What a day. It started off innocently enough. We spent the morning on the beach and then hopped in the bus for a quick 40 mile drive to San Blas.
About a mile from San Blas the engine started making a weird ticking noise. I thought maybe it was a belt. We stopped at the edge of town, I peeked inside the engine compartment, didn’t see anything, and decided to get parked at the campground before investigating further.
We were two blocks from the campground when I noticed the oil pressure was on zero. Crap.
I stopped and shut off the engine. I opened the engine hatch and took a look at the oil dipstick. Dry. That’s never good. I went outside and took a look at the ground—and there is where I found my oil. This is actually a good thing since it means there was actually oil in the engine up to the point that I stopped. Obviously we’d sprung a major leak, but where?
I was out of oil, so I hoofed it back into town, bought ten quarts (enough for two oil fills), and topped off the engine again.
After briefly considering the consequences, I fired up and quickly drove the last block into the campground, parked, took one quick look inside the engine, and shut it down. All I was able to determine was that the oil was coming from somewhere above the brake master cylinder. Kind of a weird location.
The entire driver’s side of the bus was covered in oil. Top to bottom. I cleaned that off the best I could, then went to check us in at the office. As I walked away Ali said, “Don’t forget to get the internet password.”
Well, of course I forgot. So five minutes later I walked back to the office. On my way back, passing the big campground owner’s large, old, yellow lab for the fourth time I finally bent down to say hello. He rolled onto his back while I pet the side of his big head. After about ten seconds of this loving up he viciously spun his head around and sunk his jaws into my hand. In slow motion I watched that big canine tooth sink into the meat between my thumb and index finger. I yelled out, and he let go, thankfully without attacking me further.
Oh, it turns out, the wifi doesn’t require a password. So… yeah, that sucks.
Ali sent me off to find a doctor. I walked eight blocks to the center of town, talked to a taxi driver who loaded me up and drove me five blocks back the way I had come. So… yeah, that sucks.
Somehow, there was no wait at the hospital. When I say hospital, I’m not talking Cedars-Sinai, I’m talking about the small one-story building with about six doors lining the one hall. The doc cleaned up the hole in my hand, wrapped it up in a bandage, gave me a prescription for a week’s worth of antibiotics, and told me to come back the next day for a tetanus shot. This only cost me five bucks, which somehow made up for the rest of my crappy day.
When I got back the owner was home. I’d only dealt with the bartender (a campground with a bar—nice) up to this point. Here is where I feel compelled to say that over the past few years I’ve realized that I was actually starting to dislike dogs. But then at some point I realized that it wasn’t the dogs that I didn’t like, it was the dog owners. I dislike, hmmm, I don’t know, maybe 73% of dog owners.
Okay, 78%.
Of my list of reasons, here comes #26. The owner walked right over to me and said, “I don’t know why he is doing that.” Did you catch the wording there? He’d done this before. “That’s the second time now. Let me see your hand. Yep, that’s the same spot he bit that lady. Hmmph. Weird”
Well, then why the hell is your campground mutt sitting right next to the gate without so much as being tied up? If my kids had walked up to check in with me like they usually do there is no doubt that they would have pet this dog. What if it had been their tiny hands in the dog’s mouth?
No sorries were forthcoming, and I really was in no mood at this point to have any sort of discussion with Dopey, so I just said, “Yeah, weird. Well, if you don’t mind keeping the dog tied up until we’re out of here, that’d be great.”
For some reason nobody slept well that night. My hand throbbed, but besides that I spent hours going over in my head what the possibilities were for the bus to be spewing oil all over the place. None of the scenarios seemed good. But worst of all is that we were in San Blas, home of the no-see-ums and many other assorted biting insects. The place is a nightmare if you aren’t slathered up in OFF. Working underneath an oil covered bus in the mosquito infested grass sounded like hell.
But come morning it was time to get cracking. I got out the manual and stared blankly at it for thirty minutes before sticking the key in the ignition and firing it up. A small miracle appeared right before my eyes. A cracked hose looked just like Jesus weeping. The tears poured forth—from Jesus, and from me. A small hose that didn’t look like it would be impossible to repair. It could only be described as a miracle.
It took me a couple minutes to work out what it was—the hose that runs off the engine and directly to the back of the oil pressure gauge. Looking at the fittings I knew the odds of replacing it in San Blas were next to zero, but it didn’t matter, because I didn’t even need this hose in order to drive. Sure, it’s great to know that your engine has oil pressure, but it’s not mandatory for a 180-mile trip from San Blas to Mazatlan.
I did do a run into town, talked to a few shops, and was turned away by all of them. I figured at the very least I’d be able to source a bolt the same size as the fitting in the engine so I could simply cap it off. Nope. Not even a bolt in this town. Which was fine, because why waste forty cents on a bolt when I could simply MacGyver the fix with materials at hand instead.
I went home, cut the hose a foot or so above the engine fitting, stuck a big screw in the end, and then cranked on two hose clamps nice and tight around it. Done.
I fired up the engine, and she purred back at me—the sweet sound of success.
You have to love kids’ outlooks—not a care in the world. While us adults worry and stew over the perceived dramas in our lives, kids just go on looking for the next fun thing to do. Location doesn’t matter. The possibility of being stranded for weeks doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters but having a laugh.
All fixed up and ready to wander the streets of San Blas.
25 Comments on “A Pretty Bad Day”
San Blas. Been there once…won’t ever do it again.
All’s well that ends well. Have a beer!
Love the old bus stories… make us feel normal! And the pics of San Blas are amazing!
Pat, you absolutely SLAY me. Your description of the oil leak made my day. Thanks for that. About that dog: We had our “Spot” for 14 years. Such a sweetheart. But, in her last 6 months, it became quite clear that arthritis had gotten to her (you will appreciate that in a few years). Anyway, she would be fine when you petted her until you hit just the wrong area and then she would snap. Could have been something like that. Glad it wasn’t more serious. Thanks, again, for the oil story. Takes me back to many years of boat work. 🙂
If you were in the US, you would have been required to take rabies shots, and they’re not fun.
It sounds more like a boat on wheels every day. At least you are “experienced” in quick and dirty fixes. I am surprized that the oil pressure line was positioned where it would drain all of the oil.
The dog could be old and have arthritis but still needs to be kept away from people. I had a grumpy old dog and always leashed him. I would warn people who wanted to pet him that he wasn’t friendly. Some of them still tried and I had to get in between them and my dog. I agree though that it’s not the dog that is the problem it’s the owner. As always it’s the few idiots who ruin it for everyone.
So did you use the side door?
I gotta say, your description of your terrible day is so good that it leaves selfish me wishing all of your days–or at least enough to sate the blog–were so bad. I’m glad for your tears of Jesus ending though and that you’re back on the road. Drive safely.
All things considered you had a great day.
Nice fix Pat. Sorry about the bad nip. Thanks for the reminder to be cautious with new dogs, they could have bad owners.
Pat,
I’m on the same bus as Rick. All things considered you had a good day. The stuff broke, a dog bit your hand, you walked farther than you had to, spent an unnecessary taxi fare and had to endure some bugs. Yup, that all sucks. On the flip side, the motor was easily fixed because it didn’t seize up and need replaced. (That would be a nightmare!) The breakdown happened in a great location, just down the road from a camp ground and within walking distance from somewhere to get more oil. The dog, well, it snapped at YOU and not the kids or Ali. And it was just a snap and not an attack. Also, you unlike most modern Americans, are able to spot and fix simple breakdowns. Oh, and while the bug bites suck the snow and cold weather in the Midwest isn’t a picnic either, I’ll trade you scenery any day. I could keep going but everyone gets the idea. You are a blessed man and your readers are blessed by you when we read your blog. I’ll be dropping a few bucks in your kitty to close the circle of blessings. Life is good. Thanks for including us.
Bravo on the fix! Plus one on what Keith said!
Your mechanic posts are the best.
A/C in the apartments. How civilized…
If it makes you feel better, I’d trade one of my pretty good days for one of your pretty bad days; oil leak, dog bite and all. And I have a good life by most people’s standards. So you must be doing something right.
awwww, man! I hope your hand heals on up! That sucks.
Glad you were able to fix up the bus and get on the road again. As a former veterinary technician, I totally agree that pet owners are sometimes a much bigger problem/PITA than the pet. Hope your hand feels better soon!
I agree with your comment, Francesca, but I’d edit out the “sometimes.” In my experience, thoughtless owners are invariably the problem/PITA.
TJ
Your running commentary of how you and your family let the world around you flow by and your descriptions and reactions serve as an example of how to live life simply. Thank you. Regarding the oil pressure hose, maybe check to see if you can source an electronic sending unit with new gauge.
That fitting at the rear of the block is the normal location for the old MOPAR V8 oil gauge lines (usually) or sending units (on later chassis) to attach. I suspect it originally had a copper line running up to the factory gauge – and some prior owner had it replaced with the hose when the metal line finally broke from vibration. I cant believe Travco would have used a rubber line for oil pressure. Although that is the only place where oil pressure runs outside of the block, i would still have a close look for other lines and hoses that are old. The original factory fuel lines to the carburetor for instance were all made of steel tubing – from the fuel pump up to the carb: Because steel wont burn. If there is any part of the fuel system that has fuel pressure in it (I know its less than 9 psi), I would either plan for renewing it – or getting the original type of steel lines. They were probably made of Bundy tubing, just like the brake lines were, though in a different size.
The main problem with old rubber lines in the unpressurized part of the fuel system (from tank to pump inlet) is that eventually someday they will be aged enough to start letting air leak in – invisibly lowering the fuel pressure at the carburetor.
And the threads inside the block for that fitting are -1/8″ pipe threads-. I think most any hardware tienda or local ‘taller’ would likely have some of the used plugs lying around; its one of the most common sizes of p.t. But there isnt any bolt that would fit in there, without messing up the threads inside the block.
Pat,
Do you know why the oil pressure warning light did not come on? Does it come on when you turn the ignition on?
l”Ticking ” noise from engine! No oil on dip stick ! Hope the engine isn’t hurt but would definitely replace the oil filter, open up the old one to verify no metal shavings present ! Hopefully oil pressure will be same as before when you get the line replaced. Wishing you the best of luck – Happy travels.
Butch
I enjoy your writing, however walking up to an animal you know nothing about, getting bit and blaming the owner? Take some responsibility for you actions.
Is this comment for real, or are you just baiting me? This was a fenced in campground. The dog belonged to the campground owner and was left free to roam. Said dog had a history of ripping people’s hands apart. The owner knew this, but the dog remained free to walk around the campground after biting people. If my six-year-old had been playing outside our bus alone and gotten bit would you say, “Take some responsibility for your actions.” I now have reason #27.
By owning an animal you become responsible for it, and for its actions. What part of this doesn’t make sense?