We Add a Crew Member

Rick drew this illustration back in 1973, he thinks.

November 20, 1970, Saturday
This corner of California completely rolls up the streets at noon on Saturday so I had to work fast. This wasn't made any easier by the fact that the long-dreaded winter rains have hit us at last.
I got Oatus' 12-volt battery charged, did the laundry, picked up a 1/2” die to cut some new threads on those three stripped tire lugs and bought three new lug nuts.
Back at the truck, Chris was in a foul and obscene mood. Yesterday we pulled out the starboard brake cylinder and took it in to have it honed. Re-installed, it worked fine.
Today, the port cylinder came out and needed the same treatment but by then it was after 12:00 and everything was closed, so Chris did what he could with a piece of steel wool. Re-installed, it leaked like a drunk with bad kidneys. So now our brakes, formerly quite serviceable, are shot down the tubes again and here we sit, with rain on the roof, until Monday morning at least. #%*!!#!!
November 21, 1970, Sunday – We have been going through candles pretty fast and at thirty-nine cents a box, it's starting to add up. In response to this latest crisis, Chris went out and cannibalized our four useless 6-volt clearance lights and hooked them up inside. Presto! Oatus has electric lighting. Now we can see the leaks more clearly.
November 22, 1970, Monday – All right! It's Monday! Everybody back to work!
I took the Port brake cylinder back to Harvey the Honer who said it would be ready by 13:30; then I made it into town for groceries.
On the way back I picked up a hitch-hiker soaking in the rain. Two hitchers, really. She had a little wisp of a dog named “Metoo” with her. Her name was Jeri Drake, and she was headed for Canada.
Back at the truck with everything hanging up over the stove to dry, we discovered that she was in no particular hurry, so we decided to travel together.
Travel? HAH. When we got the brake cylinder back from Harvey and got it installed the brake fluid poured out of it like it wasn't even there. Later, we discovered that the seals were twisted and when that was corrected they seemed to work.
We have been waiting for the Copgoblins to return with more citations since it is illegal to park for more than 72 hours in one spot. Our time is about up.
Sho' nuff. One drove up this afternoon just as our time expired but only to find out how things were going, or rather how long it would be before we got this eyesore off the highway he has been sworn to protect.

Still in Crescent City (well, Smith River, actually)

November 27, 1970, Friday
Well, for one whole week we have sat here trying to accomplish what would have normally taken about a day or so. Every time the rain lets up we dash outside to try to get something done, but before we can actually get it on, it starts pouring again. It's like we're being watched or something.
On Wednesday, the weather actually broke for most of the day which was a much needed truce. I got up into the bunks and stripped them, throwing soaked blankets, mattresses and rugs up onto the roof to dry out. I tried to get the casement window open on my side but the moisture had swollen it shut and all I ended up doing was to break the glass in my efforts to get it raised. The rest of the day was spent making repairs; in the midst of these, it started raining again and I had to go topside and dump the bedding back down through the hatch. What a wreck. The truck looks like a hurricane hit it.
At 16:00, Tiger Whitehurst, Mother President of the Devil's Disciples, Crescent City Chapter, Planet Earth and Company, came by and invited us to dinner. Chris and Jeri Ann partook of the honor while I stayed aboard to stand Quarterdeck watch in their absence.
The Disciples (a local outlaw motorcycle club) offered us Thanksgiving dinner if we were still around on Thursday, which we were, but we didn't make it.
Friday found us almost finished with our labors. We got the brake lights working and then tried to take up the play in the brake pedal by adjusting the plunger into the master cylinder.
Naturally, it broke off so away I went, fuming, to try and locate another one. Out of luck! I may as well try to locate a Brontosaurus.
I did manage to get the thing welded, though. After another stop to take on stores, it was back to the ship.

The Copgoblins of Crescent City

Our story: It is November, 1970. Chris and Rick, intrepid hippie adventurers and Vietnam war veterans, are traveling from Marin County, California, to Seattle, Washington, in Oatus, a 1946 Dodge flatbed truck with a house they have built on the back, and the Family Dog, a VW Beetle.
November 19, 1970, Friday, continued
In the opinion of the gentleman at the California Highway Patrol Motor Vehicle Inspection station outside of Crescent City, Oatus is evil in respect to his poor operational continuity and after liberally plastering us with citations, the inspecting officer suggested we pull over soon and correct a few dozen of them.
God knows we'll do that. We don't like them any better than they do. Because of them we are fifteen days out of San Francisco and still not out of California. Tonight, however, would bring an end to that, we thought, totally unaware that we were under siege. We had just turned off Highway 199 onto Highway 101 and were looking forward to a mere twenty minutes of remaining California citizenship. We pulled over to the side of the road to let a few cars pass and then pulled out again.
Bang! A Copgoblin passed up my Port side, cut directly in front of me and sandwiched himself between us, a maneuver he could not have performed successfully if I hadn't stood on my brakes hard.
After such a jugheaded stunt, I figured we would probably get a safety lecture along with another generous sprinkling of citations, and so we did.
The citations were for having nonfunctional brakes, one nonfunctional brake light, and for willfully refusing to pull over and fix these things after being supposedly directed to do so three separate times by the officer at the Crescent City check stop. First time I had heard of it. Chris attributed the whole misunderstanding to semantics.
At any rate, since the shoulder we were parked on was much too steep to do any work, we were told to find a place that was suitable and get to work!
Then, after taking numerous pictures of the truck, he took his leave of us.
We rolled slowly down the road, sadly looking for a spot to accommodate us. We pulled over once to let a car pass but the car pulled over with us.
It was another Copgoblin and we had just saved him the trouble of having to turn on his Agatcha light.
This fellow was six feet, two inches of chinless God's Wrath named John Lewis. He was not amused; this was the “worst operational hazard” he had ever seen on the road (he must be new on the job).
He would not be placated.
His judgment was final.
For two cents he would impound the vehicle as unsafe and we damn sure better know that he was vested with the power to do so! In fact, he was so emphatic that we understand the vast extent of his powers that he repeated the fact several times during his righteously indignant tirade.
“THERE ARE TWO LICENSE PLATES ON THAT VOLKSWAGEN! TAKE OFF THE TOP ONE SO I CAN SEE THE ONE UNDERNEATH! IS THIS A STOLEN CAR?” he cried.
He was now operating at such a peak of efficiency that he was asking us questions that he would not allow us the time to answer. He, Officer John Lewis, had all the answers here and was functioning accordingly, totally in control of our situation, our little drama here at the side of the road.
To ring down the curtain on his triumphant performance, he accused us of trying to escape again and issued another citation to us for disobedience of a direct order to stay put, which we were now subsequently directed to do, without recourse or appeal.
To further clarify to what extent we must stay put, he began playing the Flawless Organizer Amidst Morons game with perfect exaggeration.
“When I say stay put I don't mean stay put fifty miles down the road! I don't mean stay put over there...” (he indicated the other side of the road)
“I mean stay put! HERE! RIGHT here! Do not go one inch that way...” (he pointed north) “...and do not go one inch that way!” (he pointed south)
We managed to get out one sentence, by refusing to be interrupted, to the effect that we really weren't liars; that if we had stayed back where we were stopped the second time to work on the violations, we would have capsized Oatus into the sloping ditch there when we jacked him up.
Officer John Lewis knew he had caught us for sure this time; in fact, we had caught ourselves with our own words.
“ We-ell now! After you were stopped at the inspection point you totally ignored the cutoff to Highway 199, didn't you?”
Caught by hard fact again, since we were, clearly, northbound on Highway 101, we had to admit we did and this caused Officer Lewis to go into spasms of great delight.
“There are plenty of flat places out that road to pull over onto. Plenty! I know! I've been out there hundreds of times!”
Smitten to the dust, our lying deceitful selves exposed for what they were by the scalpel of Badged Truth, Officer John Lewis, Copgoblin Extraordinaire, drove off in triumph to locate more evil.
Captured as we were with absolutely no possible alternative, we bit off our curses and prepared to tear into the brakes again.

It's Not Chocolate Milk; Fabled Orick

Nov. 18, 1970, Thursday
It's 06:15. No matter. Dark as it is, it's already obvious that it's going to be one of those Golden Autumn Days. Later on, a few shafts of thin sunlight peeked through the clump of alder trees on our east side and burst through the port windows. It's the kind of light that's so fresh and bright that it totally illuminates everything about the object it falls upon, or through.
In this case, at 07:45, it is blindingly evident that the windows must be washed; as the daylight improved, we were also able to notice that several tires were going flat. So, the first thing we did today was to rumble off to Trinidad for refills; then we pulled into a rest stop off Highway 101 to finish hassling with the brakes.
Yesterday it was the Hydraulics (brakes; water pump); today it's the Pneumatics (air pressure; tires). Oatus has plenty of Earth in his sign but most of it is on him, this of course being due to truckin'. Much of the Earth in him has been removed by us since we departed Marin, this being due to mechanical necessity, with more to come anticipated. The Fire portion of his personality (ignition; combustion) has already become familiar to us, also with more to come anticipated.
When Chris pulled the port axle and found half of it dry and covered with rust, we decided to tear into the rear end also. We got the fill plug out and found the anemic remains of what was once 90-weight differential oil, now reduced to the consistency of chocolate milk.
~ And precious little of it, too! More things to do.
The day's efforts showed these results:
1.One of the pistons in the port forward brake cylinder is frozen up, so we have only half a brake there; same is true for the starboard side.
The rear end leaks oil. Somebody filled the original drain with a plug and tapped in a hole for the existing one right next to it. The plug is not a good one and neither is the gasket between it and the inspection plate.
But at least we have brakes again! These little discrepancies we learned about today will become additions to our growing list of Things We Must Keep An Eye On.
Nov. 19, 1970 Friday – The only thing we waited around for this morning was the coffee water to boil. Off and away at 08:15 with only 60 miles left of California to put under our wheels.
At last we arrived in fabled Orick! It's referred to as “fabled” only because it has been the next point on the map for several days now. I thought we'd never get here!

Fabled Orick

Our story: It is November, 1970. Chris and Rick, intrepid hippie adventurers and Vietnam war veterans, are traveling from Marin County, California, to Seattle, Washington, in Oatus, a 1946 Dodge flatbed truck with a house they have built on the back, and the Family Dog, a VW Beetle. They left Marin on November 4, and now, fifteen days out, they have made it to Orick, California, a distance of some 372 miles, give or take. They have finally arrived in fabled Orick, which has been the next dot on the map for several days, and we come in as Rick goes into a store to purchase a pack of smokes.
November 19, 1970, Friday
This was a fuel stop also. The old man in the store said he was sorry but he would have to see some identification before he would sell me a pack of Camels.
“We keep our eyes open 'round here,” he intoned, peering up at me over his spectacles and the old brass cash register. “Ain't gonna git caught, y'see.”
“Who's going to try to catch you?” I asked.
He glanced quickly at me, sideways. “Nobody, I said. Ain't gonna git caught 'cause we keep our eyes open 'round here!”
He rang up the paper towels and struggled for a moment trying to read the price label on the coffee which was written in grease pencil on the top, bold and black.
But when he reached for the breakfast rolls, he went off like a bomb!
“Oh, my,” he said, and began squeezing the package all over, “Oh, my! These are old! These are hard as a rock! This won't do, won't do at all!”
Professional criticism I'd say. They had been left over for a day or two but they looked okay to me.
However, it wouldn't do, as he had said earlier. He took me back to the roll department for an adequate exchange. Unfortunately, there were none. The main deciding factor in my picking that package was that it was the only one there. I was able to assure him that it really was OK but only after he insisted on knocking price down to 30 cents.
“We keep our eyes open 'round here, d' y' see?” he said, mellow at last. I said that I did.
“Ain't gonna git caught!” Then he smiled an old smile and winked, as if to say he knew all the time that I wasn't one of those people.
Here's an old man who, after a lifetime of apparently honest work, is still in the harness and still honest! In the process, he's developed the attitude of an escaped convict who's on the lam in a hostile environment. In order to cover his trail he's adopted a personal commitment to total honesty, motivated by his fear of getting caught.
After a lifetime of existence in the good ol' U.S.A., why should an old man have to feel that being “at large,” so to speak, is an acceptable price to pay for his continued freedom? Furthermore, why should a young man find himself compelled to interpret the scene as such anyway??
Considering the murders at Kent State University last May, the old man' attitude begins to seem both prudent and wise. I'm fearful of thinking that this might be one of the possible answers to the above rhetorical questions.
If so, here's another: what's the point of even having a society at all if you're going to permit murder to be an acceptable part of its structure?
Getting underway again, these thoughts were tumbling around inside my head, setting off alarms concerning the nature of our own perilous situation. Good thing, too! As we neared the borders of this uncertain land, we were laid siege to and ultimately captured by the black and white Copgoblins. There are bands of these folk prowling every corner of the land, fanatically challenging evil wherever it may or may not exist.
Whether or not there is evil in Oatus is, of course, a matter of opinion.

The Evils of Slave Cylinders

Nov. 15, 1970, Monday, continued
Old Oatus just rolled merrily along today, without breakdowns or other disasters to distract us. We made it to Garberville early in the afternoon and took on fuel. Oatus took 14 gallons after roughly 75 miles of traveling; the Family Dog took two bucks' worth. Mostly we just trucked today, watching the countryside slide past at 30 m.p.h. That's flank speed for us.
The sun came out, attended by healthy white clouds, and the shadows began to lengthen when we passed through Eureka and Arcata. Finally we sought a berth for the night at Patrick's Point, 15 miles south of Orick. It's one of Governor Reagan's State Park Blasphemies which requires hard coin and demands that all animals be locked up or otherwise restrained.
Poor Nigel Woofer took to the leash with total dismay, having sat on his tail all day with me in the Family Dog. He was looking forward to a good romp and I know he feels double crossed, poor lad.
But the place has showers.
One last note: it appears as though Oatus needs another water pump and it stands to reason that the best possibility for locating one is in Crescent City. The question is: can we make it? Stay tuned.
Nov. 16, Tuesday - HAH! Ruddy water pump is shot. I went off to find a Park Ranger for information on available junkyards. McKinleyville has several, he said.
Chris hopped into the Family Dog and zipped off to the south in search of another pump while I stayed aboard in order to slap another coat of exterior stain on Oatus's Port & Starboard side, since the weather has decided to clear.
At 16:00, Chris returned with a $4.50 dead replica of our latest casualty and got to work immediately installing it. So. We're trapped on Patrick's Point 'til tomorrow. However if all goes well, tomorrow night will find us in Oregon!
Nov. 17, Wednesday – The sun never did come up this morning – the fog just got brighter and a drizzle started up, drifting in through the trees as softly ans silently as snow.
Finishing up the water pump didn't take long. By 10:30 Oatus was up and running again so we got underway and started moving out of the park. I got to the main gate and pulled over to wait for Oatus.
Oatus however failed to arrive so I backtracked until I finally found him about 300 yards from our original berth. Chris was covered with leaves and debris from crawling about underneath the truck and was in an ugly mood.
Who could blame him? The slave cylinder to the back tires, starboard side, had blown a leak, destroying the hydraulic continuity of Oatus's brakes!
Chris and Oatus aren't speaking.
I got underneath with our flimsy screw jack and somehow managed to get the tires of the ground; then split for McKinleyville to locate a 15/16” socket for the lug bolts.
The rest of the day was spent tearing the whole works apart. As usual, a million miles' worth of dirt and debris had accumulated and gotten into the works. The piston in the cylinder was dirty and sticking.
By dark, everything was reassembled and apparently operable so we decided to get out of the park before we got charged another night's rent. I hear the Oregon State Parks are free. Good news if it's true.
We tied up for the night on a frontage road on the east side of Highway 101.
Well, if one slave cylinder is fouled by dirt and the like, what's a body to think about the other'n? HA HA! Tomorrow we operate on the other'n, just to find out.

Oatus Gets Noticed

Nov. 15, 1970 Mon.
Sleep seemed to be denied me, what with all the trucks thundering up and down Hwy. 101 all night. At 05:00 the local garbage truck visited Gribaldo's restaurant next door with many a crash and clatter.
Enough! I got up and built a fire. No visibility outside. All is dark and moist. Red neon signs diffuse their colors in the fog like a drop of blood in a puddle.
Gribaldo's restaurant opened at 06:00 but it wasn't until after dawn that the breakfast crowd began to notice Oatus. It was obvious that we had become Gribaldo's morning conversation piece but no one looked too pleased.
Who could blame them?
By 08:30 no one had yet appeared to open the Tire Shop so we decided to go ashore and meet with the natives, poor things. Having seen the ship, they would now meet the crew, which was hungry.
We had no sooner seated ourselves when the Tire People showed up to open the shop. They were in a mood to be of as little help as possible. Only one tire was available in Oatus's shoe size and it went for $33.00.
While Chris dealt with the Tire Shop people I had breakfast, which was advertised on the menu as “Four Pieces of French Toast” for ninety-five cents. It turned out to be two pieces sliced diagonally.
At 10:00 we finally rolled out of town, the wrong way unfortunately. We got turned around in our bearings somehow and found ourselves mysteriously headed back for San Francisco, a terrible setback considering the effort it has taken us just to get this far! A quick about-face (military terminology for a 180-degree turn) and we were on our way out of town once again, this time for good!
Old Oatus just rolled merrily along today, without breakdowns or other disasters to distract us. We made it to Garberville early in the afternoon and took on fuel. Oatus took 14 gallons after roughly 75 miles of traveling; the Family Dog took two bucks' worth.
Mostly we just trucked today, watching the countryside slide past at 30 m.p.h. That's flank speed for us.
The sun came out, attended by healthy white clouds and the shadows began to lengthen when we passed through Eureka and Arcata. Finally we sought a berth for the night at Patrick's point, 15 miles south of Orick. It's one of Governor Reagan's State Park Blasphemies which requires hard coin and demands that all animals be locked up or otherwise restrained.
Poor Nigel Woofer took to the leash with total dismay, having sat on his tail all day with me in the Family Dog. He was looking forward to a good romp and I know he feels double crossed, poor lad.
~ But the place has showers!
One last note: it appears as though Oatus needs another water pump and it stands to reason that the best possibility for locating one is in Crescent City. The question is: can we make it?
Stay tuned!

Nov. 16, 1970 Tuesday
HAH! Ruddy water pump is shot! I went off to find a Park Ranger for information on available junkyards. McKinleyville has several, he said.
Chris hopped into the Family Dog and zipped off to the south in search of another pump while I stayed aboard in order to slap another coat of exterior stain on Oatus's Port & Starboard side, since the weather has decided to clear.
At 16:00, Chris returned with a $4.50 dead replica of our latest casualty and got to work immediately installing it. So! We're trapped on Patrick's Point 'til tomorrow. However if all goes well, tomorrow night will find us in Oregon!

Oatus is Resurrected; Granny's Poodle Passes On

Nov. 12, 1970 Friday
Well, whatever it was that Everett didn't accomplish last night surely was seen to this morning which broke fine and fair with a fragrant chill over the cypress tree behind the truck which Chris and I use for a toilet, as the need arises.
Chris rented a tap wrench set to re-thread the bolt holes and went to work! Tomorrow we will rent a torque wrench when the whole works goes back together. We have this wonderful Rent-All store down the street that has everything in the world you could possibly wish for and at a very reasonable price.
But ~ all our efforts were postponed once again when Granny's little pregnant white poodle died this evening! In an effort to try to save the pups Chris cut her open but she had been dead too long. Apparently one of the pups died in utero perhaps a week ago and this brought about a case of peritonitis.

Nov. 13, Sat.
After I buried the poodle this morning, we set to work wrapping everything up. By afternoon Oatus was operational and the new port bulkhead was finished and stained.
~ And, thank God, we got to go take another sauna before tomorrow's departure!

Nov. 14, Sun.
Granny and Paw did a nice thing for Chris's birthday with a card and a new undershirt for him this morning. What wonderful people! They've been nothing but good to us.
At 12:30 we took in our moorings and got underway. That was some port call! Now here we are, pulling out, with our new friends waving handkerchiefs behind us. If only we had Oatus's rigging up so we could have flown flags! Goodbye all for now.
The weather has gone foul on us again. We have decided on advice from our friends to change our course and head for Willits rather than fight with steep mountain roads on Highway 1 north of Fort Bragg.
Thirty-two miles is about two hours worth of Oatus travel, counting mechanical interruption which occurred about midway. The glass float jar fell of the carburetor and Oatus went D.B.R. (Dead Beside the Road) immediately. We procured some stout cord from the Bos'n's locker and lashed the little devil in place. Off once again!
We made Port Willits by 15:30 and stopped to take on provisions and fuel. We also discovered the starboard front tire is split and will have to go! Naturally there is only one truck tire shop in town and they're closed on Sundays. We found the place and tied up for the night out back to wait for Monday to arrive.
The police however arrived first at about 21:30 and checked us out extensively from the pier. Fortunately no one asked to come aboard and they disappeared as quickly as they had arrived.

In Port in Ft. Bragg

Part 3: Noses Run; Water Does Not

Nov. 5, 1970 Fri.
After breakfast, two fellows by the name of Allen and John came by from the Albion Ridge Ranch, which I guess must be down around where we thought Felix jumped ship. They too spoke of engines and left saying they would return with more information.
When we left to find Brian and his truck, we discovered roads (or perhaps ruts is more accurate) far too impassible for Oatus's bulk. When we finally located his truck, there was no one home so we followed a path down to the bottom of a ravine and up the other side where we found an abandoned chicken ranch to explore.
Later in the afternoon another of Granny's many friends dropped by to use Everett's truck to haul a load of trash to the dump. Butch was his name and at the moment he is a candle maker by trade.
By way of another trade, we learned of another engine that was being housed at present in an old 1952 Plymouth that was quietly returning to the soil on his property. If we worked fast we might be able to rescue it before it disappeared altogether. We made a date for tomorrow.

Nov. 6, Sat.
Man, the weather has been low and wet lately! For some reason, my own system has been closely approximating the conditions of my sign, which is Air (I'm a Gemini); for some reason all the air in the area is heavily congested. Wheeze~!
Late in the morning Butch came by; we loaded tools, batteries, and Nigel the dog, and sputtered off to visit the old Plymouth.
The land is truly good here; Autumn has nipped into these hills quite nicely. Butch's property is blessed with an old Gravenstein apple orchard and I happily munched on a few while wandering about in the rain.
We were too late to help the old engine (which offered no response at all) so Butch built a fire out back and began melting candle wax in a big cauldron. We drank tea, ate fruit, helped put wicks in 140 quarter-sized candles, and departed with a glow.
Chris and I got back to the Red Shanty just in time to go take a sauna with Everett, Berta, and Unkie, a great relief for us Trucknics! We've been growing progressively smellier for a week now. This is the only way to get clean in Fort Bragg at the moment since the whole town is on water hours. I thought I left this sort of thing behind when I got out of the Navy!
Perhaps the people who operate the sauna also run the local water system. Theirs is the only place in town that has water and the whole town is lined up to bathe on a weekly schedule, at $1.50 a pop! What a sweet deal! Everett, Berta and Unkie's time slot is on Saturday, from 7:30 to 8:00 p.m.; not only did they get us admitted as their guests, they also paid our way!
I think they wanted to be sure that we wouldn't miss out on an opportunity to clean up and in their kind, tactful way, decided to go ahead and foot the bill in case we didn't happen to have the gate fee. Since we have no way of knowing how long we will be their guests, this probably amounted to an investment in their peace of mind and was therefore well worth the money! As I noted earlier, we've been growing progressively smellier for a week now.

Nov. 7 Sun.
Today we thought to recuperate some. My raging head cold has opened a branch office in Chris's head and he awoke this morning snuffling, spewing and snorting. We got a fire going and kept to our bunks, attending to our individual afflictions.
Not for long though! Granny came out and enlisted our aid in picking up an old freezer over at somebody's house. We ended up doing it mostly by ourselves and with effort and resolve managed to drag the damned thing back to the Shanty in one piece; then it was back to the truck to chase continuing drips in the roof; also the nose.
Because it's Sunday and telephone rates are low, I called my folks to let them know we are in port for repairs. That's the news for today.

Part 4: Wild Turkey and the Supreme Being

Nov. 8, 1970 Mon.
Chris has undertaken to clean and repair an ancient Underwood typewriter of Granny's and I to paint that rusty old freezer that we trucked over here yesterday.
Still nothing in the engineering department! John drove in this morning from Albion Ridge and reported that for all his searching, he was unable to locate anything that would meet Oatus's needs.
Chris called a friend of his in Indiana last night; as a result, today there are two checks over at Western Union totaling $166!! This evening I called Lou Hightower in Seattle to tell him we would be berthed here in Fort Bragg for awhile. He said that he had received a check for $97, made out to me from the Navy and forwarded to him by dear Mrs. Rogers back in Forest Knolls. Lou reassured me that our future berth is awaiting our arrival and rang off, promising to post the check in the morning. Bless him! Now we can pay the Salmis back for the sauna!

Nov. 10, Wed.
Well, absolutely no engines to be had in this area to meet any of our specifications so jolly well fix we must our present old flathead 6 banger! This means pulling the head and tapping the one stripped hole plus drilling the broken bolt out of the other one. While Chris is doing this, I will be putting up new siding and rendering the existing Wardroom window operable, watertight, and pretty. We received the check today so we're pretty fat for a change!

Nov. 11, Thurs.
It's good to be working on old Oatus again! The siding I installed today was a 4' x 8' piece of exterior plywood that has been taking up quite a bit of space while in storage below decks. The extra room now available is groovish!
After cursing and coaxing the two busted bolts out and replacing the blown head gasket,Chris said that we could probably be ready to get underway by tomorrow night if we wished. Road fever is setting in again!
Not that we are eager to leave our new friends, you understand; especially when it's so obvious that they are so concerned for our well-being. For example, tonight Everett decided to convince us of the power of the Supreme Being! Imagine our dismay as we realized that he felt we were dangerously unenlightened concerning this holy entity!
With great zeal, plus a half bottle of Wild Turkey, he took us out into the front yard to instruct us and demonstrate to us the power of the Supreme Being by having Him part the clouds and banish the rain from the skies. The time for our redemption and salvation had come and Everett had decided to be the Instrument of our conversion!
Lucky us! We stood our there freezing our butts off for nearly an hour while Everett pleaded with the Supreme Being and implored Him to part the clouds so that we might be inspired to believe!
This was not our idea of inspiration but finally a brief hole appeared in the thick cloud cover and gave us a quick glimpse of the full moon and a few glittering stars. Thankfully, this was satisfactory to Everett and we were then able to conclude our little weather tryst.