“A diesel loves it’s oil like a sailor loves his rum”

-Captain Ron

I never change the oil in my cars engine. I hate to get my hands dirty anymore with such nasty terrestrial work, instead letting the friendly mechanic at the local Wal-Mart handle that job. 20W40 please......and check the windshield washer fluid too.... 

Olivia’s 30 horse Westerbeke diesel is a different matter though. Such an important matter must not be left to mere mortals.

I changed the oil in Olivia’s iron heart last week. You know the drill…..every hundred hours or annually, whichever comes first. I keep a pretty good logbook on the thing, so I knew that I wasn’t too close to the hundred hour mark, but it’s been about a year soooooo…..

It’s not a job I enjoy.

I hadn’t really intended to change the oil Sunday, I figured I’d just hang out with the commander and watch him do some work on Renaissance, maybe add a little running commentary, but once I got down to ‘Div and called, he must’ve been outside, never answered the phone,  and so in a moment of weakness, I drug out the tools, the pump and an old gallon oil container and got after business.

For some reason, the plastic hoses on the intake and outlet of the hand oil pump had gotten squashed in the lazerette where the wretched thing had reposed for the past year, all but gratefully forgotten. I tried to push them back into shape without success. The hell with it. I started pumping away anyhow, and eventually a little of the nasty black sump oil snaked it’s way up into the clear hose before the thing gave up and collapsed entirely, without even depositing a drop into the container.

Hurriedly reaching into the tool bag while I balanced the pump on my lap, I found a pair of aviation snips and cut the hoses off, discarded the offending pieces into a plastic bag mashing the whole mess in the trashcan before pushing the hoses back on the pump. But not before a thin stream of oil drooled down the side of the container and onto the cabin sole. No problem,  I skillfully grabbed a roll of paper towels to clean up the drops and went back to the task at hand.

I’m pumping away merrily, the container filling nicely, when I look over at the cushion on the aft dinette seat, and notice that it now has an ugly black blotch on the side. How could this have happened?

Now I’m beginning to get perturbed.

I had taken a full ten minutes beforehand to lay things out, get them organized before proceeding ahead. I know that it’s best to do this, especially working on a mechanical being in the same space where you gotta live. I go forward and retrieve the bottle of “simple green”, slathering on a liberal amount and scrubbing it with a brush and chamois…Well no matter anyhow, I can just turn the thing outboard and nobody will ever know.

Turning my attention back to the task at hand, I am horrified to see that the pump discharge hose, now modified and considerably shorter has come out of the container, and there is now a pool of filthy black motor oil on the cabin sole, slowly running towards the bilge like the hideous blob towards a sewer. My Tourettes syndrome kicks in and I begin to mutter the first pensive curses at the oil, the pump and my own carelessness as I grab the roll of paper towels, and rip off a huge handful, sopping up the puddle just in time. I clean up my hands and arms, now black up to the elbows, followed by a few more exploratory curses for good measure.

Satisfied that I have gotten all of the old oil out of the sump, I turn my attention to the filter, which is on the starboard side of the engine. It is designed so that removal will make the biggest mess possible, attached to the bayonet horizontally so that all of the oil will spill out upon removal, and about half the new oil on reinstallation of the replacement filter. Besides this, the access is through a fourteen inch by ten inch locker cover, with just enough room to get one arm in. And owing to the fact that I’m left handed, the logistics of performing this operation are especially torturous.

Muffled, heartfelt curses from the starboard quarterberth where I lay writhing and twisting, trying to situate myself for the next chore.

Stuffing an oil-sorb pad along the engine block, I snake my left hand, holding the filter wrench down through the locker, and immediately tear two, inch and a half gashes deep into my forearm. I am now soaked with sweat in the eighty five degree afternoon, deep in the bowels of Olivia. I am sweating and bleeding, blood mixing with oil, oily from fingertip to shoulder. Each new movement is accompanied by vigorous, creative curses.

Removing the filter, I turn it up on it’s back, put it into another plastic trash bag, and throw the whole thing in the trash bucket, now overflowing with black, oily paper towels. I manage to strafe bulkheads, cushions and cabin sole with a mixture of oil, sweat and blood.

It's a good thing I am a professional.

Finally reinstalling the new filter, I fill the block till the dipstick reads the correct amount, start the engine, and let it warm up, before shutting down and checking it again for proper level. The next twenty minutes are dedicated to cleaning up the war zone left behind. I check the zinc and a few other engine things before buttoning up and going topside to dispose of the trash.

Back at ‘Div the commander shows up and we go to Shitterballs for the weekly ninety-nine cent margaritas. Only today I think I’ll have Bloody Mary’s.

I gotta try and replace a little of my own blood loss.