It must have been mid-December, 2005. I had purchased Simba II, my 55 foot steel trawler, in Hamilton, Ontario and, after two weeks of requisite repairs in Toronto, was on my way to Mobile, Alabama. I had hired two crew (that's another story!) in Toronto and we had crossed Lake Ontario, sailed through the big Welland ship canal connecting Ontario with Lake Erie, run the length of Erie, entered the Detroit River and moored the ship in a Detroit marina, the only one open that time of year. It was below freezing with six inches of ice and snow on the dock. The marina had one attendent, a man in his early 40's.
The owner of the boat, a man in his mid-eighties, was difficult to deal with (and that's another story) and claimed he no longer had the original plans of Alexari, his name for the boat. Without plans, I had nothing to tell me how much fuel she could carry. I did some calculations and figured she could hold well over 3000 gallons of diesel in the seven tanks I had located. The tanks are all built into the sides and bottom of the boat. I wanted to take on a full load of diesel as we would be heading out onto the Great Lakes in the dead of winter and it was unlikely I would be able to find fuel or any open marinas out there.
The marina attendent was pretty sure they had 2000 gallons or more diesel (I already had taken on close to a thousand back in Toronto to be sure I could make it across Lake Erie)and he handed me the heavly diesel hose and nozzel. Each tank has a "fill" on the deck and I methodically began pumping the diesel, aft-most tanks first. It took considerable time to fill each tank. I kept track of the gallons pumped into each in order to try to eventually arrive at a good understanding of each tank's capacity. After filling the four aft tanks I moved to tank #5, the fill located amidships on the port deck. The attendent stood by as I worked the nozzle, talking non-stop. Unfortunately he was a low-class, bigoted fellow who laced his conversation with unfavorable comments about "niggas" and others. He seemed loaded with animosity and I chafed because the fueling process seemed endless. And particularly this #5 tank which was apparently empty and I had calculated should hold no more than 300 gallons. The pump meter clicked past 300, then 400, while the attendent ranted away. Suddenly I became aware of a splashing noise on the starboard side of the ship, away from where the attendent and I were standing. I released the nozzle trigger and excused myself and said I needed check something in the pilot house. Crossing through it to starboard, I glanced down the side of the boat and saw a red stream of liquid shooting out into the river. Oh, no! I could see a red slick trailing a hundred or more feet down the river. Passing back through the pilot house, I shut off all bilge pump switches and told the attendent tank #5 was full and I wanted to break for lunch. I suddenly showed a strong interest in his latest rant and kept him there with me on the port side for another half hour, to be sure the telltale red bloom had been carried a good distance south of the boat. I had no doubt that if he realized what was going on, he would summon the EPA and other authorities in hopes of collecting a reward for turning me in.
As soon as I was alone, I peered into the bilges. My nose was immediately assaulted by diesel fumes and I saw pools of fuel there and elsewhere. I canceled further refueling, walking the long slippery path to the attendents street side office so he would not return and get a whiff of my ships sour perfume.
That night I and my recently-arrived replacement crew (another story) pumped out all the bilges under cover of darkness. Of course I was anxious to learn what had cause this mess. It didn't take me long. I had noted that the other fuel tanks had a hose connecting the fill port on deck with the tanks below. I suspected there was a massive hole in this tank's hose and had an idea of where the hose would be located. Well, I could have looked 'till the cows came in for this hose, and never found it. Oh, there was a fill port, and a hose fitting on the tank, but no hose in between! That nozzle was stuck down through the deck and just pumped diesel down on top of the tank, and you know the rest. Somebody blew it, and the owner never knew it. I reckon he only ever filled the two tanks in the engine room. Too bad, with the dirty tricks he played when selling me the boat, the least he deserved was an oil bath -- an a hot one at that!
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