September 4, 2015

The sailor's major virtue

I MAY HAVE MENTIONED this before but you probably don’t remember it. Besides, it bears repeating: One of the most valuable assets a sailor can cultivate is patience, followed closely by serenity.
Imagine that you’re nicely tucked into a snug anchorage on the rugged west coast of Vancouver Island. You got in just before the wind really started howling, and now the rain is starting to pelt down.
The VHF, tuned to the British Columbian weather forecast, is relaying a doleful message:
“ ... mostly awful with occasional ghastliness ... periods of low depression followed by unremitting rain ... wind from the southeast at umpteen knots ... large-boat advisory for tonight and all day tomorrow ... wind-waves 15 feet ...”
Your course is southeast, of course. So, if you have any sense, you’re stuck.
Well, then, what did sailors do with themselves in the Great Age of Sail when they were anchored in open roadsteads waiting for the wind to change? How did they pass the time? If they were in the navy, I expect they painted the anchor cable and holystoned the deck. But how do people stop themselves from going crazy on smaller boats? What would you do with yourself while waiting out bad weather, especially in places where you can’t get cell phone service or browse the Internet?
You can only sleep or play Patience for so long before you go nuts. You might take the opportunity to change the engine oil or do some all-day job like grinding the valves — but what if the forecast is wrong? You wouldn’t want to miss a good sailing day with bits of engine spread all over the cabin.
You can’t spend days at a time doing nothing but listening to Beethoven or the Beatles, and if you spend all day cooking you’ll have to eat it all and you know what that’s going to do to your waistline.
I guess you could call the Coasties on Channel 16 but I suspect that even the nice, friendly Canadian Coast Guards would get kinda grumpy if you just want to chat and tell them how depressed you are.
You could make love, I suppose, given the right circumstances, but I’m told that the average is eight minutes, which doesn’t take up an awful lot of the day.
For these reasons, yachtsmen cooped up in port — and fearful of being criticized for wimpishness — often try to make a break for it despite the bad weather. And all too often that’s a very bad idea unless you have an exceptional boat and an exceptional crew. If you do that, you might find yourself talking to the Coasties again pretty soon, and not just for fun.
If ignorance and ill preparation are the parents of adventure, then patience and serenity are the parents of safe cruising. They don’t come easily. They have to be cultivated, like most other sailorly pursuits. Learning how to extend your love life might be a good way to start.
Today’s Thought Patience, n. A minor form of despair disguised as a virtue. — Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary
Tailpiece Ms. Smith, your work during your trial period indicates a standard of mediocrity, inadequacy, and chronic incompetence.” “Oh thank goodness. I had a silly feeling you weren’t satisfied with me.”

8 comments:

57 Degrees North said...

Eight minutes? Good heavens! I suppose even the microwave is too slow for some folks these days. My spouse and I are in our 40's and we can still, well, I'll say no more for fear of offending some of your gentle readers. (Except when noting that entire afternoons have occasionally gone missing.) It is a mystery.

Seriously though, I've always enjoyed being "stranded" by bad weather. Few things are as enjoyable as relaxing with a good book and a cuppa, and listening to the rain with no demands on your time. Having no demands on ones time is nearly impossible in our society, and when it happens, the experience ought to be savored. Along with, you know...

John Vigor said...

I must say that things sound pretty hot at 57 Degrees North. I also have to say that eight minutes is quite a long time when you're doing it and you're a skipper whose mind is totally occupied with concerns about the anchor dragging, whether he should start the engine to ease the strain on the cable, if he brought enough food and beer to last the weekend, and if the noise of whiling away eight minutes is going to wake the guest in the forepeak.

John V.

Brian Vandersall said...

I was going to say a good book, or rather a long book. War and Peace comes to mind. I seem to recall that Matt Rutherford said he read Tacitus' Annals and Histories on iPod while doing his solo circumnavigation of the Americas.

Eric said...

These are the moments in life of which writers dream. Now where did that damn muse go?

57 Degrees North said...

My muse is normally stretched out in the quarter-berth wearing an "Adam-why-don't-you-try-this-lovely-apple" smile...

Of course you are correct John. If things are tense enough to cause worry about slipping the leash, then obviously that is not the time to start limbering up for a marathon.

To my mind, this also illustrates why one should never invite guests along for anything but a day-sail. You know, just in case...

John Vigor said...

Slipping the leash . . . now there's an interesting phrase. Have you ever mentioned it to your shrink?

John V.

57 Degrees North said...

My shrink won't see me any more. It's painful.

Credit the phrase to a dour old fisherman of mixed Swedish/Scottish stock I once worked for. We where anchored up during a blow, but it was not terribly protected and the bottom wasn't the best. We could feel the anchor dragging a bit, then it come loose entirely with a lurch and a noticeable acceleration stern-wards. "Och! Aye, she's slipped her leash noo Eh?"

I'd always associated the phrase with an ill-trained dog getting loose and running away. But heck, I'm open minded...

Eric said...

The pain of your shrink not seeing you anymore is equitable to the last feather of the last bird on earth landing on your sweat soaked shoulder as you are digging the last row to plant the last seeds of corn in Iowa in December. (global warming you know)