on jacks with no front differentials or wheels.
They’ll be done by noon, easy, Steve says.
I raise an eyebrow. Neither of them notices.
I tell them to come to the cottage for burgers when they finish. Grilling is one thing I can handle.
I hope it’s clear by now that I’m not very good with a wrench. To be fair, I come by this mechanical disinclination naturally.
Back in college, I used one spring break to earn a few bucks by painting the interior of my parents’ old flower shop. I was paired with Uncle Jim, my dad’s younger brother and the one who inherited the family’s handyman gene. He isn’t really a talker, so there wasn’t much to do that week but roll paint and listen to the radio. After a couple days, Jim finally loosened up and told a few stories.
“Your dad isn’t much with a screwdriver, but he knows people,” he concluded a rambling anecdote. “He’s a smart m*****f*****.”
Phrasing aside, I felt a sense of profound kinship with my father just then, because I knew I shared the first trait and hoped I’d share the others. I made a mental note that I’ve referenced many times since: if you can’t fix things on your own, it sure helps to get along with people and be clever enough to ask good questions.
Genetic aptitude for mechanics notwithstanding, I am willing to learn. If I’m going to make it on the north shore of Nova Scotia among the fishing community and Pictou Islanders, I’m going to have to.
Back at the cottage, I watch Ship Hector’s Big Splash via livestream with Hayley and Margo. Pictou is known as “The Birthplace of New Scotland” and the launch of the replica ship Hector commemorates the arrival of Gaelic-speaking Scottish settlers in 1773 after a harrowing 11-week Atlantic crossing. Thousands of people are in downtown Pictou to experience the event. I’m happy to be halfway across the Strait, watching from the quiet and relative calm of Pictou Island.
Eddie and Steve land at the cottage around 12:30 for lunch. They have some bad news. Once they reassembled the truck, they realized the brake line is leaking and needs to be replaced. Eddie will order the part. This is how it goes on Pictou Island. Margo thanks them for helping out.
“It’s just nuts and bolts,” Steve says. “Take them apart and put them back together.”
Margo and I exchange a glance. We share a deep appreciation for those who can make machines work. I suspect that deep down, we both believe there’s some magic involved.
Eddie, Steve, and I head back to the island wharf and ready the boat for the trip to the mainland. No one’s surprised when the engine doesn’t start. Despite my earlier optimism about the solar charger, it’s clear that the battery is toast. We try to jump it with the Toyota, but that battery’s shot too. Eventually, we go back to the cottage and haul down a generator. Why not just plug in the charger at the wharf? There are no outlets because Pictou Island is off the grid. Remember, everything takes extra steps.
“After you hook up the new battery later, all you gotta do is make sure the key is turned and cross these posts,” Eddie tells me.
This sounds simple but is not—at least for me. I’ll be on my own this afternoon for the journey from the mainland back to Pictou Island. “Crossing the posts” means finding two screws in a tangle of wires and tubes and arcing them with a rusty pliers to essentially hot-wire the engine, and that’s if I manage to get the new battery installed correctly. Next week, we’ll get a new solenoid and be able to use the key as usual. The learning curve today is shaping up to be much steeper than I’d hoped.
Eddie crouches at the back of the boat with the engine cover off. Up on the wharf, I start the generator. Steve hooks the charger directly to the motor and pushes the boost button. I have a vision of old ER episodes where a doctor yells “Clear!” and everyone steps back to let the defibrillator do its job. I’m pleasantly surprised when it works. I take the wheel, clear the wharf, and swing the nose to 245° for the sail back to Caribou.
When we arrive, Eddie realizes his car keys are missing. We suspect they’re a victim of his unexpected swim this morning.
The plan is for the three of us to part ways at the wharf. I’d run into town and buy new batteries for the boat and Toyota before sailing back to Pictou Island. Eddie and Steve would start their overdue weekend.
I’m pretty sure Steve is lying when he says he also needs to stop at Shiretown Home & Auto and suggests we go together. I follow them downtown. Half an hour later, confident I have the right batteries because Eddie picked them out, I shake their hands in the parking lot and make my way back to Caribou alone.
Down in the cabin with my fancy new marine battery with dual posts on each terminal, I study the series of “before” pictures I’d snapped on my phone. I blame my sweat on the still, humid air in the berth, but I’d be lying if I said that nerves weren’t playing a role. I recite Steve’s instructions like a mantra as I untangle and hook up various wires. It’s a relief when the instrument panel in the cockpit lights up.
The only thing left to do is hot-wire the engine and sail back to Pictou Island for supper. I stall for a few minutes by pouring a can of gas into the tank.
Okay, I think, here we go.
In the cabin, the key is turned to “run.” Clutching the pliers in my slippery left hand, I survey the alien landscape of the motor. I put on my sunglasses and pull down the brim of my hat. If there’s an explosion, I want either a small scar or a no-doubter that they’ll talk about for years at the wharf.
I reach out with the pliers and graze the tip across two screws. There’s a cough and a series of rapid clicks. I jerk the tool way.
Wait, this is a blown fuse! Eddie told me he did the same thing a few weeks ago. I race to the cabin and grab a fresh fuse, pop off the cover and pull out a fried one—just as I suspected!—and snap the replacement in its place.
I pause, not sure if I should feel proud or suspicious. Something went right? Sort of. I may have blown the fuse, but at least I was able to figure out what happened.
I kneel to double-check the posts and realize I’d aimed too high on the first attempt. With a steady hand this time, I push the bottom teeth of the pliers against a screw, line up the other jaw, close my eyes, and squeeze.
The engine fires up and settles into a smooth purr as I fall back on the floor of the boat in a fit of nervous laughter.
After wrestling the awkward engine cover into place, I loosen the lines and make my way out of the channel and onto the Northumberland Strait. It is perhaps the happiest boat ride of my life.
Hayley’s waiting to help me tie up on Pictou Island. Once the boat is secure and the motor finally at rest, I climb the ladder to the wharf and give her a long hug. It’s 5 p.m. So much for an afternoon at the beach.
The day is far from over, but that’s a story for another time.
The next morning, Eddie texts me that he got his car keys out of the water and somehow they still work.
It’s all going to turn out alright. Sometimes it just takes a few extra steps to get there.
I was hoping to get to Pictou Island for the first time ever this summer after finding out cousin Chuck McLean has a place there, as well as Pictou friends Brenda Langille and Robbie Marks. The travels of his 'playmate' need some chronicling if you're game for some content of this nature, however, and as you are hopefully finding out...there's lots of content in Pictou County. 🙂
I can hear that laughter of yours! You are learning, young grasshopper.