“You’re directing.”
He removed the bench cover and shone a light inside.
I sat on a low shop stool near the opening while Reid followed the cable path. Owen monitored the panel.
The fault appeared only under combined load.
Not a failed alternator.
Not the batteries.
A voltage drop across a splice buried beneath insulation.
“Check the negative return,” I said.
Reid shifted deeper into the compartment.
“Looks intact.”
“Measure at the splice, not the bus.”
He did.
The reading fell.
Owen whistled.
“There.”
The splice had been wrapped and hidden behind a conduit clamp. Corrosion had reached the copper from inside the crimp.
Reid backed out, hair full of dust.
He looked at me.
“Good call.”
I tried not to let the praise matter.
It did.
For two hours, he gave me everything I could do and none of what I could not.
I stripped the replacement cable ends at the bench. Logged measurements. Prepared heat-shrink labels. Checked Owen’s final readings.
When my left hand tired, Reid took over the heavy crimp without making an event of it.
When I lost the word conductor and said “the long copper thing,” no one reacted except Owen, who asked whether that was the official engineering term.
By late morning, the workboat’s voltage held under full load.
The owner paid the deposit.
The boat left.
I stood at the bench looking at the empty cradle where the damaged splice had rested.
Reid worked across from me, cleaning his hands with solvent. Sweat darkened the collar of his blue work shirt.
