From the distance, Amy Lynn Steele's smile looked genuine as she stood on the dock in front of the chartered yacht, the Magpie, and greeted the new guests in turn. Beside her stood the rest of her crew, smiling brightly as well, and shaking hands with the people that would be their shipmates for the next few weeks.
Fortunately the guests spent the majority of their time questioning the Captain, whose role was certainly more noble than that of the ships Engineer. Amy was thankful for that, and let her stare turn from the guests to a piece of paper stapled to one of the many pilings that held up the lavish dock. As its upper right corner flapped in the stiff off-shore breeze, she marveled at how it managed to keep from blowing away altogether. Even as its edge flip-flopped back and forth, she was still able to read the advertisement with its bold red print.
Wanted: Harbormaster it said in big bold print. There were other words printed in black ink across the page, no doubt describing the details of the job and what they were looking for in the way of ideal candidates, but these words were far too small for Amy to read at this distance.
For Amy, what she could read, was really all she needed to read. While many regarded her presence aboard a ten million dollar yacht as priceless, inwardly Amy was becoming more and more disenchanted with it with each voyage that she embarked upon. The owners demanded professionalism from the crew, and even now that image was manifested as each one stood at attention, their uniforms matching in both color and style.
As the Captain watched the last passenger crest the gunwale, Amy looked at him with jealousy. Of the twelve member crew, ten were men and had the luxury of wearing light blue double breasted shirts, matching trousers and shoes polished up to a gleaming shine. Amy and the Stewardess Alicia, both got to wear the same light blue cotton shirts as the men, but below that knee length skirts had to be worn, with beige nylons and a pair of black heels. It was the latter that completely repulsed Amy. Granted the shoes had a rather chunky heel that made them semi-wearable upon the heaving ship, but they were still difficult to wear at times, and completely unneeded in the din of the engine room.
Once down inside the bowels of the ship, Amy seldom wore them, preferring instead to go barefoot. In reality she would have kicked them off now if she could have. The ones she now wore were a bit too tight around her toes and pressed unmercifully into the ball of her feet. She cringed at the pain, hoping the guests would soon disperse and the ship would set sail, leaving her to roam the engine room devoid of her painful shoes.
"Ms. Steele, you are needed at once in the Engineer room," suddenly came a cry from Cynthia, the yacht's owner as she thrust her head over the gunwale of the boat and looked down at her entrusted crew. "I was showing Anthony the engine room and there is a big puddle of oil coming from the front of the starboard engine."
Amy immediately jumped into action. Oil was the lifeblood of the powerful diesel engines and any leak could lead to catastrophe. Still, as fast as she was now running, she did not forget the paper stapled to the dock's piling. Grasping the ear still flapping in the breeze, she made quick work of pulling it free of its remaining three staples and shoved the piece of paper into her pocket. She did it so fast, so quick, that her fellow crewmembers did not even see her grab it.
Even in her heels, Amy slipped quickly towards the stern of the yacht, ducking in the passageways and sliding down the shiny stainless steel rails that lined the ladder that lead into the engine room. Swooping down in one deft movement, Amy's attention immediately turned towards the starboard engine, and peered at the front of the engine. Just as she had been told, a small trickle of thick black oil oozed down the front of the stark white engine block.
For a moment, Amy surveyed the problem and came to a quick conclusion on what the culprit was. Reaching into her toolbox, she found the ratchet, socket and extension she needed, and began to climb up the giant engine to tighten the loose bolt that was making all the mess.
It was not an easy task. Marine engines have a slew of pipes to funnel water and oil in and out of the block, and Amy found herself squeezing her way up and around these labyrinths of pipes to gain access to the bolt. Some were hot, while other had bolts and protrusions that Amy had to wiggle her legs around to avoid. It was this act that irritated Amy to no end.
As she wiggled her way up to the top of the engine, she thought about her previous schooling. Breaking the gender barrier at the Maritime Academy was not an easy task, and she took pride in the fact that she had graduated with top honors. Fixing this oil leak hardly taxed her knowledge of marine diesel systems, but doing so without catching her nylons on anything was another matter altogether. Amy was equally sure that it was a problem that her other classmates did not have worry about, and she resented her uniform more and more with each passing day.
Finally reaching an area of the engine where she could reach the bolt, Amy could easily see the problem. Grasping her tools, she placed them on the head of the bolt, spun the bolt deeper into the block with ease, the ratchet singing out its familiar clicking as the bolt easily seated itself back into place. The repair was going well until she went to give the bolt a final twist to snug it up. Placing her foot on a incoming coolant line, Amy went to give the ratchet a final tug when her foot slipped off the round pipe. She could herself before she feel against the hot engine, but it did not stop her temper from flaring. Grabbing a hold of her high heels, she flung them across the engine room.
"Fucking high heels," she yelled and began to squirm her way out from the front of the engine.
"Amy," rang out Cynthia's voice, as one of the shoes sailed just in front of her face and bounced off an electrical panel. "Whatever on earth has come over you?"
"It's these bolts. They are made of Stainless Steel. Whoever built this yacht did not know anything about engines. Stainless steel is pretty all polished up, but the threads don't stretch. All these Stainless Steel bolts have to be replaced or they will just keep vibrating loose."
"Oh my, this is serious."
"Well I can keep tightening them up, so its nothing we have to fix before leaving port, but when we get back to Maine, you should have the builder replace all these bolts with mild steel ones. They should have known that."
