THE TOILET GODS MUST BE ANGRY

Ah summertime; the time of year that usually presents lazy days, soaking up sun, sand, and other pleasantness, away from the work-a-day world of finance and high-stress madness that usually rules our lives. OK, not so much finance but high-stress madness was our daily visitor. We used to have a boat; a lovely, converted gillnetter. We enjoyed wonderful stress-free summers onboard, but, that first maiden summer voyage managed to deliver some very important lessons.

That first long trip we took our friends, Lyle and Mary with us to Desolation Sound, a long-held desire for Bill, along with our aging cat Whoopi (she of mice catching fame). Despite a few glitches, we had a great trip. These glitches included the power supply, a lost cat and a toilet. And there, hidden within that toilet was a life-altering lesson.

We had two power systems on the boat, 12 volt and 110, with an inverter. Early on in the trip, the inverter decided not to work. Although after the fact, the fix was simple, Bill wasn’t yet familiar enough with the workings of an inverter to know how to get it started again. So we did without anything electrical. No microwave, no percolator, no toaster. No George Forman grill. We boiled coffee on the old diesel burning, fish boat stove we’d kept on the boat. Ditto for the cooking. We also had a stainless steel BBQ and a Coleman stove. We weren’t going to starve.

Our biggest concern was the computer chart program connected to the onboard GPS. With all the charts programmed into the computer we could see exactly where we were every step of the way. If we couldn’t get the computer working, we’d have to cut the trip very short. However, a stop at Powell River let us buy a converter plug, the laptop was plugged into the twelve volt system and Hot Damn, we were good to go!

For almost two weeks we explored the coastline, went canoeing, fished for crab and prawns and soaked up the sun along with a few beers. Sound idyllic doesn’t it? Ah, but there is a price to pay for all that hedonism. We were headed home when the price was extracted.

I had paid a visit to the head, installed with an electric marine toilet. It ran off the 12 volt system, so it worked fine, thank goodness. When I flushed that morning, I discovered it was not draining very well. I flushed again. Still not draining very well. A third flush. Not a good thing to do.

The toilet bowl began filling up faster than it would drain. I’d hoped against hope that I could flush the crap away enough so I wouldn’t have to deal with it. Nope, the thing finally filled to the top of the bowl, and began spilling over very slightly. The toilet was hopelessly plugged!

My announcement that no one would be using the head anytime soon was not met with enthusiastic cheers. Bill said something unintelligible about my pile of something something. I didn’t get into it, thinking the conversation would probably just go to crap anyway. (Well, it would!)

I opened the porthole and shut the door, making it off limits to all. I sort of hoped that the whole works would soften up enough to flush out later, but the toilet-gods weren’t smiling.

An hour later I was faced with an irresistible voice in my head, demanding that I flush one more time, which I succumbed to, while the voice in my head screamed, don’t do it don’t do it! … and then I was up to my big toes in you-know-what!

I wished for a plunger, not that it would have done any good. If you know the inner mechanisms of an electric toilet, you’d know a plunger wouldn’t have done a thing. Someone had flushed something down, that should never have been flushed. Whatever it was, had gotten stuck in the mechanism, and everything built up around it until the inevitable hot mess.

We were almost into Deep Bay and decided to call Cliff, our wharfinger friend. Bill explained our situation. He, plunger in hand, met us as we tied up. As we all know by now, the plunger wouldn’t have solved anything, although the thought was appreciated.

We resorted to solution #2. Bill and Lyle began taking off the drain hose at the base of the toilet, but Bill was quick to leave when he began to retch uncontrollably as the hose-end began to ooze brown goo. As a matter of fact, he literally flew out of the cabin onto the deck. Did I ever mention that my big, strong darling has no stomach whatsoever for stink?

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At that point Bill decided to get a plumber’s snake (solution #3) so the two men left for local hardware store.

Cliff’s wife, Val had come down with some ice-cold bottles of Caesars, and we sat on the dock drinking, waiting for the boys to come back. When they did I took over for Bill, helping Lyle work at the toilet. The snake was employed and then, while Lyle sat on his knees, bent over with both hands on the hose, I stood off to his left, ready with a pail to catch any more .. um …. stuff. It still oozed, slowly.

Suddenly, the hose let go with a resounding “POOMPH!!”

Island woman magazine for Vancouver Island women writers

Lyle sat, frozen on the spot, his entire face and upper body covered with foul smelling excrement. I couldn’t help myself. I began to laugh. I think Lyle did too,

from the way he was shaking, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

We sent him, along with a change of clothes, to the showers. The walls of the entire head from about three feet down, was covered with a layer of poop. My bottle of bleach was going to be well-used, but first I needed a little more fortitude in the form of another caesar.

Whatever was stuck in the hose was reamed away with the snake. Forever after, there was a sign posted in the head above the toilet, which read: