My late father, a wise man who regretted not having a college education, used to tell those who asked that he graduated “from the school of hard knocks.” The implication, of course, was that there is more than one way to get an education.

Dad had a point. Dealing with the ups and downs of life, with all of its unexpected contingencies, can be quite an education.

Take outboard motors.They can take you to wonderful fishing places, but they can also take you through the school of hard knocks.

As a guy who has, over the years, depended upon outboard motors of various sizes, makes and running conditions to get me to a fishing hole, I’ve learned a few things. And, although I can’t dredge up from my memory important birthdays and anniversaries, I do recall each and every outboard motor that graced my fishing boats.

My first outboard was a 3.5 hp Scott-Atwater. It was a first-place prize that I won as a 12-year old contestant in the Bangor-Brewer Soap Box Derby in 1953. What a reliable outboard it was! Like the old Briggs and Stratton lawnmower engines, it just kept on ticking, whether you performed regular maintenance or not.

In the early 1970s, I bought my first new outboard, a 15 hp Evinrude longshaft. That was a reliable motor, too. It was the only new outboard I have ever owned, and it powered a shiny new 16 foot Mirrocraft fishing boat. What a combination. Both stood up well with years of hard use. The lower unit eventually went on the blink and I gave it to the repair guy, who wanted more to fix it than it was worth.

In time, the march of “progress” caught up with my outboard decisions. In an environmentally friendly gesture, I purchased a clean-burning, Mercury four-stroke engine. It was a lowtime engine that purred like a young kitten. That is, until the fuel injectors gummed up. After that, it burped, gurgled, and gagged like an old lion choking on a fur ball. I found a Mercury repairman who made house calls. He showed up at 8 a.m. sharp in spotless white coveralls with an arm full of diagnostic equipment and service manuals. It took him most of the day to remove, clean and adjust each individual injector. By sunset the Mercury was once again purring. The technician counseled me about my shoddy maintenance habits, admonished me for not using factory-certified fuel additives, and handed me the bill. That was 2002. Thankfully, the bill for that repair job is almost paid off.

Shortly after that school-of-hard-knocks experience, I sold it.

Last winter, I decided to get back to basics. I bought a 1988 Mercury two-stroke for my Carolina Skiff, which I use to fish the Florida Keys. It is a lowtime outboard that was used in inland Florida. Or so I was told. “Never seen saltwater,” the seller told me.” The little old lady that owned it did some bass fishing on the St. John, but that was it.”

This outboard runs well. Of course, it doesn’t purr like the later model Mercury, but I like the trade off: no delicate, temperamental, little fuel injectors waiting to seize up and empty my wallet. So what’s a little blue smoke wafting up from the outboard’s cooling water? Even I can identify most of the components. Ah, the sweet smell of familiarity.

This week, though, my outboard education took a new and challenging turn. The steering froze solid. The stainless steel steering rod from the Telflex cable, the one that is supposed to move back and forth through the middle of the tilt tube, would not budge. No amount of pounding or penetrating oil would loosen it. I soon learned that salt water was the culprit. The salt water seeps into the tilt tube. If you let the whole lashup sit without periodically working and oiling the rod, it will seize up as the salt water evaporates, and the lingering salt crystallizes and expands in the tilt tube.

It seems that in the Florida Keys, frozen outboard tilt tubes are as common as cormorants on wharf pilings. In fact, if you walk into any hardware store and ask for penetrating oil or a -inch pipe brush, you’ll be asked,” Tilt tube problems, eh?”

After three days of hammering in vain and analyzing the problem from every angle, I learned that, when it comes to frozen tilt tubes, intellect and mechanical knowledge are no substitutes for a more elemental repair tactic – brute force. My son-in-law, Jacques, who is a fair weekend outboard mechanic like me, convinced me that we needed to bring in the big guns. Jacques’ buddy, a hard-charging south Florida firefighter named Charlie with big biceps, who doesn’t know the meaning of the word “can’t,” came to my rescue. At his direction, we removed all of the outboard’s transom bolts except one and pivoted the outboard up at an angle on the remaining bolt. Charlie, wielding a 10-pound sledgehammer, straddled the boat transom, and like Big Bad John at the entrance to the coal mine, heaved a sigh, gave out with a mighty groan, and brought the sledge squarely against the stubborn steering rod. On the third whack, the steering rod surrendered and began to move.

After the rod was pounded out of the salt-encrusted tilt tube, some oil and wire brushing did the trick. At last use, the steering rod was performing cooperatively and moving sweetly in and out of the tilt tube. As I learned through the school of hard knocks, the trick with the tilt tube, if you use it around salt water, is to keep it oiled and moving. You would think that the Mercury folks, after all these years, could have manufactured a more weather resistant tilt tube, huh?

Until they do, I guess that my fishing partner, Diane, and I will have to take turns getting up in the middle of the night to oil the steering rod.

V. Paul Reynolds is editor of the Northwoods Sporting Journal. He is also a Maine Guide, co-host of a weekly radio program “Maine Outdoors” heard Sundays at 7 p.m. on The Voice of Maine News-Talk Network (WVOM-FM 103.9, WQVM 101.3) and former information officer for the Maine Dept. of Fish and Wildlife. His e-mail address is [email protected].