Being the son of a plumber comes with certain expectations. You grow up believing that anything involving pipes, fittings, or flushing mechanisms should be second nature. I’ve spent years watching my dad fix everything from leaky faucets to full bathroom remodels, and even passed that wisdom down to my own sons. So when it came time to replace the toilet — or “head,” as we call it on the boat — I figured it would be a ten‑minute job. How hard could it be?
Turns out, the answer was two days, a snowstorm, and a few choice words that would make my father proud.
The original head was a marvel of over‑engineering. To use it, you had to pump water from the lake into the toilet, do your business, flip a microscopic knob, and then pump the waste into the holding tank. It was like operating a submarine ballast system. Guests would stare at it like it was a NASA control panel, trying to figure out whether the water was coming in or going out. After twenty‑five pumps to prime and thirty more to flush, most people gave up. And heaven forbid anyone put toilet paper in there — that was a guaranteed disaster. Clearly, it was time for something simpler.
At the Toronto Boat Show, I found salvation: a sleek, modern head from a French manufacturer. Finally, quality engineering from a country that knows its way around plumbing and wine. I decided to install it while the boat was out of the water, which of course meant it snowed that day. Freezing rain coated the deck in a glossy, graphene‑like sheen, and inside the boat there was no heat — just me, my tools, and the kind of stubborn optimism that usually precedes regret.
The new head had a built‑in macerator, which sounded straightforward enough. Remove the old one, connect the 12‑volt switch, and voilà. Except there was no macerator. No wires. No A/C. No TV plug. Just a lonely switch labeled “Macerator” that connected to absolutely nothing. Buyer beware. That switch has since been repurposed for “Future Use,” which is code for “I’ll figure it out someday.”
Removing the old head should have been simple — four screws. Except those screws were installed by someone who clearly assembled the boat outside the boat. Accessing them required special tools, yoga poses, and a level of patience I do not possess. Four screws, four hours. In a house, ten minutes. On a boat, bring snacks and emotional support.
Day two went smoother. The installation was well‑documented, and the new head fit perfectly. The wiring, however, was another story. The manual said I could connect it to ignition or the house battery. I figured if someone needed to go, they shouldn’t have to wait for me to start the engine, so I wired it directly to the house battery. I added a fuse panel, connected it to the solar‑charged AGM battery (a thoughtful gift), and realized I now had more batteries than sense. Cue two more days of rethinking the electrical system.
Launch day arrived, and the moment of truth was at hand. No leaks, power on, water primed. I hit the switch — and it worked. I laughed out loud. Then I hit it again. It worked again. I may have flushed that toilet fifteen times in pure joy. It was glorious.
A month later, it stopped working. Turns out the installer (me) hadn’t pushed the switch firmly into the bracket. Ten‑minute fix. All good. But the manual said to use one‑ply toilet paper, and after visiting Greece — where hotels politely ask you not to put any paper in the toilet — I decided to follow their wisdom. Now I have a self‑sealing garbage can for paper. No smell, no drama, no clogs.
With the manual pump, nobody used the head. With the electric switch, everyone’s smiling. Acceptance achieved. The boat from 1994 has officially joined 2026. The French head reigns supreme. And somewhere, my dad is shaking his head — proud, amused, and probably saying, “Told you it wouldn’t be a ten‑minute job.”
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