The Wand of Death
Great moments in building history: Man vs. power washer
In a fit of early midlife crisis I convinced my wife we should sell our home and move to a fixer-upper in a better area. Among the many things that needed attention at our new home was the monstrous cedar deck that snaked around the rear of the house. Over the years it had faded to a dull silver and turned fuzzy in places—as if it were sporting a gray beard.
When we decided to restore the deck, I contacted a fellow who gave me what I thought was an outrageous quote. He seemed sincere enough, and I was confused over the contradiction between his manner and his price. I had questioned him enough about his methods that I felt confident I could achieve the same professional results for a fraction of the cost. His technique for restoring decks to their original glory consisted of power washing the wood followed by light sanding in areas where the grain was raised. Then it was a matter of replacing old, decayed boards and applying the appropriate finish. What could be so tough about that? All I needed was a power washer and a little oil-based stain. So I was off to the rental place.
In all the times I’ve rented something from a rental place, I’ve never felt quite at home. I’ve seen or used almost every piece of equipment a self-respecting rental store should carry. But from the minute I stepped in the door at Bob’s Rent-all that Saturday afternoon, I knew I was in over my head.
The guy behind the counter had “Cliff” stitched to the pocket of his well-worn shirt. As if there might be any question about his identity, I found the name repeated in a bold, jagged tattoo across his massive forearm.
“I need a power washer,” I chirped. My round of tennis with the boys had ended without the ritual pitcher of beer, leaving my throat dry and obviously unmanageable. Cliff seemed amused.
“How many psi?” he demanded, sensing the uncertainty in my voice.
“How big do you have?”
“Four thousand.”
“That’ll do,” I said. “I’m power washing my deck, and I need all the pressure I can get.”
Cliff looked up from the form he was laboring over and shattered my facade with one line: “You know, 4,000 psi’ll cut through a 2×4.”
“Right. Give me whatever you think will work the best,” I mumbled.
I reluctantly accepted my status as Amateur Power Washer and slinked out to the loading dock, rental agreement thrust deeply into the back pocket of my tennis shorts. A young fellow was waiting for me at the loading docks with the power washer.
“Ever run one of these?” he barked. He had the same look that Cliff had when we first locked eyes—a Clint Eastwood meets Don Knotts kind of look.
I admitted that this was my first venture into the land of supercharged water.
“I wouldn’t use this nozzle,” he warned. Pointing to one tip on a ring of seven or eight others attached to the business end of the spray wand, he echoed, “It’ll cut through a 2×4.”
Another boy from the docks joined him to load the beast into my minivan. After a lot of grunting, they wrestled it in place and slammed the door—a little too hard, I thought.
“By the way,” said the first kid. “Make sure you keep the pistol grip open when you pull on the rope to start ’er up. If you don’t keep the pressure off, she could kick back and break your arm.” At that moment I realized I was facing a varsity home-improvement project.
On Sunday morning I put down the newspaper and headed for the closet to don my deck-washing attire. I chose a worn-out pair of deck shoes, a ratty, old T-shirt and a pair of over-the-hill swimming trunks, and I topped off my ensemble with a baseball cap.
By now I had memorized the instructions passed on by Cliff of Bob’s and his sidekick, Boy from the Docks. In fact, I’d spent half the night thinking about proper power-washing procedure: 1. Connect the water hose to the pump inlet. 2. Screw the other end to the faucet. 3. Open the valve to the gas line. 4. Turn on the water. 5. Squeeze the trigger on the wand.
6. Pull the starter cord.
Or was it pull the starter cord, THEN squeeze the trigger? No, it was definitely squeeze first, pull later. Like some misty apparition in a sci-fi movie, Boy from the Docks appeared in my mind, repeating, “It’ll break your arm. It’ll break your arm. It’ll break…”
The sun was beating down with an intensity that made the strong westerly wind a welcome relief. I decided to attack the deck from the east side where the gazebo perched on a platform 5 ft. off the ground. From the ground to the top was easily 15 ft.—I would need my extension ladder. I shoved the ladder in position, strapped on my genuine cowhide tool belt, turned on the water and—remembering to squeeze the trigger before I pulled the rope—jerked the pump to life and began my ascent.
Once the pump started, I didn’t need to hold the nozzle open. As I teetered on the ladder, I jockeyed for position. After driving a few loose nails back in their holes, I was ready to unleash 2,500 lb. per sq. in. of liquid fury. I had tried the washer out on the ground and had a pretty good idea of what to expect. Or so I thought.
The water escaped the Wand of Death with the velocity of a howitzer shell. The result was not at all what I expected. Holding on while standing with both feet firmly on the ground is one thing. Doing a water ballet on a ladder with 2,500 lb. of pulsating pressure hose is quite another. Adding the thrust of this miniature rocket motor to the gusty winds that were blowing directly into my face made the ladder go ballistic. Many people say your life flashes before your eyes when death is moments away. All I could see was Cliff of Bob’s telling me, “Your ordinary car wash only puts out 750 lb. per in. This ain’t no car wash.” Indeed.
After a cup of coffee to steady my nerves, I got back on the ladder and gave it another try. Wiser and a great deal more cautious, I got things under control and finished off the gazebo in no time at all.
But the wind and the water had taken their toll on the neighbors; what had started out as a breezy but pleasant morning on their patios had turned into a man-made monsoon. They quietly disappeared into the safety of their homes. I would apologize later.
The light sanding went well. The dried-out wood sucked up 16 gal. of stain—only about 400% more than my original estimate. But the deck looks great. And water stands on that baby just like they show in all those ads. The guys from Bob’s Rent-all would be proud.
—Phillip Webb, Omaha, Neb.
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