Towards the end of last year an overwhelmingly heady smell of fuel lured me to the Engine Room.
I stand and listen to a drip of metronomic regularity, each drop amplified by the acoustics of the metal room.
In films, the sound of a dripping tap is the sound of foreboding. Our hero/ine will witlessly ignore the soundtrack and follow this sound into dark places, usually torch-less. If they have one, the batteries will fail within seconds. I do not pay attention to the soundtrack either but have come prepared, with torch and, now, cinematic horrors playing through my mind, for the gruesome find.
I trace the source of the drip to one of the oil tanks and shine my light. It is as I anticipated.
My most immediate thought is, "Where is the body?" The plural of body. Because a massacre could be the only explanation for all the blood.
I ring Mike (of the beautiful Amiens).
I did not know oil could be red. I now understand that it is to do with tax and so forth but then... Mike explained this and, critically, reassured that it was not flammable - combustible but not inflammable. You can float a wick on it and not explode, he said. I will manage with a torch for the moment.
As he promised, Mike comes the next morning.
A cracked spigot is the culprit. It will need to be replaced or possibly soldered. In the meantime, he suggests, hang a bucket under the floor, beneath the pipe, to catch the oil.
For several weeks I religiously step into the bilge, sit on a strut and, nose inches from the water, decant the scarlet liquid using an array of pots, funnels and strainers. Litres of the precious substance are saved!
Then, one day, after a bout of relentless rain, I find the bucket on its side, pressed against the bottom of the tank by the water whose level has risen considerably, any oil having long since slid into the murky depths. My fingers scrabbled to undo the bucket, fumbled and, in the blink of an eye it too floated away, out of reach in the murky depths.
The roofs on Davenham are the leaky problem (thank goodness) - the wheelhouse, the skylights... The Engine Room roof has as many perforations as a tea bag. When it rains the weather is just as much indoors as it is outside. The engine is wrapped in a tarpaulin but tears of rust stain the bulkheads, floors are slippery; it is chill and wet. Nothing ever properly dries out.
There is now, I estimate, at least a thousand gallons of rainwater and deisel in the bilge although volume is not my strong point and most of it is invisible. The felt pen marks on the 300 gallon tank are not much of a guide as I don't know how much was in there prior to the leak. I dip a stick a depressing twelve inches or so before it touches the hull.
Davenham does have her own bilge pumps but as yet they are not active so, some time ago, Best of Brothers Mark had advised on an electric sump pump. He pointed out that this particular model might not be able to cope with the rather industrial job I intended it for but I purchased it anyway as there will be many years and many qualities of waters to be pumped.
The instructions, when I eventually unpacked it were explicit: not for use with dirty water.
Mike was consulted. He recommended a hand pump and sweetly searched the Interweb for something suitable. A few metres of hose, a filter box, and three jubilee clips later I was rigging up my system.
Yes, I know. I should have positioned the plank east-west to be able to place my feet squarely and was cross with myself when I realised. I still may although I was too cross to unscrew and reposition it then. I was even crosser after an hour pumping noisy air into the water and extracting nothing at the other end.
Idiot.
Idiocy notwithstanding, I am delighted with my little pump which gushes out one bucket's worth of water every twenty-five draw-and-pushes.
My plan (under Mike's guidance again), in order to salvage the oil from the water, was to siphon it into large containers, leave it to settle and separate for a couple of hours and scoop the oil off the surface.
Not even a half a teaspoon's-worth.
I continued bailing with pump and buckets and, after several hours, numerous trips to the sewage hole and absolutely no discernible difference to the water level, I was shattered.
And then, a deluge. The Pluvials. Probably more buckets fell than had gone down the drain. My Sisyphean efforts had been in vain.
The roof had to be dealt with.
And this was the beginning of a long chain of what must be dealt with before the next thing can be dealt with; now that the Engine Room roof is pond-lined and the Engine Room is drier, the bilges can be emptied. I have consulted with BOB and Christine (all -round go-to woman for anything scientific or technical): oil will adhere to the hull if it emptied of the water. She says it might be better to fill up the bilges (!!!) - it will have coagulated somewhere and "the only solution is to get in there with a cup on the end of a stick and skim it off - its laborious but we've all done it!"
I am aghast that in the 21st century a machine (and if there was one out there BOB would know of it) does not exist that can siphon the oil from the surface. He suggests a total pump-out then jet wash and refill and pump-out and jet wash and, and, and.......
Davenham's oil leak is insignificant but throughout the difficulties of cleaning up a tiny quantity in a contained space, I have reflected on those massive spills at sea and watching it on the television thinking, "Why don't they just...."
So, when the bilges have been emptied, the spigot can be repaired, the boiler can be connected to the oil tank, the plumbing can proceed, the.........
Guess what I will be doing during the summer holiday.
