EVERY TIME I HEAR some sailor boasting about the alleged seaworthiness of his dear sailboat I wonder if he knows the difference between static and dynamic stability.
In other words, I wonder if he knows the difference between how stable his boat might be in calm water (static) and how unstable it might be at sea in big waves (dynamic).
It’s an established fact that no amount of static testing will reveal how much more vulnerable a boat is to capsize when it is weaving its way through heavy swells.
This phenomenon was investigated in the late 1800s by William Froude, an eminent British naval engineer who was well versed in fluid dynamics. Froude did many experiments for the British navy, including his most famous, which determined the amount of force that water exerts on a body passing through it. But the experiment that should concern all small-boat sailors dealt with the inclination of a sailboat to capsize on the crest of a wave.
As you have probably noticed, you get a strange feeling in the pit of your stomach when your boat heaves upward suddenly on the face of a steep wave and then drops off suddenly. Froude discovered that at the top of the heave your boat experiences a degree of weightlessness.
At that stage, the boat is virtually in free fall. And thus, Froude found, a boat’s stability vanishes completely as she floats over the crest. There is no resistance from the water to stop her from being blown over by the wind.
This rather scary theory is well borne out in practice. The phenomenon of ocean-going sailboats and small racing dinghies capsizing on the crests of even non-breaking waves is well documented. The degree of danger depends, among other things, on the height and steepness of the swells as well as the design of your boat.
Froude also found that the presence of a wave crest near amidships resulted in a decreased righting moment. On the other hand, a wave trough amidships increased the righting moment, compared with the static stability.
If this all seems highly scientific to you, be aware that good sailors know intuitively that when they’re running in heavy seas in a displacement hull they shouldn’t spend too much time on the crest of a wave. That’s why they try to slow the boat with a drogue, to let the wave crest pass underneath quickly. Sitting on top of a wave, especially a breaking wave, is never where you want to be.
Today’s Thought
The sea thinks for me as a listen and ponder; the sea thinks, and every boom of the wave repeats my prayer.
— Richard Jefferies, The Story of My Heart
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb #7
Statistics from cruisers in Mexico, the Caribbean, and the South Pacific show that the average yacht spends 10 percent of the time at sea, 5 percent tied to docks, and 85 percent at anchor. This emphasizes the importance of good and easily handled ground tackle, and an efficient dinghy.
Tailpiece
“I see that restaurant on Main Street is hiring a gypsy band from Romania, and waiters dressed as bandits.”
“That’ll make a nice change. Last time I was there they had bandits dressed as waiters.”
Showing posts with label sailboats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sailboats. Show all posts
January 27, 2010
September 17, 2009
How not to start a race
I WAS THINKING the other day of how, in the world of sailboats, racing helps with cruising. Racing helps you develop a sense of when a cruising boat is sailing most efficiently — what the current is doing, how the wind is switching, what the most favorable tack is, and how to trim the sails.
I haven’t raced in a long time now, but when I’m out cruising I often think back on my racing days with gratitude. Not all of my racing days, of course. Some of them were pretty fraught with anxiety. Like the time I nearly blew my foot off with the starter’s shotgun.
I was the sole organizer of a Sunday afternoon race in Durban harbor, where the race course was a channel between sandbanks about 200 yards apart. Durban was a busy port and this channel was used by large ocean-going ships.
As secretary of a new class of 11-foot wooden sailboats called Mirrors, I had sent out invitations to 80 local owners, most of whom were beginners who had never raced in their lives.
Seventy eight turned up at the yacht club and started bumbling down to the start line, completely filling the channel with their bright red sails. One end of the line was on a sandbank where I was waiting with a shotgun I’d borrowed from the Royal Natal Yacht Club.
As I was getting ready to fire off the starting signal I was stricken by the thought of what might happen if a big ship came down the channel. Ships had no room to maneuver in this narrow strait. They couldn’t slow down, otherwise they’d lose steerage way and drift sideways onto a sandbank. I didn’t have any rescue boats to shepherd my little ducklings out of the way. And I naturally hadn’t thought to get the permission of the harbormaster to hold this race.
And so, four minutes before the starting time, mental stress caused my finger to twitch and I pulled the trigger. It was a blank, of course, and the gun was facing down. There was a loud BOOM! A large hole appeared in the sand an inch from my right foot. And half the fleet started. The other half wandered around in circles looking puzzled, shaking their watches, and watching me hopping around on the sandbank. Confusion reigned.
I waved them on as best I could, and eventually everybody started. By some miracle no big ship came through the fleet, and everybody finished. There was no point in trying to list the finishers in order, of course, and there were no results, just a lot of recrimination in the yacht club that evening. And a lot of laughs and a lot of beers, both at my expense.
Today’s Thought
The price one pays for pursuing any profession or calling is an intimate knowledge of its ugly side.
James Baldwin, Nobody Knows My Name
Tailpiece
A limerick packs laughs anatomical
Into space that is quite economical.
But the good ones I’ve seen
So seldom are clean,
And the clean ones so seldom are comical.
I haven’t raced in a long time now, but when I’m out cruising I often think back on my racing days with gratitude. Not all of my racing days, of course. Some of them were pretty fraught with anxiety. Like the time I nearly blew my foot off with the starter’s shotgun.
I was the sole organizer of a Sunday afternoon race in Durban harbor, where the race course was a channel between sandbanks about 200 yards apart. Durban was a busy port and this channel was used by large ocean-going ships.
As secretary of a new class of 11-foot wooden sailboats called Mirrors, I had sent out invitations to 80 local owners, most of whom were beginners who had never raced in their lives.
Seventy eight turned up at the yacht club and started bumbling down to the start line, completely filling the channel with their bright red sails. One end of the line was on a sandbank where I was waiting with a shotgun I’d borrowed from the Royal Natal Yacht Club.
As I was getting ready to fire off the starting signal I was stricken by the thought of what might happen if a big ship came down the channel. Ships had no room to maneuver in this narrow strait. They couldn’t slow down, otherwise they’d lose steerage way and drift sideways onto a sandbank. I didn’t have any rescue boats to shepherd my little ducklings out of the way. And I naturally hadn’t thought to get the permission of the harbormaster to hold this race.
And so, four minutes before the starting time, mental stress caused my finger to twitch and I pulled the trigger. It was a blank, of course, and the gun was facing down. There was a loud BOOM! A large hole appeared in the sand an inch from my right foot. And half the fleet started. The other half wandered around in circles looking puzzled, shaking their watches, and watching me hopping around on the sandbank. Confusion reigned.
I waved them on as best I could, and eventually everybody started. By some miracle no big ship came through the fleet, and everybody finished. There was no point in trying to list the finishers in order, of course, and there were no results, just a lot of recrimination in the yacht club that evening. And a lot of laughs and a lot of beers, both at my expense.
Today’s Thought
The price one pays for pursuing any profession or calling is an intimate knowledge of its ugly side.
James Baldwin, Nobody Knows My Name
Tailpiece
A limerick packs laughs anatomical
Into space that is quite economical.
But the good ones I’ve seen
So seldom are clean,
And the clean ones so seldom are comical.
September 3, 2009
Closer my love, to thee
I LIVE 2.6 MILES from my boat. It takes me about 12 minutes by car to get there. I guess I’m one of the lucky ones, because I know people who live hours away from their boats. I’ve often wondered how they feel when they arrive at their boats and remember that they’ve left a special tool or something vital at home. Or, worse, when they get home and realize they’ve left the forehatch ajar, or the head seacock open.
I don’t think I could bear it. The farthest I've ever lived from my boat was five miles, and that was bad enough. Five miles of city traffic. Things have improved somewhat since then.
My dream, my fantasy, has always been to have my boat floating on a deepwater mooring in front of my house. It won’t ever happen, I know, but wouldn’t it be wonderful to be able to step aboard and sail anywhere in the world?
I’ve always found it fascinating that the water my boat floats in is actually part of a highway that reaches every port in the world. It leads to every ocean beach and island washed by the great seas, to large cities and tiny island villages in every continent all around the world.
The exciting thing is not that I would ever do it, but the fact that I could do it if I wanted to. We are not free to do everything we wish in this world, no matter how much our government assures us that we enjoy complete freedom in our great democracy. We don’t have the freedom to drive on the wrong side of the road, for example, or travel in space, or even to fly like a bird, for that matter.
But a boat gently stirring on a mooring in front of your house is a tangible reminder that you do have one of life’s greatest freedoms. And those of us who don’t necessarily want to exercise our right to take advantage of it can still enjoy our dreams, knowing that they are indeed possible.
Today’s Thought
We are not free; it was not intended we should be. A book of rules is placed in our cradle, and we never get rid of it until we reach our graves. Then we are free, and only then.
— E. W. Howe, Howe’s Monthly
Tailpiece
“I see you had a date with John.”
“No, I tore my dress on a nail.”
I don’t think I could bear it. The farthest I've ever lived from my boat was five miles, and that was bad enough. Five miles of city traffic. Things have improved somewhat since then.
My dream, my fantasy, has always been to have my boat floating on a deepwater mooring in front of my house. It won’t ever happen, I know, but wouldn’t it be wonderful to be able to step aboard and sail anywhere in the world?
I’ve always found it fascinating that the water my boat floats in is actually part of a highway that reaches every port in the world. It leads to every ocean beach and island washed by the great seas, to large cities and tiny island villages in every continent all around the world.
The exciting thing is not that I would ever do it, but the fact that I could do it if I wanted to. We are not free to do everything we wish in this world, no matter how much our government assures us that we enjoy complete freedom in our great democracy. We don’t have the freedom to drive on the wrong side of the road, for example, or travel in space, or even to fly like a bird, for that matter.
But a boat gently stirring on a mooring in front of your house is a tangible reminder that you do have one of life’s greatest freedoms. And those of us who don’t necessarily want to exercise our right to take advantage of it can still enjoy our dreams, knowing that they are indeed possible.
Today’s Thought
We are not free; it was not intended we should be. A book of rules is placed in our cradle, and we never get rid of it until we reach our graves. Then we are free, and only then.
— E. W. Howe, Howe’s Monthly
Tailpiece
“I see you had a date with John.”
“No, I tore my dress on a nail.”
July 30, 2009
Swimsuits for boats
(See this space every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a new Mainly About Boats column.)
OLD WOTSISNAME who moors down the row from me is in a dilemma. It started when he read in the Daily Bungle that world-champion swimmer Michael Phelps had been beaten by a competitor wearing a polyurethane swimsuit. Phelps had a special Speedo swimsuit of his own, of course, but it wasn’t as fast as the newest polyurethane one apparently.
A light went on in OW’s devious head. He feigns indifference to the wholesale criticism of how slowly his old concrete boat sails, but deep down inside it hurts. He would do almost anything to beat somebody some day. And when he heard that a polyurethane swimsuit adds speed to a swimmer, it occurred to him that a polyurethane bottom might also add speed to his boat.
His first idea was to buy a few dozen poly swimsuits, cut them up, sew them together in flat sheets, and glue them to his boat’s bottom. Then he found out that two dozen poly suits would cost about 10 times what his boat is worth. Maybe 100 times.
The next step was to find out what polyurethane sealant such as 3M 5200 would cost if he ordered it by the barrel and painted it on the bottom. But that idea was squashed when I explained to him that the swimsuit wasn’t just polyurethane but a special fabric such as Spandex that repels water and traps air.
Then Phelps poked a stick in the wheel. He won the world 200-meter butterfly in Rome wearing a swimsuit that stretched only from his waist to his ankles. Broke his own world record while he was at it.
So now OW is wondering whether he should cover only the aft section of his hull, rather than the whole underwater body; and if so, with what? The answer might prove interesting. I saw him yesterday walking along with a smug grin on his face. He was carrying a large roll of bubble-wrap. Well — it does repel water and it does trap air. Maybe he’s on to something.
Today’s Thought
The greatest inventions were produced in time of ignorance; as the use of the compass, gunpowder, and printing; and by the dullest nation, as the Germans.
—Swift, Gulliver’s Travels: Voyage to Laputa
Tailpiece
“How’s your son getting on these days?”
“He just turned 18. He kissed his first girl and started smoking.”
“Wow! Must have been some kiss.”
OLD WOTSISNAME who moors down the row from me is in a dilemma. It started when he read in the Daily Bungle that world-champion swimmer Michael Phelps had been beaten by a competitor wearing a polyurethane swimsuit. Phelps had a special Speedo swimsuit of his own, of course, but it wasn’t as fast as the newest polyurethane one apparently.
A light went on in OW’s devious head. He feigns indifference to the wholesale criticism of how slowly his old concrete boat sails, but deep down inside it hurts. He would do almost anything to beat somebody some day. And when he heard that a polyurethane swimsuit adds speed to a swimmer, it occurred to him that a polyurethane bottom might also add speed to his boat.
His first idea was to buy a few dozen poly swimsuits, cut them up, sew them together in flat sheets, and glue them to his boat’s bottom. Then he found out that two dozen poly suits would cost about 10 times what his boat is worth. Maybe 100 times.
The next step was to find out what polyurethane sealant such as 3M 5200 would cost if he ordered it by the barrel and painted it on the bottom. But that idea was squashed when I explained to him that the swimsuit wasn’t just polyurethane but a special fabric such as Spandex that repels water and traps air.
Then Phelps poked a stick in the wheel. He won the world 200-meter butterfly in Rome wearing a swimsuit that stretched only from his waist to his ankles. Broke his own world record while he was at it.
So now OW is wondering whether he should cover only the aft section of his hull, rather than the whole underwater body; and if so, with what? The answer might prove interesting. I saw him yesterday walking along with a smug grin on his face. He was carrying a large roll of bubble-wrap. Well — it does repel water and it does trap air. Maybe he’s on to something.
Today’s Thought
The greatest inventions were produced in time of ignorance; as the use of the compass, gunpowder, and printing; and by the dullest nation, as the Germans.
—Swift, Gulliver’s Travels: Voyage to Laputa
Tailpiece
“How’s your son getting on these days?”
“He just turned 18. He kissed his first girl and started smoking.”
“Wow! Must have been some kiss.”
July 26, 2009
Dimples in my bottom
(Read John Vigor’s mind here every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.)
SOME TIME IN THE PAST a manufacturer of golf balls discovered that putting dimples in the surface of the ball made it go faster and farther. Now every golf ball has dimples.
I’m not sure that anyone understands why this is. Specialists in aerodynamics talk a lot about the boundary layer and amount of friction and drag caused by a ball moving through air, friction that obviously slows the ball, but it’s not in any sort of language I can understand, although I am forced by personal ignorance and empirical evidence to believe that what they say is true.
Now you may be wondering what golf balls have to do with sailboats. The answer is what they have in common — drag. Sailboats move through water, which is about 800 times denser than air, and they move at about 1/800 of the speed of a golf ball. And as they do so, they meet resistance in the form of drag on the underwater wetted surface.
Now some people I know (hint: racers) go to a lot of trouble to make the underwater paint job really smooth. The idea is to make the boat slip more easily through the water, to create less fuss, to lessen drag, and go faster.
It has never occurred to them that they are emulating the ancient style of golf ball, the one before dimples were invented. It has never occurred to them that their boats might go faster if the underwater paint job was dimpled.
Well, that’s my excuse, anyhow. My boat has a dimpled bottom. I would like to claim that it was by design but it actually wasn’t. When it came to painting the bottom, I decided to use a coarser-than-usual roller because I wanted to get a nice thick coat of copper paint on. I was a little surprised at the rough texture it left behind, but once you’ve started you might as well grit your teeth and go through to the finish, I always say. And so I ended up with a bottom paint job rougher than an alligator’s backside.
I am not dismayed, however. My research, which led me to golf balls and dimples thereon, cheered me up immensely. I think I may be on to something. I am certainly not going to sand my bottom smooth and start again. I am hoping that my dimpled bottom will allow me to go faster and farther, just like a well-struck golf ball.
I am even thinking of patenting the idea. Once the racers hear about it, they’ll all want to try it. If I make enough money I might be able to afford a nifty little racer myself. I remember how to do it. You just have to yell “Starboard!” a lot and shout “Room to tack!” Nothing to it.
Today’s Thought
If it is not true, it is very well invented.
Giordano Bruno, Degli Eroici Furori (1585)
Tailpiece
The maitre of a New York hotel watched in amazement as an Ohio tourist carefully washed his dessert spoon in the finger bowl.
He rushed up apologetically, saying: “There’s no need to do that sir.”
“Oh no?” said the tourist. “This is a new suit, buster. You think I want ice-cream all over my pocket?”
SOME TIME IN THE PAST a manufacturer of golf balls discovered that putting dimples in the surface of the ball made it go faster and farther. Now every golf ball has dimples.
I’m not sure that anyone understands why this is. Specialists in aerodynamics talk a lot about the boundary layer and amount of friction and drag caused by a ball moving through air, friction that obviously slows the ball, but it’s not in any sort of language I can understand, although I am forced by personal ignorance and empirical evidence to believe that what they say is true.
Now you may be wondering what golf balls have to do with sailboats. The answer is what they have in common — drag. Sailboats move through water, which is about 800 times denser than air, and they move at about 1/800 of the speed of a golf ball. And as they do so, they meet resistance in the form of drag on the underwater wetted surface.
Now some people I know (hint: racers) go to a lot of trouble to make the underwater paint job really smooth. The idea is to make the boat slip more easily through the water, to create less fuss, to lessen drag, and go faster.
It has never occurred to them that they are emulating the ancient style of golf ball, the one before dimples were invented. It has never occurred to them that their boats might go faster if the underwater paint job was dimpled.
Well, that’s my excuse, anyhow. My boat has a dimpled bottom. I would like to claim that it was by design but it actually wasn’t. When it came to painting the bottom, I decided to use a coarser-than-usual roller because I wanted to get a nice thick coat of copper paint on. I was a little surprised at the rough texture it left behind, but once you’ve started you might as well grit your teeth and go through to the finish, I always say. And so I ended up with a bottom paint job rougher than an alligator’s backside.
I am not dismayed, however. My research, which led me to golf balls and dimples thereon, cheered me up immensely. I think I may be on to something. I am certainly not going to sand my bottom smooth and start again. I am hoping that my dimpled bottom will allow me to go faster and farther, just like a well-struck golf ball.
I am even thinking of patenting the idea. Once the racers hear about it, they’ll all want to try it. If I make enough money I might be able to afford a nifty little racer myself. I remember how to do it. You just have to yell “Starboard!” a lot and shout “Room to tack!” Nothing to it.
Today’s Thought
If it is not true, it is very well invented.
Giordano Bruno, Degli Eroici Furori (1585)
Tailpiece
The maitre of a New York hotel watched in amazement as an Ohio tourist carefully washed his dessert spoon in the finger bowl.
He rushed up apologetically, saying: “There’s no need to do that sir.”
“Oh no?” said the tourist. “This is a new suit, buster. You think I want ice-cream all over my pocket?”
July 12, 2009
How not to paint your boat
This is where you’ll find a new Mainly About Boats column by John Vigor every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday
A FEW WEEKS AGO my boat was out of the water. I had painted the bottom and was busy taking the seacocks to bits, cleaning them, greasing them, and doing my best to put them together in the right order again with no bits left over. It’s not my favorite job because most of these seacocks are hard to get at on my boat and I either end up hanging by my toes from a deck hatch or lying prone on the cabin floor trying to reach around the engine. Either way, I have to have to take a break now and then to ease my cramped muscles and aching bones.
On one such break I noticed a young man and his girlfriend painting a sailboat behind mine. They were rolling and brushing a twin-pack polyurethane onto the topsides. I was surprised to see that the paint was dark blue, because he had previously applied a white undercoat. I naturally assumed the top coat would be white, too. Wasn’t it Herreshoff who said there are only two colors to paint a boat — white and black? And only a fool would paint a boat black.
He was rolling the paint on, and she was tipping it off, brushing vertically, straight up and down. I could see disaster looming and I had to work hard to curb the impulse to go over and give them advice. I have learned, in my old age, that people don’t appreciate unsolicited advice, especially from strangers.
I was right, though. It was a disaster. The next day he was sanding it all off. What were his crimes?
Well, first of all it’s not the cleverest move to paint a boat dark blue if you’re an amateur working out in the open in a dusty, windy boatyard. Colors such as black, blue, and red are traps for the unwary. Their appeal is that they look magnificent when they’re correctly applied over an absolutely perfectly smooth base. But the problem is that they exaggerate every little flaw in the preparation and execution.
White is very forgiving. It doesn’t glitter and reflect with such overt enthusiasm as the show-off darker colors, but it shines with enough modest beauty for most of us, and it covers up a lot of amateur sins. It doesn’t fade in the sun, either, like red and blue. White is good. White is the industry standard.
Nevertheless, if you’re determined to go against the sagest advice and paint your hull dark blue, you should at least make the undercoat grey, not white. The dark blue on the young man’s boat came out blotchy blue because, where the new paint was scratched on thinner in some places, the white undercoat grinned through.
But the biggest crime, and the one that had me gritting my teeth, was that the young woman, coming along behind the roller, was tipping off the wet polyurethane in an up-and-down direction, instead of sweeping lightly in a horizontal direction. When you brush from side to side, gravity helps the paint to level itself better. It spreads itself out more evenly. When you paint up and down, gravity helps the paint to run down and collect at the bottom of the stroke. So they ended up with a blotchy blue bunch of blobs on their boat.
My boat was launched the next day and I’m glad to say none of the seacocks leaked. But I didn’t get to see the end of the blue-boat saga. I hope someone told the young lady she was doing it all wrong. I’m glad it wasn’t me, though. I don’t think I’m brave enough for that any more.
Today’s Thought
Perfection irritates as well as it attracts, in fiction as in life.
—Louis Auchincloss
Tailpiece
A few years ago, before President Obama even thought about going to Ghana, a touring Brit entered a restaurant in deepest, darkest Africa with great caution. He found a table without fuss and sat down quietly.
When the waiter came, he asked timidly: “Do you still serve Englishmen here?”
“Yes sah,” said the waiter enthusiastically. “Rare, medium, or well done?”
A FEW WEEKS AGO my boat was out of the water. I had painted the bottom and was busy taking the seacocks to bits, cleaning them, greasing them, and doing my best to put them together in the right order again with no bits left over. It’s not my favorite job because most of these seacocks are hard to get at on my boat and I either end up hanging by my toes from a deck hatch or lying prone on the cabin floor trying to reach around the engine. Either way, I have to have to take a break now and then to ease my cramped muscles and aching bones.
On one such break I noticed a young man and his girlfriend painting a sailboat behind mine. They were rolling and brushing a twin-pack polyurethane onto the topsides. I was surprised to see that the paint was dark blue, because he had previously applied a white undercoat. I naturally assumed the top coat would be white, too. Wasn’t it Herreshoff who said there are only two colors to paint a boat — white and black? And only a fool would paint a boat black.
He was rolling the paint on, and she was tipping it off, brushing vertically, straight up and down. I could see disaster looming and I had to work hard to curb the impulse to go over and give them advice. I have learned, in my old age, that people don’t appreciate unsolicited advice, especially from strangers.
I was right, though. It was a disaster. The next day he was sanding it all off. What were his crimes?
Well, first of all it’s not the cleverest move to paint a boat dark blue if you’re an amateur working out in the open in a dusty, windy boatyard. Colors such as black, blue, and red are traps for the unwary. Their appeal is that they look magnificent when they’re correctly applied over an absolutely perfectly smooth base. But the problem is that they exaggerate every little flaw in the preparation and execution.
White is very forgiving. It doesn’t glitter and reflect with such overt enthusiasm as the show-off darker colors, but it shines with enough modest beauty for most of us, and it covers up a lot of amateur sins. It doesn’t fade in the sun, either, like red and blue. White is good. White is the industry standard.
Nevertheless, if you’re determined to go against the sagest advice and paint your hull dark blue, you should at least make the undercoat grey, not white. The dark blue on the young man’s boat came out blotchy blue because, where the new paint was scratched on thinner in some places, the white undercoat grinned through.
But the biggest crime, and the one that had me gritting my teeth, was that the young woman, coming along behind the roller, was tipping off the wet polyurethane in an up-and-down direction, instead of sweeping lightly in a horizontal direction. When you brush from side to side, gravity helps the paint to level itself better. It spreads itself out more evenly. When you paint up and down, gravity helps the paint to run down and collect at the bottom of the stroke. So they ended up with a blotchy blue bunch of blobs on their boat.
My boat was launched the next day and I’m glad to say none of the seacocks leaked. But I didn’t get to see the end of the blue-boat saga. I hope someone told the young lady she was doing it all wrong. I’m glad it wasn’t me, though. I don’t think I’m brave enough for that any more.
Today’s Thought
Perfection irritates as well as it attracts, in fiction as in life.
—Louis Auchincloss
Tailpiece
A few years ago, before President Obama even thought about going to Ghana, a touring Brit entered a restaurant in deepest, darkest Africa with great caution. He found a table without fuss and sat down quietly.
When the waiter came, he asked timidly: “Do you still serve Englishmen here?”
“Yes sah,” said the waiter enthusiastically. “Rare, medium, or well done?”
July 7, 2009
The fire that just won’t go out
This is where you’ll find a new Mainly About Boats column by John Vigor every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. You can also browse among more than 100 archived columns over on the right.
LONG AGO I READ in one of Eric Hiscock’s fine cruising books that he always started salivating at the smell of burning stove alcohol. It was a signal, relayed to his brain by his nose, that his good wife, Susan, was down below preparing supper while he slaved away at the helm in mid-ocean. I hate to compare the venerable Hiscock with Pavlov’s dog, but I’m sure you can see the similarities.
Denatured alcohol, or methylated spirits as it is known in the rest of the English-speaking world, was used in those days, the middle of the 20th century, to preheat the burners on pressurized kerosene (paraffin) stoves such as the Primus and the Optimus. These pump-up stoves served sailors well for many years, but for the past decade or two a tinge of wimpishness has crept into small-boat galleys. Modern sailors brought up in a culture of instant gratification and enforced safety, where personal risk taking is often illegal, started complaining about the flare-ups that occur when you don’t wait long enough for the burner to get hot enough. Eyebrows and beards were singed. Galley curtains were lost. Fires were not unheard of.
So the manufacturers of boat stoves, responding to the plaintive whines of those untutored and unskilled in the ancient art of lighting a stove, turned away from kerosene and started producing pressurized alcohol stoves instead — much to the delight of the distillers of denatured alcohol whose product is two or three times as expensive as kerosene, despite the fact that it produces less heating energy by volume. The rationale behind this move, gladly accepted by gullible seacooks lacking eyebrows and galley curtains, was that you can put out an alcohol fire with water. That is not always the case, of course. It all depends. Sometimes throwing water on an alcohol fire just swishes the fire to a new location, floating on top of the water, where it can set something else ablaze.
But even with alcohol stoves there was a catch. They still had to be pre-heated, and pre-heated by a generation lacking in pre-heating skills. Flare-ups continued to occur. In some cases they were even more dangerous than kerosene flare-ups. When partially heated kerosene flares up it burns with a lovely orange-yellow flame framed by black, sooty smoke. You can’t miss the fact that it’s flaring up. But partially heated alcohol burns with an almost invisible flame. If you’re not particularly observant, especially in bright daylight, an alcohol flare-up will set your galley overhead ablaze before you’re even aware of it.
So the stove manufacturers put on their thinking caps again and came up with the latest thing in stoves, the non-pressurized alcohol stove. It’s really no more than a glorified version of Sterno’s Canned Heat at about 500 times the price. It takes longer to cook things but it satisfies the craving for safety among those too cowardly to expose themselves to pressurized alcohol or (heaven forfend!) propane gas.
But that’s not the end of the story. As an old kerosene Primus lover and the present owner of a pressurized alcohol stove, I am delighted to report that flare-ups occur among non-pressurized alcohol stoves, too. A letter to the editors of Good Old Boat magazine complains about wind swirling the flame under the stovetop, superheating the metal top and the surrounding wooden counter edging. The editors responded: “We have had our Origo non-pressurized alcohol stove go critical as well. Oddly enough, it always happens to us when the fuel canister is very nearly empty.”
So maybe one of these days the circle will be complete and we’ll get back to pressurized kerosene stoves again. Maybe people will relearn the lost virtue of patience, of waiting an extra minute or two while the burner gets hot. If they want lessons, I can teach them.
Today’s Thought
A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.
—John A. Shedd, Salt from My Attic
Tailpiece
“And what is your name, my good man?”
“James, madam.”
“I’m not accustomed to calling my chauffeurs by their first names. What is your last name?”
“Darling, madam.”
“Very well, drive on, James.”
LONG AGO I READ in one of Eric Hiscock’s fine cruising books that he always started salivating at the smell of burning stove alcohol. It was a signal, relayed to his brain by his nose, that his good wife, Susan, was down below preparing supper while he slaved away at the helm in mid-ocean. I hate to compare the venerable Hiscock with Pavlov’s dog, but I’m sure you can see the similarities.
Denatured alcohol, or methylated spirits as it is known in the rest of the English-speaking world, was used in those days, the middle of the 20th century, to preheat the burners on pressurized kerosene (paraffin) stoves such as the Primus and the Optimus. These pump-up stoves served sailors well for many years, but for the past decade or two a tinge of wimpishness has crept into small-boat galleys. Modern sailors brought up in a culture of instant gratification and enforced safety, where personal risk taking is often illegal, started complaining about the flare-ups that occur when you don’t wait long enough for the burner to get hot enough. Eyebrows and beards were singed. Galley curtains were lost. Fires were not unheard of.
So the manufacturers of boat stoves, responding to the plaintive whines of those untutored and unskilled in the ancient art of lighting a stove, turned away from kerosene and started producing pressurized alcohol stoves instead — much to the delight of the distillers of denatured alcohol whose product is two or three times as expensive as kerosene, despite the fact that it produces less heating energy by volume. The rationale behind this move, gladly accepted by gullible seacooks lacking eyebrows and galley curtains, was that you can put out an alcohol fire with water. That is not always the case, of course. It all depends. Sometimes throwing water on an alcohol fire just swishes the fire to a new location, floating on top of the water, where it can set something else ablaze.
But even with alcohol stoves there was a catch. They still had to be pre-heated, and pre-heated by a generation lacking in pre-heating skills. Flare-ups continued to occur. In some cases they were even more dangerous than kerosene flare-ups. When partially heated kerosene flares up it burns with a lovely orange-yellow flame framed by black, sooty smoke. You can’t miss the fact that it’s flaring up. But partially heated alcohol burns with an almost invisible flame. If you’re not particularly observant, especially in bright daylight, an alcohol flare-up will set your galley overhead ablaze before you’re even aware of it.
So the stove manufacturers put on their thinking caps again and came up with the latest thing in stoves, the non-pressurized alcohol stove. It’s really no more than a glorified version of Sterno’s Canned Heat at about 500 times the price. It takes longer to cook things but it satisfies the craving for safety among those too cowardly to expose themselves to pressurized alcohol or (heaven forfend!) propane gas.
But that’s not the end of the story. As an old kerosene Primus lover and the present owner of a pressurized alcohol stove, I am delighted to report that flare-ups occur among non-pressurized alcohol stoves, too. A letter to the editors of Good Old Boat magazine complains about wind swirling the flame under the stovetop, superheating the metal top and the surrounding wooden counter edging. The editors responded: “We have had our Origo non-pressurized alcohol stove go critical as well. Oddly enough, it always happens to us when the fuel canister is very nearly empty.”
So maybe one of these days the circle will be complete and we’ll get back to pressurized kerosene stoves again. Maybe people will relearn the lost virtue of patience, of waiting an extra minute or two while the burner gets hot. If they want lessons, I can teach them.
Today’s Thought
A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.
—John A. Shedd, Salt from My Attic
Tailpiece
“And what is your name, my good man?”
“James, madam.”
“I’m not accustomed to calling my chauffeurs by their first names. What is your last name?”
“Darling, madam.”
“Very well, drive on, James.”
July 2, 2009
The law is an ass
Watch out for John Vigor’s Mainly About Boats column every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday ... three new columns every week.
I HAVE A CLEAR RECOLLECTION of an incident from my dinghy-racing days when I felt I was unfairly required to give way to another boat. I was sailing an 11-foot International Mirror dinghy, pointing as high as the gunter rig would let me on, the port tack.
Behind me, and to leeward, was a friend of mine in a larger Finn-class dinghy. He was pointing higher than me and going faster. It wasn’t long before he was shouting at me to get out of his way.
My first instinct was to ignore him, but then I thought of the possibility of a collision and a protest that I might lose. I didn’t think it was likely that I would lose, but ... I was in the lead in my class at the time, and I could afford to lose a little time by tacking out of the Finn’s way, which I did with a lot of grumbling.
The rule cited by my friend was a very basic one from the international collision regulations: when two sailboats are on the same tack, the windward boat gives way to the leeward boat. I personally don’t think it was ever meant to be applied in these conditions, where a bigger faster and more close-winded boat is approaching a smaller, slower boat that can’t point as high — which makes it difficult for the smaller boat to get out of his way.
The racing rules apart, I wonder which of the two international rules would count in this situation. The rule that overrides all others is: the overtaking vessel must keep clear of the other vessel. If you in your sailboat start overtaking a Bayliner powerboat, it’s your duty to keep clear of him. So why should a Finn have right of way over a Mirror he’s overtaking? Grumble, grumble.
If you are under sail alone, you must also keep clear of:
► Vessels not under command
► Vessels restricted in their ability to maneuver
► Vessels constrained by their draft, and
► Vessels engaged in a manner of fishing that hampers their ability to maneuver
If you and another sailboat are on opposite tacks, the boat on port tack must give way to the other vessel. And finally, if you’re on port tack and you can see a sailboat to windward, but you can’t figure out which tack she’s on, you must take action to keep clear of the other boat. This could work to your advantage if you’re the windward boat, of course, and running dead downwind. Just keep jibing from port tack to starboard. That should send the other boat fleeing for cover. It’s not in the spirit of the rules, of course, but what the hell, few sailboat racers can claim to be angels, or even want to be.
Todays Thought
I don’t see the use in drawin’ hard and fast rules. You only have to break them.
—John Galsworthy, Eldest Son.
Tailpiece
“Filthy pictures, sir?”
“Good grief, no.”
“Filthy pictures, sir?”
“No, no, go away!”
“Filthy pictures, sir?”
“Leave me alone, you’re far too young. Shoo!”
“Filthy pictures, sir?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake … alright, how many d’you want?”
I HAVE A CLEAR RECOLLECTION of an incident from my dinghy-racing days when I felt I was unfairly required to give way to another boat. I was sailing an 11-foot International Mirror dinghy, pointing as high as the gunter rig would let me on, the port tack.
Behind me, and to leeward, was a friend of mine in a larger Finn-class dinghy. He was pointing higher than me and going faster. It wasn’t long before he was shouting at me to get out of his way.
My first instinct was to ignore him, but then I thought of the possibility of a collision and a protest that I might lose. I didn’t think it was likely that I would lose, but ... I was in the lead in my class at the time, and I could afford to lose a little time by tacking out of the Finn’s way, which I did with a lot of grumbling.
The rule cited by my friend was a very basic one from the international collision regulations: when two sailboats are on the same tack, the windward boat gives way to the leeward boat. I personally don’t think it was ever meant to be applied in these conditions, where a bigger faster and more close-winded boat is approaching a smaller, slower boat that can’t point as high — which makes it difficult for the smaller boat to get out of his way.
The racing rules apart, I wonder which of the two international rules would count in this situation. The rule that overrides all others is: the overtaking vessel must keep clear of the other vessel. If you in your sailboat start overtaking a Bayliner powerboat, it’s your duty to keep clear of him. So why should a Finn have right of way over a Mirror he’s overtaking? Grumble, grumble.
If you are under sail alone, you must also keep clear of:
► Vessels not under command
► Vessels restricted in their ability to maneuver
► Vessels constrained by their draft, and
► Vessels engaged in a manner of fishing that hampers their ability to maneuver
If you and another sailboat are on opposite tacks, the boat on port tack must give way to the other vessel. And finally, if you’re on port tack and you can see a sailboat to windward, but you can’t figure out which tack she’s on, you must take action to keep clear of the other boat. This could work to your advantage if you’re the windward boat, of course, and running dead downwind. Just keep jibing from port tack to starboard. That should send the other boat fleeing for cover. It’s not in the spirit of the rules, of course, but what the hell, few sailboat racers can claim to be angels, or even want to be.
Todays Thought
I don’t see the use in drawin’ hard and fast rules. You only have to break them.
—John Galsworthy, Eldest Son.
Tailpiece
“Filthy pictures, sir?”
“Good grief, no.”
“Filthy pictures, sir?”
“No, no, go away!”
“Filthy pictures, sir?”
“Leave me alone, you’re far too young. Shoo!”
“Filthy pictures, sir?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake … alright, how many d’you want?”
June 30, 2009
The motor-sailing conundrum
Check back here every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for new columns by John Vigor, one of America’s best-known boating writers and editors. He’s the author of 12 books ranging from a children’s novel to a full-blown boating encyclopedia. He is a nationally recognized sailing and navigation instructor, certified by the American Sailing Association. His column is Mainly About Boats, but after a working lifetime as a newspaper humor columnist, it’s Occasionally About Anything That Comes Into His Mind – and always worth reading.
WHENEVER THE WIND DIES on Puget Sound you’ll find cruising sailboats puttering along under power with their mainsails set and their foresails stowed. It’s called motor-sailing.
The question is: does the mainsail actually help? Is it contributing to forward motion, or is it a parasitic drag?
It’s a question that must have occurred to many a sailor trying to reach an anchorage before the dark stillness of night hides all the unmarked rocks in his way.
At first glance the answer seems quite simple: as long as the sail is filled with air, bulging with a business-like curve, it must be sucking the boat forward and adding to the engine’s speed. This must certainly be the case if there is a faint breeze blowing at 45 degrees or more from dead ahead. But what about a dead calm?
When there is no wind at all, the apparent wind caused by the boat’s motion through the water will come from dead ahead. This will make the mainsail flutter uselessly as the boom swings in to the centerline. There will definitely be no advantage in that case, and perhaps a slight disadvantage caused by the drag of the sail.
What then, if you pull the mainsheet traveler to one side or the other and pin the mainsail at an angle so that it fills with the air coming from ahead? This is what many sailors do, including me, to keep the mainsail quiet and, perhaps more importantly, to help cut down on rolling; but it has always worried me.
The sail might well be curved in a bulge that looks purposeful, but most of the power that it generates in this position is directed aft, not forward. It’s acting in the same way that a backed squaresail acts, and it’s robbing the boat of forward speed. The faster the motor pushes the boat, the greater the counter-effort.
So what we really should do in a dead calm is drop the mainsail altogether. We don’t, of course, not only because of the extra rolling, and not only because it involves work, but also because a little breeze could spring up at any time, and that would change the situation drastically. Even five knots of wind would change the mainsail from being a big bag of drag to a helpful contributor to forward motion, and we want to be ready to take advantage of it the second it happens.
And so we continue to motor-sail in the age-old way, our brows furrowed with the effort of trying to figure out whether the effort of dropping the mainsail is worth the slight gain in speed that might result. Mostly, I believe, it isn’t. But maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
Today’s Thought
Expecting something for nothing is the most popular form of hope.
—Arnold H. Glasow
Tailpiece
“Dad, if a girl kisses me, should I kiss her back?”
“Hell no, son. Kiss her lips.”
WHENEVER THE WIND DIES on Puget Sound you’ll find cruising sailboats puttering along under power with their mainsails set and their foresails stowed. It’s called motor-sailing.
The question is: does the mainsail actually help? Is it contributing to forward motion, or is it a parasitic drag?
It’s a question that must have occurred to many a sailor trying to reach an anchorage before the dark stillness of night hides all the unmarked rocks in his way.
At first glance the answer seems quite simple: as long as the sail is filled with air, bulging with a business-like curve, it must be sucking the boat forward and adding to the engine’s speed. This must certainly be the case if there is a faint breeze blowing at 45 degrees or more from dead ahead. But what about a dead calm?
When there is no wind at all, the apparent wind caused by the boat’s motion through the water will come from dead ahead. This will make the mainsail flutter uselessly as the boom swings in to the centerline. There will definitely be no advantage in that case, and perhaps a slight disadvantage caused by the drag of the sail.
What then, if you pull the mainsheet traveler to one side or the other and pin the mainsail at an angle so that it fills with the air coming from ahead? This is what many sailors do, including me, to keep the mainsail quiet and, perhaps more importantly, to help cut down on rolling; but it has always worried me.
The sail might well be curved in a bulge that looks purposeful, but most of the power that it generates in this position is directed aft, not forward. It’s acting in the same way that a backed squaresail acts, and it’s robbing the boat of forward speed. The faster the motor pushes the boat, the greater the counter-effort.
So what we really should do in a dead calm is drop the mainsail altogether. We don’t, of course, not only because of the extra rolling, and not only because it involves work, but also because a little breeze could spring up at any time, and that would change the situation drastically. Even five knots of wind would change the mainsail from being a big bag of drag to a helpful contributor to forward motion, and we want to be ready to take advantage of it the second it happens.
And so we continue to motor-sail in the age-old way, our brows furrowed with the effort of trying to figure out whether the effort of dropping the mainsail is worth the slight gain in speed that might result. Mostly, I believe, it isn’t. But maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
Today’s Thought
Expecting something for nothing is the most popular form of hope.
—Arnold H. Glasow
Tailpiece
“Dad, if a girl kisses me, should I kiss her back?”
“Hell no, son. Kiss her lips.”
June 28, 2009
Paint that teak
ANYONE WITH ANY SENSE paints exterior wood on a boat, even if it’s teak. I don’t have sense, so I can’t do it, but I know from long, bitter experience that paint is right. A nice, buff-colored paint even looks like varnish from a short distance, and it’ll last six times as long.
The trouble with clear finishes is that they let the sun’s rays damage the wood underneath. It’s not the varnish that gives up. It’s the wood, shrinking and squirming in the heat, that finally shrugs off the varnish. A reasonable paint job, the kind that you and I can do with an ordinary brush, will protect the wood and last for many years.
But if you’re like me, and couldn’t paint teak any more than you could put pajamas on the Venus de Milo, then use ordinary marine spar varnish. Don’t use epoxy, polyurethanes, acrylics, or clear car finishes.
Spar varnish is soft. It was originally made for wooden masts and booms. It squirms with the wood. It doesn’t get hard and split off when the wood swells and shrinks. Rub it down gently once a year in northern climes, twice a year down south, and slap on another two coats. When you need to scrape down to bare wood because you’ve neglected the finish too long, you’ll bless your spar varnish because it comes off easily. Iron-hard polyurethane is hell to get rid of.
Don Casey, the boat-maintenance guru, says your spar varnish will last indefinitely if you treat your teak this way and maintain the seal. It would still make more sense to paint it, of course, but teak, I’m afraid, has a way of making sense fly out the window.
A little varnished teak on deck sets a boat off. It gives a boat the warm glow of a cherished object. It tempers the pale, sterile plasticity of fiberglass. At the same time, too much varnished teak is murder on a boat’s crew and her owner’s bank balance. Too much varnish, to put it bluntly, is a sign of poor judgment.
So take three deep breaths — and paint the damn stuff.
Today’s Thought
Painting is the intermediate somewhat between a thought and a thing.
—S. T. Coleridge, Table Talk
Tailpiece
“How about a kiss, gorgeous?”
“Certainly not, I’ve got scruples.”
“No problem, babe, I’ve been vaccinated.”
The trouble with clear finishes is that they let the sun’s rays damage the wood underneath. It’s not the varnish that gives up. It’s the wood, shrinking and squirming in the heat, that finally shrugs off the varnish. A reasonable paint job, the kind that you and I can do with an ordinary brush, will protect the wood and last for many years.
But if you’re like me, and couldn’t paint teak any more than you could put pajamas on the Venus de Milo, then use ordinary marine spar varnish. Don’t use epoxy, polyurethanes, acrylics, or clear car finishes.
Spar varnish is soft. It was originally made for wooden masts and booms. It squirms with the wood. It doesn’t get hard and split off when the wood swells and shrinks. Rub it down gently once a year in northern climes, twice a year down south, and slap on another two coats. When you need to scrape down to bare wood because you’ve neglected the finish too long, you’ll bless your spar varnish because it comes off easily. Iron-hard polyurethane is hell to get rid of.
Don Casey, the boat-maintenance guru, says your spar varnish will last indefinitely if you treat your teak this way and maintain the seal. It would still make more sense to paint it, of course, but teak, I’m afraid, has a way of making sense fly out the window.
A little varnished teak on deck sets a boat off. It gives a boat the warm glow of a cherished object. It tempers the pale, sterile plasticity of fiberglass. At the same time, too much varnished teak is murder on a boat’s crew and her owner’s bank balance. Too much varnish, to put it bluntly, is a sign of poor judgment.
So take three deep breaths — and paint the damn stuff.
Today’s Thought
Painting is the intermediate somewhat between a thought and a thing.
—S. T. Coleridge, Table Talk
Tailpiece
“How about a kiss, gorgeous?”
“Certainly not, I’ve got scruples.”
“No problem, babe, I’ve been vaccinated.”
June 23, 2009
The dreaded taste test
I FOUND OLD WOTSISNAME deep in conversation with Sam Psmythe (silent P, as in bath) on the marina dock the other day. OW had a problem, and Sam, as usual, had the answer. But it wasn’t an answer OW wanted to hear.
OW’s sailboat, like many others, has a drip pan under the engine. From time to time it fills with water. It drives OW mad, because he can’t tell where the water is coming from.
“Could be the cockpit lockers,” said Sam. “Rain water. They always leak. Or it might be the stuffing box on the propeller shaft. Salt water. That’s supposed to leak a drop now and then.”
“But my drip pan holds half a gallon,” OW protested. “That’s a whole bunch of drips.”
“Maybe it’s dripping too fast. Maybe it needs adjustment.” Then Sam had a brainwave. “Is it fresh water or salt water?” he asked.
OW scratched his left ear and thought about it. “Dunno,” he said finally. “How would I tell?”
“You taste it, of course,” said Sam triumphantly. “There’s no other way. Stick a finger in it. Lick your finger. Taste it.”
OW, who is not particularly finicky in respect to hygiene, tidiness, or anything else he associates with poofters and deviants, went a little pale. He scratched his ear some more. “Got to be a better way,” he said.
Sam laughed immoderately. He loves to needle OW. “Chicken!” he cried.
OW muttered something about his head holding tank, which shares a common bulkhead with the drip tray, but Sam went off down the walkway, chortling to himself.
This problem isn’t unique to OW, of course. Sooner or later every serious sailor is going to want to know whether the water in the bilge is rain water or sea water. And sooner or later he is going to have to screw up his courage and lick the damn stuff, followed by a large tot of rum to kill both taste and germs.
As OW said, there must be a better way. How do chemists distinguish between fresh and salt water? Is there some sort of litmus test? Obviously, salt water has a higher specific gravity than fresh water, so if you floated eggs or peas or beans or something fairly close in density to water they might sink in fresh and float in salt. What if you marked an ice cube’s flotation line in fresh water and then placed it in the bilge. Wouldn’t it float higher in salt? Or is the difference too small to be noticeable?
Then again, salt water conducts electricity better than fresh water, so maybe you could just hook up your battery and test the flow of amps. Dammit, there has to be a better way than placing in our mouths that foul-smelling gunk we call bilge water.
If there are any inventors out there looking for work, here’s a project that would provide you with a steady income. Just a simple test, please. Salt or no salt, that’s all we need to know. We, and the ladies who have to kiss us, would all be truly grateful, and we’d probably be prepared to pay quite a lot.
Today’s Thought
There can be no disputing about tastes. (De gustibus non est disputandum.)
—Jeremy Taylor, Reflections upon Ridicule
Tailpiece
“I’d like to see General Bloggs, please.”
“Sorry, sir, but General Bloggs is ill today.”
“What made him ill?”
“Nothing in particular, sir, just things in General.”
OW’s sailboat, like many others, has a drip pan under the engine. From time to time it fills with water. It drives OW mad, because he can’t tell where the water is coming from.
“Could be the cockpit lockers,” said Sam. “Rain water. They always leak. Or it might be the stuffing box on the propeller shaft. Salt water. That’s supposed to leak a drop now and then.”
“But my drip pan holds half a gallon,” OW protested. “That’s a whole bunch of drips.”
“Maybe it’s dripping too fast. Maybe it needs adjustment.” Then Sam had a brainwave. “Is it fresh water or salt water?” he asked.
OW scratched his left ear and thought about it. “Dunno,” he said finally. “How would I tell?”
“You taste it, of course,” said Sam triumphantly. “There’s no other way. Stick a finger in it. Lick your finger. Taste it.”
OW, who is not particularly finicky in respect to hygiene, tidiness, or anything else he associates with poofters and deviants, went a little pale. He scratched his ear some more. “Got to be a better way,” he said.
Sam laughed immoderately. He loves to needle OW. “Chicken!” he cried.
OW muttered something about his head holding tank, which shares a common bulkhead with the drip tray, but Sam went off down the walkway, chortling to himself.
This problem isn’t unique to OW, of course. Sooner or later every serious sailor is going to want to know whether the water in the bilge is rain water or sea water. And sooner or later he is going to have to screw up his courage and lick the damn stuff, followed by a large tot of rum to kill both taste and germs.
As OW said, there must be a better way. How do chemists distinguish between fresh and salt water? Is there some sort of litmus test? Obviously, salt water has a higher specific gravity than fresh water, so if you floated eggs or peas or beans or something fairly close in density to water they might sink in fresh and float in salt. What if you marked an ice cube’s flotation line in fresh water and then placed it in the bilge. Wouldn’t it float higher in salt? Or is the difference too small to be noticeable?
Then again, salt water conducts electricity better than fresh water, so maybe you could just hook up your battery and test the flow of amps. Dammit, there has to be a better way than placing in our mouths that foul-smelling gunk we call bilge water.
If there are any inventors out there looking for work, here’s a project that would provide you with a steady income. Just a simple test, please. Salt or no salt, that’s all we need to know. We, and the ladies who have to kiss us, would all be truly grateful, and we’d probably be prepared to pay quite a lot.
Today’s Thought
There can be no disputing about tastes. (De gustibus non est disputandum.)
—Jeremy Taylor, Reflections upon Ridicule
Tailpiece
“I’d like to see General Bloggs, please.”
“Sorry, sir, but General Bloggs is ill today.”
“What made him ill?”
“Nothing in particular, sir, just things in General.”
June 21, 2009
Cling like a monkey
I MENTIONED THE OTHER DAY that the waters of Puget Sound, together with the adjacent San Juan and Gulf Islands, are some of the best small-boat cruising grounds in the whole of the United States. But there is one drawback that visitors, in particular, should be aware of. Our waters are cold. They’re in the 40s and 50s Fahrenheit, even in summer. You’d be lucky to survive half an hour without protective gear in water that cold. So the Golden Rule around here is: Don’t fall overboard.
Most production sailboats come complete with deck stanchions and lifelines these days, but I’ve always been a bit skeptical about their efficiency. Most of them are so low that they’d catapult you overboard if you lurched hard against them at deck level. And when you’re on top of the cabin trunk, working at the base of the mast for example, you’re high enough to fall clean overboard without even touching the lifelines when the boat is well heeled over.
So maybe it would be wise go back in time a bit and take the advice of some of the old-time singlehanders who were sailing wooden boats across the oceans before the plastic revolution. They rarely had lifelines.
When I was a teenager, a young French colonial from Indo-China came sailing into my home port of Durban, South Africa. His tubby 27-foot ketch, Marie-Thérèse, had no lifelines, by design. Her owner, and sole skipper, didn’t believe in lifelines.
I asked him what he did to stay on board in rough weather while working on deck.
“You must learn to cling like a monkey,” he told me.
That man was Bernard Moitessier, who later became an icon of single-handed long-distance sailing and one of the most famous sailboat cruisers in the world.
Times have changed, and we now give greater respect to the question of safety (perhaps too much respect when it comes to advising others) but Moitessier’s advice is still very valid.
Regard your lifelines purely as backup. If you come adrift, they may save you; they may not. And even if you habitually wear a harness clipped onto a jackstay, make the Golden Rule and Moitessier’s mantra your absolute priorities: Don't fall overboard. Learn to cling like a monkey.
Today’s Thought
Who can hope to be safe? who sufficiently cautious?
Guard himself as he may, every moment’s an ambush.
—Horace, Odes
Tailpiece
Paddy was crossing the fairway when a ball smacked him on the back of the head.
A golfer came up and said: “Why didn’t you get out of the way?”
“An’ why should I?” said Paddy angrily.
“Because I said ‘Fore!’ and that’s a sign to get out of the way.”
“Oh and is it now?” cried Paddy. “Well I’ve got news for you. When I say ‘Foive’ it’s a sign you’re going to be hit on the jaw. Foive!”
Most production sailboats come complete with deck stanchions and lifelines these days, but I’ve always been a bit skeptical about their efficiency. Most of them are so low that they’d catapult you overboard if you lurched hard against them at deck level. And when you’re on top of the cabin trunk, working at the base of the mast for example, you’re high enough to fall clean overboard without even touching the lifelines when the boat is well heeled over.
So maybe it would be wise go back in time a bit and take the advice of some of the old-time singlehanders who were sailing wooden boats across the oceans before the plastic revolution. They rarely had lifelines.
When I was a teenager, a young French colonial from Indo-China came sailing into my home port of Durban, South Africa. His tubby 27-foot ketch, Marie-Thérèse, had no lifelines, by design. Her owner, and sole skipper, didn’t believe in lifelines.
I asked him what he did to stay on board in rough weather while working on deck.
“You must learn to cling like a monkey,” he told me.
That man was Bernard Moitessier, who later became an icon of single-handed long-distance sailing and one of the most famous sailboat cruisers in the world.
Times have changed, and we now give greater respect to the question of safety (perhaps too much respect when it comes to advising others) but Moitessier’s advice is still very valid.
Regard your lifelines purely as backup. If you come adrift, they may save you; they may not. And even if you habitually wear a harness clipped onto a jackstay, make the Golden Rule and Moitessier’s mantra your absolute priorities: Don't fall overboard. Learn to cling like a monkey.
Today’s Thought
Who can hope to be safe? who sufficiently cautious?
Guard himself as he may, every moment’s an ambush.
—Horace, Odes
Tailpiece
Paddy was crossing the fairway when a ball smacked him on the back of the head.
A golfer came up and said: “Why didn’t you get out of the way?”
“An’ why should I?” said Paddy angrily.
“Because I said ‘Fore!’ and that’s a sign to get out of the way.”
“Oh and is it now?” cried Paddy. “Well I’ve got news for you. When I say ‘Foive’ it’s a sign you’re going to be hit on the jaw. Foive!”
June 11, 2009
The puffins are back
OH GLORY BE. OH JOY. The Daily Bungle reports that the birds are flying north. The tufted puffins are back, apparently. And if the tufted puffins are back, can the rest be far behind? I refer to the burled dimwitts, the ring-necked godsends, the unbridled waterworts, and the wungood terns (each of whom deserves another).
What this avian invasion foretells, of course, is the start of another wonderful season of sailing in the best sailboat cruising ground in the country. It’s our little secret and we strive to keep it that way: hundreds of friendly, pristine islands and cozy anchorages in the San Juan and Gulf Islands.
For our own nefarious reasons, we try to make outsiders believe it’s the worst climate in the country. You probably have the impression that it’s cold and damp all the time here in the Pacific Northwest, a miserable climate of non-stop rain, galoshes, umbrellas, and mold behind the ears. Good, that’s what we want you to think. But for the record, we’re now into our 22nd day in a row with no rain. Just blue skies, 70 to 80 degrees, and that lovely warm northwesterly wind.
Most of all, we don’t want the Californians to know how nice it is up here. We’re only separated by one state, for goodness’ sake, and you can’t trust Californians. They’re very unpredictable people. And there’s so many of them. We don’t want them coming up here throwing their money and weight around and pushing up the price of everything. They fired their former governor, the very sensible Gray Davis because he warned them to quit their excessive borrowing and spending. That wasn’t what they wanted to hear. In his stead, they elected a weightlifter with an Austrian accent and an abundance of muscles balanced by a vast deficit of political knowhow. So now California, the fifth biggest economy in the world, is broker than broke.
It’s all very worrying. You never know where Californians might go to next. I hope they don’t read the Daily Bungle. And if they do, I hope they won’t understand the significance of the arrival here of the tufted puffins and their feathered pals. But, just in case, I think I’m going to start a rumor on Twitter that tufted puffins like bad weather and that their bites are poisonous to Californians. Yeah, sure they’ll believe it. Of course they will. Hell, they believed a muscle-bound weightlifter could cure their money problems, didn’t they?
Today’s Thought
If I were running the world I would have it rain only between 2 and 5 a.m. Anyone who was out then ought to get wet.
—William Lyon Phelps
Tailpiece
“Hi, gorgeous, can you suggest something in the way of a good time?”
“Yeah, my husband. He’s standing behind you.”
What this avian invasion foretells, of course, is the start of another wonderful season of sailing in the best sailboat cruising ground in the country. It’s our little secret and we strive to keep it that way: hundreds of friendly, pristine islands and cozy anchorages in the San Juan and Gulf Islands.
For our own nefarious reasons, we try to make outsiders believe it’s the worst climate in the country. You probably have the impression that it’s cold and damp all the time here in the Pacific Northwest, a miserable climate of non-stop rain, galoshes, umbrellas, and mold behind the ears. Good, that’s what we want you to think. But for the record, we’re now into our 22nd day in a row with no rain. Just blue skies, 70 to 80 degrees, and that lovely warm northwesterly wind.
Most of all, we don’t want the Californians to know how nice it is up here. We’re only separated by one state, for goodness’ sake, and you can’t trust Californians. They’re very unpredictable people. And there’s so many of them. We don’t want them coming up here throwing their money and weight around and pushing up the price of everything. They fired their former governor, the very sensible Gray Davis because he warned them to quit their excessive borrowing and spending. That wasn’t what they wanted to hear. In his stead, they elected a weightlifter with an Austrian accent and an abundance of muscles balanced by a vast deficit of political knowhow. So now California, the fifth biggest economy in the world, is broker than broke.
It’s all very worrying. You never know where Californians might go to next. I hope they don’t read the Daily Bungle. And if they do, I hope they won’t understand the significance of the arrival here of the tufted puffins and their feathered pals. But, just in case, I think I’m going to start a rumor on Twitter that tufted puffins like bad weather and that their bites are poisonous to Californians. Yeah, sure they’ll believe it. Of course they will. Hell, they believed a muscle-bound weightlifter could cure their money problems, didn’t they?
Today’s Thought
If I were running the world I would have it rain only between 2 and 5 a.m. Anyone who was out then ought to get wet.
—William Lyon Phelps
Tailpiece
“Hi, gorgeous, can you suggest something in the way of a good time?”
“Yeah, my husband. He’s standing behind you.”
May 28, 2009
Seeking judges who sail
MR. OBAMA'S SELECTION of Supreme Court nominee Sonia Sotomayor has touched a raw nerve in the editorial department of The Walnut Street Gazeout (should be Gazette). It evoked a scathing editorial in the latest issue of the prison's underground newspaper, whose editor happens to be doing time for grand yacht theft. Here is his weighty piece, word for word:
IT'S HIGH TIME judges were chosen for their fairness and ability. Not because they're Hispanic. Not because they're women. These are values chosen solely because they advance the political aspirations of the current president and his party. What we desperately need right now is judges who sail. It's time we had a sailor on the High Court.
There has never been a greater need to select judges based on their knowledge and experience without regard to their jender (sic) or race. We need people like sailboat owners, people of charm and distinction and good taste, people who would see immediately that stealing a sailboat is not a crime and never could be. It's like picking a wild flower or eating a blackberry. The principle is exactly the same. Would anybody send a person to prison for that? These things were put on earth for all to share.
Just as land cannot belong to one person, as my Native American friends so rightly believe, so sailboats are placed on earth for the benefit of us all. And if a sailboat belongs to everybody, how can one solitary person (namely, me) be accused of grand theft of it? I ask you! That's what I told the judge but he wasn't having it. Stupid judge. I bet he never sailed a boat in his life. Anyone who has sailed would have been on my side and recognized the validity of my argument.
The lack of sailing judges at all levels of the justice system amounts to nothing less than discrimination. It's shameful. It's tragic. It's making innocent people like me suffer. When I get out of here I'm going to start a nation-wide campaign to make sailing lessons obligatory for all judges. Or maybe I'll just steal another yacht and take off for Tahiti. I haven't decided yet.
Today's Thought
If the district attorney wanted, a grand jury would indict a ham sandwich.
—Barry Slotnick
Tailpiece
“I don’t trust this caddie. I think he’d steal my ball as soon as look at it.”
“Yeah, right, I agree. I wouldn’t putt it past him.”
IT'S HIGH TIME judges were chosen for their fairness and ability. Not because they're Hispanic. Not because they're women. These are values chosen solely because they advance the political aspirations of the current president and his party. What we desperately need right now is judges who sail. It's time we had a sailor on the High Court.
There has never been a greater need to select judges based on their knowledge and experience without regard to their jender (sic) or race. We need people like sailboat owners, people of charm and distinction and good taste, people who would see immediately that stealing a sailboat is not a crime and never could be. It's like picking a wild flower or eating a blackberry. The principle is exactly the same. Would anybody send a person to prison for that? These things were put on earth for all to share.
Just as land cannot belong to one person, as my Native American friends so rightly believe, so sailboats are placed on earth for the benefit of us all. And if a sailboat belongs to everybody, how can one solitary person (namely, me) be accused of grand theft of it? I ask you! That's what I told the judge but he wasn't having it. Stupid judge. I bet he never sailed a boat in his life. Anyone who has sailed would have been on my side and recognized the validity of my argument.
The lack of sailing judges at all levels of the justice system amounts to nothing less than discrimination. It's shameful. It's tragic. It's making innocent people like me suffer. When I get out of here I'm going to start a nation-wide campaign to make sailing lessons obligatory for all judges. Or maybe I'll just steal another yacht and take off for Tahiti. I haven't decided yet.
Today's Thought
If the district attorney wanted, a grand jury would indict a ham sandwich.
—Barry Slotnick
Tailpiece
“I don’t trust this caddie. I think he’d steal my ball as soon as look at it.”
“Yeah, right, I agree. I wouldn’t putt it past him.”
May 5, 2009
Nature gone mad
WE HAD A NICE SUNNY DAY for a change last week. The boat was in the slip at our home marina and I was sitting in the cockpit, soaking up sunshine, thinking about doing some work but not actually doing any, when a loud metallic rapping sound caught my attention.
It was coming from a sailboat two or three slips south of mine, but I couldn’t see anybody aboard. The rapping stopped and then started again. Rat-a-tat-a-tat! Five seconds on, 10 seconds off. Definitely something striking metal.
Then I spotted it. A bird, perched on the spreaders, was attacking the aluminum mast with a long thin beak. It was a Northern Flicker, quite a large, handsome bird, but obviously quite dumb as far as woodpeckers go.
Flickers are supposed to eat ants and beetles and soft squirmy things they find in old rotting tree trunks. Flickers are not supposed to drill holes in aluminum masts. Mind you, they’re not supposed to drill holes in the thick wooden posts that hold our marina walkways in place, either.
But this one did. I recognized him immediately as one of the occupants of a large hole excavated near the top of a mooring post a few yards aft of my boat.
I presume he was the male because the mouth of that hole was filled with the face of another Flicker, an anxious looking face, a face that might well have been wondering where supper was for her and the little ones.
You, too, might have been anxious if your beloved breadwinner was beating his brains out against a metal mast instead of bringing home the bacon. I don’t know if all Northern Flickers are this mentally challenged, but this one probably had a good excuse. The wooden pole that he hollowed out for his family was lavishly smeared with a preservative called creosote. It’s a liquid chemical I used to splash around with abandon at one time, but which now suddenly has become a noxious substance and a carcinogen, to boot.
Now you might imagine that a woodpecker with a normally adjusted woodpecker brain and Nature’s usual system for tasting things would stop excavating a creosote-soaked pole after the first bite and fly off to the woods somewhere, where nice woodpecker-friendly trees are crawling with delicious bugs. But no, not this one. I fear it’s too late. I think the creosote has got to him.
Now I’m trying to think of ways to keep him off my spreaders, should the mood take him. I don’t want a dotted line around the middle of my mast. But I’m thankful I’m not the owner of the pretty Baba 30 down at the end of the walkway. She has a pretty, varnished, wooden mast. I hate to think what’s going to happen when our crazed Flicker finds that out.
Today’s Thought
To those who study her, Nature reveals herself as extraordinarily fertile and ingenious in devising means, but she has no ends which the human mind has been able to discover or comprehend.
—Joseph Wood Krutch, The Modern Temper
Tailpiece
“Mom, why are you shouting at that motorist?”
“Well, look how close the idiot is driving in front of me!”
It was coming from a sailboat two or three slips south of mine, but I couldn’t see anybody aboard. The rapping stopped and then started again. Rat-a-tat-a-tat! Five seconds on, 10 seconds off. Definitely something striking metal.
Then I spotted it. A bird, perched on the spreaders, was attacking the aluminum mast with a long thin beak. It was a Northern Flicker, quite a large, handsome bird, but obviously quite dumb as far as woodpeckers go.
Flickers are supposed to eat ants and beetles and soft squirmy things they find in old rotting tree trunks. Flickers are not supposed to drill holes in aluminum masts. Mind you, they’re not supposed to drill holes in the thick wooden posts that hold our marina walkways in place, either.
But this one did. I recognized him immediately as one of the occupants of a large hole excavated near the top of a mooring post a few yards aft of my boat.
I presume he was the male because the mouth of that hole was filled with the face of another Flicker, an anxious looking face, a face that might well have been wondering where supper was for her and the little ones.
You, too, might have been anxious if your beloved breadwinner was beating his brains out against a metal mast instead of bringing home the bacon. I don’t know if all Northern Flickers are this mentally challenged, but this one probably had a good excuse. The wooden pole that he hollowed out for his family was lavishly smeared with a preservative called creosote. It’s a liquid chemical I used to splash around with abandon at one time, but which now suddenly has become a noxious substance and a carcinogen, to boot.
Now you might imagine that a woodpecker with a normally adjusted woodpecker brain and Nature’s usual system for tasting things would stop excavating a creosote-soaked pole after the first bite and fly off to the woods somewhere, where nice woodpecker-friendly trees are crawling with delicious bugs. But no, not this one. I fear it’s too late. I think the creosote has got to him.
Now I’m trying to think of ways to keep him off my spreaders, should the mood take him. I don’t want a dotted line around the middle of my mast. But I’m thankful I’m not the owner of the pretty Baba 30 down at the end of the walkway. She has a pretty, varnished, wooden mast. I hate to think what’s going to happen when our crazed Flicker finds that out.
Today’s Thought
To those who study her, Nature reveals herself as extraordinarily fertile and ingenious in devising means, but she has no ends which the human mind has been able to discover or comprehend.
—Joseph Wood Krutch, The Modern Temper
Tailpiece
“Mom, why are you shouting at that motorist?”
“Well, look how close the idiot is driving in front of me!”
April 28, 2009
Duct tape to the rescue
IT’S A MINOR MIRACLE, I admit, but only twice in my life have I punctured an inflatable dinghy. The first time, I sat down heavily and unexpectedly on the side float with a forgotten screwdriver in the back pocket of my jeans. Ruined the jeans, too.
The second time, my borrowed sloop was moored to a buoy off Hope Island, a state park in Puget Sound. I noticed that the current had gathered a large clump of seaweed around the mooring line, so I jumped into the inflatable with a sharp knife to cut the weed loose. I stabbed the dinghy instead.
In both cases it was duct tape that saved the day until permanent repairs could be made. Professionals frown on duct tape, as they frown on Vise-Grips and adjustable wrenches, but for amateurs like me it’s a godsend.
I read somewhere that duct tape was developed in the 1930s to seal ammunition boxes, but I have my doubts about that. I think it’s more likely that it was invented to seal metal ventilation ducts, and, having been invented, quickly found a million other uses.
On boats it does everything from repairing book covers to patching split sails. It fixes holes in water pipes and it makes an effective gag for garrulous crewmembers.
Of course, repairs with duct tape are meant to be purely temporary. But temporary, when you think about it, is just a state of mind, not a period of time. So relax. That's why we all like duct tape. You don’t need to replace your old duct tape with new duct tape until the old duct tape actually falls off.
Today’s Thought
Humans can learn to like anything, that’s why we are such a successful species.
—Jeanette Desor
Tailpiece
“I see you’ve stopped playing poker with Fred on Friday nights.”
“Yeah, well, would you play with a guy who hides aces up his sleeve and refuses to pay his debts?”
“Certainly not.”
“Neither will Fred.”
The second time, my borrowed sloop was moored to a buoy off Hope Island, a state park in Puget Sound. I noticed that the current had gathered a large clump of seaweed around the mooring line, so I jumped into the inflatable with a sharp knife to cut the weed loose. I stabbed the dinghy instead.
In both cases it was duct tape that saved the day until permanent repairs could be made. Professionals frown on duct tape, as they frown on Vise-Grips and adjustable wrenches, but for amateurs like me it’s a godsend.
I read somewhere that duct tape was developed in the 1930s to seal ammunition boxes, but I have my doubts about that. I think it’s more likely that it was invented to seal metal ventilation ducts, and, having been invented, quickly found a million other uses.
On boats it does everything from repairing book covers to patching split sails. It fixes holes in water pipes and it makes an effective gag for garrulous crewmembers.
Of course, repairs with duct tape are meant to be purely temporary. But temporary, when you think about it, is just a state of mind, not a period of time. So relax. That's why we all like duct tape. You don’t need to replace your old duct tape with new duct tape until the old duct tape actually falls off.
Today’s Thought
Humans can learn to like anything, that’s why we are such a successful species.
—Jeanette Desor
Tailpiece
“I see you’ve stopped playing poker with Fred on Friday nights.”
“Yeah, well, would you play with a guy who hides aces up his sleeve and refuses to pay his debts?”
“Certainly not.”
“Neither will Fred.”
April 19, 2009
A boat in need of escape
WORD HAS REACHED ME from the State penitentiary in Walnut Street. Someone has sent me a copy of the prison’s secret underground newspaper, the Walnut Street Gazeout. I believe it should be Gazette, but Gazeout is also quite appropriate if you think about it.
According to the April issue of the Gazeout (should be Gazette), six inmates are seeking advice. Over a period of three years, they have quietly built a 10-foot sailing dinghy from plywood snaffled from an in-house remodeling project.
An article jointly authored by “Burglaroo” and “Innocent Victim” claims this is no ordinary sailing dinghy. It’s designed like those 10-footers that are racing around the world. This is a sea-going 10-footer, a proper escape vessel.
It was an appealing project, apparently, one that dovetailed with their dreams of escape and fed on their craving for freedom. Now that it’s finished, the six builders are planning to draw lots to establish ownership.
However, because they plunged into this scheme in a frenzy of unbridled enthusiasm they overlooked a very important point: how to smuggle it out of the pen. At present it’s in the laundry behind a row of boilers.
Apparently it was my book, Twenty Small Sailboats to Take You Anywhere, that sparked this whole idea, which is why I was sent a copy of the Gazeout (should be Gazette) with a request for advice. Not that they’re in any tearing hurry about this, you understand. None of the six is going to be freed within 18 months. But they’re now belatedly starting to plan ahead.
Well, I must point out that I have never advocated going to sea in a 10-footer. I thought I was being very brave by making the smallest boat in my book just 20 feet. But when pent-up enthusiasm turns into passion and then into uncontained zeal, anything can happen. And it has.
Unfortunately, I’ve had no experience of smuggling a 10-foot sailing dinghy out of a prison, so I guess I’m not much help. All I can say is that if any you readers have any brilliant ideas, I’d be glad to pass them on.
Today’s Thought
Freedom suppressed and again regained bites with keener fangs than freedom never endangered.
—Cicero, De Officiis
Tailpiece
“Do you file your nails after you’ve cut them?”
“Heavens, no, I just throw them in the waste-paper basket.”
According to the April issue of the Gazeout (should be Gazette), six inmates are seeking advice. Over a period of three years, they have quietly built a 10-foot sailing dinghy from plywood snaffled from an in-house remodeling project.
An article jointly authored by “Burglaroo” and “Innocent Victim” claims this is no ordinary sailing dinghy. It’s designed like those 10-footers that are racing around the world. This is a sea-going 10-footer, a proper escape vessel.
It was an appealing project, apparently, one that dovetailed with their dreams of escape and fed on their craving for freedom. Now that it’s finished, the six builders are planning to draw lots to establish ownership.
However, because they plunged into this scheme in a frenzy of unbridled enthusiasm they overlooked a very important point: how to smuggle it out of the pen. At present it’s in the laundry behind a row of boilers.
Apparently it was my book, Twenty Small Sailboats to Take You Anywhere, that sparked this whole idea, which is why I was sent a copy of the Gazeout (should be Gazette) with a request for advice. Not that they’re in any tearing hurry about this, you understand. None of the six is going to be freed within 18 months. But they’re now belatedly starting to plan ahead.
Well, I must point out that I have never advocated going to sea in a 10-footer. I thought I was being very brave by making the smallest boat in my book just 20 feet. But when pent-up enthusiasm turns into passion and then into uncontained zeal, anything can happen. And it has.
Unfortunately, I’ve had no experience of smuggling a 10-foot sailing dinghy out of a prison, so I guess I’m not much help. All I can say is that if any you readers have any brilliant ideas, I’d be glad to pass them on.
Today’s Thought
Freedom suppressed and again regained bites with keener fangs than freedom never endangered.
—Cicero, De Officiis
Tailpiece
“Do you file your nails after you’ve cut them?”
“Heavens, no, I just throw them in the waste-paper basket.”
April 16, 2009
Conquering dangerous love
Spring is sprung, the grass is riz/How beautiful my sailboat is.
AFTER A LONG COLD winter deprived of sailing, the time for renewal and reaquaintance has arrived. Time to take up again with the old flame.
Have you caught yourself marveling at how beautiful your boat is? Are you constantly planning to make it even prettier? Does it make you sigh and bring on that deep feeling of joy when you close your eyes at night and remember what it looks like? Do you show pictures of it to your friends?
Be careful, my friend, you may be in love. Love is dangerous. Love is temporary insanity, a mind, soul, and body out of control. Love is blind to all faults. It lives only in the present, ignoring the lessons of the past and warnings about the future. Love has no strings on its purse; it never balances its checkbook. This is a recipe for several disasters — definitely financial, possibly mental, probably social.
What to do about it? Well, this is serious. The usual advice won’t suffice. Deep breaths and cold showers don’t make it.
The answer is Controlled Love, Restrained Affection. You must act like a Brit with a stiff upper lip. Don’t wear your emotions on your sleeve. Conceal them. Stay away from booze, which loosens inhibitions; reject the glittering temptations of West Marine; ignore yachting magazines whose airbrushed pictures and panting descriptions are calculated to incite unbridled lust and take wicked advantage of the love-lorn.
When you can regard your boat purely as a form of transport, as a faithful dog without legs, as a means of keeping you dry when you venture out into the restless wet, you will be cured.
How soon will this be? Frankly, nobody knows. It hasn’t happened yet.
Today’s Thought
There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.
—Francis Bacon, Essays: Of Beauty
Tailpiece
“Doc, I need help.”
“What’s up?”
“I’m 88 and still chasing women.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I can’t remember why.”
AFTER A LONG COLD winter deprived of sailing, the time for renewal and reaquaintance has arrived. Time to take up again with the old flame.
Have you caught yourself marveling at how beautiful your boat is? Are you constantly planning to make it even prettier? Does it make you sigh and bring on that deep feeling of joy when you close your eyes at night and remember what it looks like? Do you show pictures of it to your friends?
Be careful, my friend, you may be in love. Love is dangerous. Love is temporary insanity, a mind, soul, and body out of control. Love is blind to all faults. It lives only in the present, ignoring the lessons of the past and warnings about the future. Love has no strings on its purse; it never balances its checkbook. This is a recipe for several disasters — definitely financial, possibly mental, probably social.
What to do about it? Well, this is serious. The usual advice won’t suffice. Deep breaths and cold showers don’t make it.
The answer is Controlled Love, Restrained Affection. You must act like a Brit with a stiff upper lip. Don’t wear your emotions on your sleeve. Conceal them. Stay away from booze, which loosens inhibitions; reject the glittering temptations of West Marine; ignore yachting magazines whose airbrushed pictures and panting descriptions are calculated to incite unbridled lust and take wicked advantage of the love-lorn.
When you can regard your boat purely as a form of transport, as a faithful dog without legs, as a means of keeping you dry when you venture out into the restless wet, you will be cured.
How soon will this be? Frankly, nobody knows. It hasn’t happened yet.
Today’s Thought
There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.
—Francis Bacon, Essays: Of Beauty
Tailpiece
“Doc, I need help.”
“What’s up?”
“I’m 88 and still chasing women.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I can’t remember why.”
April 14, 2009
Deep-sixing the keel
OWNERS OF J/80 SAILBOATS must be feeling a little shaky these days. They’re wondering if their keels will fall off. And with good reason, because one actually did fall off a J/80 in the recent Farallones Doublehanded Race at sea off San Francisco. The boat turned turtle immediately, and the two-man crew was lucky to be rescued by the Coast Guard after an hour in the cold water — and then only because one of them dived under the boat to retrieve a hand-held radio and transmit a Mayday.
The J/80 is one of Rod Johnstone’s metric designs, of course. It’s 8 meters long. That’s 26.3 feet in real money. And there are more than 1,000 of them in various parts of the world. It has a 1,400-pound lead fin keel with a bulb, attached to the hull stub with seven 3/4-inch stainless steel bolts. But it wasn’t the keel bolts that let go, apparently. It seems the bottom tore out of the fiberglass hull.
The manufacturer describes the J/80 as a “family rocketship.” All I can say is that it’s a good job the whole family wasn’t on board when this ship went rocketing toward the sea bottom. This wasn’t the first time a J/80 has lost its keel.
Ironically, because it’s advertised as a family daysailer/weekender, the company places great emphasis on safety. It boasts: “The J/80 is certified for Design Category B of the EU Recreational Craft Directive which states that qualifying boats are designed for waves up to 13 feet high with winds to 41 knots, or conditions which may be encountered on offshore voyages of sufficient length or on coasts where shelter may not always be immediately available.”
The yachting Press apparently believed them. Sailing World’s reviewer, quoting Carl Schumacher, said: “ ... you could actually think about taking it in a race offshore.” The reviewer added that it was “safer and better suited for sailing offshore than other modern sport boats tested.” Practical Sailor said in a review: “We wouldn’t be afraid to take the boat into the ocean.” Well, gentlemen, maybe you should be afraid.
The manufacturer’s response to this accident, which could so easily have ended in tragedy, was blunt and uncompromising:
“No sailboat is going to last forever without some updating and repairs, particularly if campaigned hard. We do not know what factors over its 15 year life may have led to the failure on J/80 hull #45. But we strongly urge all J/80 owners, indeed all J/Boat owners, to routinely inspect keel stringers and keel sump areas, both internally and externally with frequency and most importantly prior to entering an offshore race.”
We all know that speed in sailboats comes at the expense of something else: sometimes comfort, sometimes seaworthiness, usually accommodation, often all three. I have no argument with this, but what does worry me is that a boat like the J/80 should be presented as a safe family boat. No boat should have its keel fall off at any stage of its life, but racers knowingly accept risks that families shouldn’t even have to consider.
I’m very thankful that my slow and old-fashioned 25-year-old cruising boat has its ballast keel encapsulated in the hull. It brings peace of mind that must now be quite rare among J/80 sailors.
Today’s Thought
A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.
—John A. Shedd, Salt from My Attic
Tailpiece
“Barman! Barman! Do your lemons have legs?”
“No, sir, of course not.”
“Too bad. I guess I just squeezed your canary into my drink.”
The J/80 is one of Rod Johnstone’s metric designs, of course. It’s 8 meters long. That’s 26.3 feet in real money. And there are more than 1,000 of them in various parts of the world. It has a 1,400-pound lead fin keel with a bulb, attached to the hull stub with seven 3/4-inch stainless steel bolts. But it wasn’t the keel bolts that let go, apparently. It seems the bottom tore out of the fiberglass hull.
The manufacturer describes the J/80 as a “family rocketship.” All I can say is that it’s a good job the whole family wasn’t on board when this ship went rocketing toward the sea bottom. This wasn’t the first time a J/80 has lost its keel.
Ironically, because it’s advertised as a family daysailer/weekender, the company places great emphasis on safety. It boasts: “The J/80 is certified for Design Category B of the EU Recreational Craft Directive which states that qualifying boats are designed for waves up to 13 feet high with winds to 41 knots, or conditions which may be encountered on offshore voyages of sufficient length or on coasts where shelter may not always be immediately available.”
The yachting Press apparently believed them. Sailing World’s reviewer, quoting Carl Schumacher, said: “ ... you could actually think about taking it in a race offshore.” The reviewer added that it was “safer and better suited for sailing offshore than other modern sport boats tested.” Practical Sailor said in a review: “We wouldn’t be afraid to take the boat into the ocean.” Well, gentlemen, maybe you should be afraid.
The manufacturer’s response to this accident, which could so easily have ended in tragedy, was blunt and uncompromising:
“No sailboat is going to last forever without some updating and repairs, particularly if campaigned hard. We do not know what factors over its 15 year life may have led to the failure on J/80 hull #45. But we strongly urge all J/80 owners, indeed all J/Boat owners, to routinely inspect keel stringers and keel sump areas, both internally and externally with frequency and most importantly prior to entering an offshore race.”
We all know that speed in sailboats comes at the expense of something else: sometimes comfort, sometimes seaworthiness, usually accommodation, often all three. I have no argument with this, but what does worry me is that a boat like the J/80 should be presented as a safe family boat. No boat should have its keel fall off at any stage of its life, but racers knowingly accept risks that families shouldn’t even have to consider.
I’m very thankful that my slow and old-fashioned 25-year-old cruising boat has its ballast keel encapsulated in the hull. It brings peace of mind that must now be quite rare among J/80 sailors.
Today’s Thought
A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.
—John A. Shedd, Salt from My Attic
Tailpiece
“Barman! Barman! Do your lemons have legs?”
“No, sir, of course not.”
“Too bad. I guess I just squeezed your canary into my drink.”
April 12, 2009
It’s for good uck
I ONCE ASKED my wife what kind of coin we should place under the mast of an old sailboat we were refitting. “Don’t ask me,” she said, “I don’t believe in it.”
She maintains that placing coins under masts perpetuates a despicable ancient tradition of payola and subservience to petty tyrants—the gods of the wind and sea. She accuses me of being hopelessly superstitious.
Superstitious? Hah! Not me. At least, not compared with some. I once knew a sailor so superstitious that he wouldn’t even pronounce a four-letter word ending in “uck.” In a Rotary Club speech about his ocean crossings, Dr. Earle Reynolds listed the essential requirements for safe passages as: 1. A well-found ship; 2. A good crew; 3. Adequate preparation and maintenance; 4. Seamanship; 5. the Fifth Essential.
He never disclosed what the fifth essential was. He just gave examples of how, er, fortunate some famous round-the-worlders had been. Harry Pidgeon, for example, fell asleep and grounded his boat on the only soft sandy beach in miles of rock-strewn shoreline. Joshua Slocum escaped from pirates when their mast fell down in a squall. And so on.
The smarter Rotarians soon figured out that the fifth essential was the “uck” word, which you never say out loud for fear it will desert you.
Quite right. That’s why, despite scoffing from the vice-admiral, we always have a coin under our mast. It’s for good uck. And so far, knock on wood, we’ve been very ucky.
Today’s Thought
We must believe in luck. For how else can we explain the success of those we don’t like?
—Jean Cocteau
Tailpiece
“Don’t you think George dresses nattily?”
“Natalie who?”
She maintains that placing coins under masts perpetuates a despicable ancient tradition of payola and subservience to petty tyrants—the gods of the wind and sea. She accuses me of being hopelessly superstitious.
Superstitious? Hah! Not me. At least, not compared with some. I once knew a sailor so superstitious that he wouldn’t even pronounce a four-letter word ending in “uck.” In a Rotary Club speech about his ocean crossings, Dr. Earle Reynolds listed the essential requirements for safe passages as: 1. A well-found ship; 2. A good crew; 3. Adequate preparation and maintenance; 4. Seamanship; 5. the Fifth Essential.
He never disclosed what the fifth essential was. He just gave examples of how, er, fortunate some famous round-the-worlders had been. Harry Pidgeon, for example, fell asleep and grounded his boat on the only soft sandy beach in miles of rock-strewn shoreline. Joshua Slocum escaped from pirates when their mast fell down in a squall. And so on.
The smarter Rotarians soon figured out that the fifth essential was the “uck” word, which you never say out loud for fear it will desert you.
Quite right. That’s why, despite scoffing from the vice-admiral, we always have a coin under our mast. It’s for good uck. And so far, knock on wood, we’ve been very ucky.
Today’s Thought
We must believe in luck. For how else can we explain the success of those we don’t like?
—Jean Cocteau
Tailpiece
“Don’t you think George dresses nattily?”
“Natalie who?”
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