Catching fish while sailing

TONIGHT I SHALL MAKE GRAVLOX for our annual party on the day after New Year’s Day. I shall pour coarse salt and new-ground pepper onto filets of local salmon and smother it all with bunches of dill. And then, while it matures in the fridge for two days I shall think about all the fish I’ve caught in my sailing career.

I make no claim to be an angler, although I’ve always wanted to be one. I’ve always admired people who can cast a line back and forth, flashing through the air, and  land the fly gently on the water in some shady pool. But my method of fishing is much cruder than that. For many hundreds of miles under sail I have simply towed a shiny lure astern, inviting anything in the sea to take a bite. I keep it all very simple. No rod to get in the way of everything. Just a simple Penn reel clamped to the pushpit rail. No gaff. No net. And no sportsmanship involved. Everything is so strong and simple that anything I catch can be hauled straight into the cockpit.

When I was a kid we lived in a house close to the sea, and every year the mackerel would swim into our little bay. Great shoals of them. I would row out in a small dinghy and catch one on my hand line. I’d cut him up for bait and catch a dozen more. They were always ravenous. When I had a fair load, I’d row down to the little fish market in town and offer my catch for sale.

I never sold any because everybody and his aunt was out there catching mackerel. The market was flooded with mackerel. You could almost persuade some fishmonger to pay you to take your catch away, because the glut of mackerel was forcing prices down. So, every year, I would row back home and dispose of my cargo on the way, saving only a few fishes for the cats, and perhaps a supper or two for our family. It was a lesson in retail economics that shouldn’t have taken long to learn, but I was never disappointed by my failure to make a fortune from mackerel . It was the thrill of catching each one on a hand line that kept me at it.

In later years I fished as I crossed oceans. I lost quite a few spinners to sharks, but still managed to drag aboard bonito, dorado, barracuda, and salmon, all of which made fine eating, and one notable puffer fish, which I knew to be poisonous. I was saved the bother of taking him off the hook by a shark, which swallowed him whole along with my lure and hook and six inches of stainless-steel trace wire.  I have often wondered whether puffer fish are as poisonous for sharks as they are for humans.

In any case, tonight I shall be thinking of Burl and Abigail Romick. We met them in 1999, when my wife June and I were exploring the wilderness of British Columbia in our 25-foot sailboat. They were sailing a C&C 35-footer, a Landfall, called Wind Song.

We came across them near the northern end of Vancouver Island while we were sheltering from a northwesterly gale in Bull Harbor, an area described with some accuracy in the Sailing Directions as “remote.” And very windy, as it turned out, even in summer.

We linked up with Wind Song again down south in Barkley Sound. And there the Romicks treated us to a gourmet meal built around a delicious dish they called gravlox.

They made it from a salmon they had caught. It was soft, sweet, salty, peppery, and tangy with dill. After five weeks of canned food and cruising rations, it was a sensation. Our jaded tastebuds were clapping their little hands and yelling with delight.

Every year since, we’ve made a gravlox lunch on the day after New Year, and invited a few close friends around to share the delights we experienced in Barkley Sound. There will be champagne, of course. And the toast is always the same: “To Burl and Abigail.”

Today’s Thought

Fishing is much more than fish . . . It is the great occasion when we may return to the free simplicity of our forefathers.

— Herbert Hoover, 31st U.S. President

Tailpiece

“Psychoanalysis is a lot of hokum.”
“What makes you say that?”
"Well, I’ve been having analysis for six weeks and my shrink says I’m in love with my umbrella.”
“That’s just nuts.”
“That’s what I told him. Admiration, possibly — and I must admit we have built up a sincere affection for each other — but love? That’s crazy.”

(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday for a new Mainly about Boats column.)

The madness of war

OBSERVANT READERS will have noticed that this column is called Mainly about Boats. It was given that name because people interested in boats are normally highly intelligent, and such people occasionally show interest in things other than boats.

Which brings me to the point. The news sources lately have been full of stories about the 100th anniversary of the beginning of World War I, and many have mentioned the strange situation in the front-line trenches in Europe, where fighting temporarily ceased during the Christmas and New Year holidays. There is one oft-repeated but apocryphal story about the Germans and the British arranging a soccer match in No Man’s Land in the middle of the war.

But the saddest story I know about that time comes from a book called Leaves in the Wind, by Alpha of the Plough — a collection of columns from The Star newspaper, London, published in 1919. This particular column was called ’Appy ’Einrich. It described an incident in France where the two lines of enemy trenches were only 40 yards apart. It was at a time when there was very little military activity, according to a British soldier who was there:

“We got rather chummy with the [German] fellows over the way. We’d put up a target for them and they’d do the same for us. Yes, we got quite friendly and one morning one of their men got up on the parapet over the way, bowed very low, and shouted ‘Goot morning.’ Our men answered, ‘Morgen, Fritz. How goes it?’ and so on.

“He was a big, fat fellow, with glasses, and a good-humored face, and to our great joy he began to sing a song in broken English. And after he had finished we called for more and he gave us more. He had a real gift for comedy; seemed one of those fellows who are sent into the world with their happiness ready made. He laughed a great gurgling laugh that made you laugh to hear it. Our chaps gave him no end of applause, and called for his name. He beamed and bowed, said ‘Thank you, genteel men,’ and said that his name was Heinrich something or other.

“So we called him ’Appy ’Einrich, and whenever our men were bored and things had gone to sleep someone would sing out ‘We want ’Einrich. Send us ’Appy ’Einrich to give us a song.’ And up would come Heinrich on to the parapet, red and smiling and bowing like a prima donna. And off he would start with his program.

“This went on for some time and then one day we got news that we were to be relieved at once. We were to clear out and our place was to be taken by a Scotch regiment.

“Some weeks afterwards I ran across a man in the Scotch regiment which had followed us in the trenches. ‘And how did you get one with Heinrich?’ I asked.

“’Never heard of him,’ he said. Then, after a pause, he added, ‘There was an incident the morning after we took over the line. Some of our fellows saw a bulky Boche climbing onto the parapet just across the way and had a little target practice, and he went down in a heap.’

“’That was him,’ I said, ‘that was ’Appy ’Einrich.’”

Today’s Thought

In war, you win or lose, live or die — and the difference is just an eyelash.

— General Douglas MacArthur, U. S. Army

Tailpiece

A cynical woman author describes a platonic relationship as “the interval between the introduction and the first grope.”

(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday for a new Mainly about Boats column.)

Wooden boats and iron men

NOW AND THEN I think uncharitable thoughts about the U. S. Coast Guard. That’s because each member swears an oath to protect the U. S. Constitution and then promptly goes out and boards private boats, by force if necessary, without the due cause that the Constitution mandates. It’s unfortunate, in a way, that our maritime lifeboat service eventually became a branch of the military, with full powers of unconstitutional search and arrest.

On the other hand I have to concede rather reluctantly that when the Coasties on potty patrol are not busily poking their noses into boaters’ heads they do a magnificent job of rescuing people in trouble at sea. They are well trained in search and rescue and they coordinate boats and aircraft in exemplary fashion.

We are lucky, I guess, that things have changed so much in little more than a man’s lifespan. For example, let me quote from a book called Olson’s Small Boat Seamanship, by Louis B. Olson (Van Nostrand Company, Inc.). Here is a vivid description of an inshore rescue by the Atlantic City station of the Life Saving Service (later, the Coast Guard). It took place on July 21, 1907, and is the official report written by the anonymous keeper of the station:

“At about 630 PM Mr. Gimbel came to Station and reported a Gasolene Launch capsized on the bar. Harry Smith and I ran down to the boat pavilian got the boat ready and call for volunteers. 6 men got in the boat and we started out. I soon found out most of the men was not used to rough water. The sea was very high and the men [those to be rescued — JV] was on the bottom of their boat. So I took chances and won out: My crew done all that any unskilled men could do: At last after the lost of three oars we got over the bar and was rowing for the boat when I heard a call from the water. I looked and saw a man (Mr. Sturgis) clinging to an ice chest: he had lost his hold just as one of the men got hold of his coat we got him in then rowed down to the Launch and got the other three men: Then we started for the Shore: As the sea was so heavy and the tide running out so strong and my crew almost plaid out from their hard row I made up my mind to go down the beach and land near the ocean pier. After I reached the end of the pier  I drilled the men in what I wanted them to do. We then started for the shore and by watching my chance I made the shore without mishap: We got the rescued men ashore and they walked to their homes: Not one of my crew showed the white feather although it was the first time some of them had been in rough water and they deserve lots of praze. Arrived at station at 11 PM changed my wet clothes. Then went back to boat and looked out for him till Sunrise. Then got an express co. to cart the boat up to the Boardwalk and Atlantic Ave.”

It was a time of wooden boats and iron men. Brave, brave men.

Today’s Thought

Heroes may not be braver than anyone else. They’re just braver five minutes longer.

— Ronald Reagan, 40th U.S. President

Tailpiece

If an S and an I and an O and a U

With an X at the end spell Su,

And an E and a Y and an E spell I,

Pray what is a speller to do?

Then if, also, an S and an I and G

And H E D spell side,

There's nothing much else for one to do

But go and commit sioux-eyesighed.

(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday for a new Mainly about Boats column.)

The Christmas present dilemma

FINDING A CHRISTMAS PRESENT for my wife has become more difficult now that we don't have a boat. It used to be simple when we had a boat. I always got her something that would be practical as well as delightful.

For instance, a few years ago I was wondering if June would like a new anchor rope for Christmas. She had got the old one quite dirty with mud when we anchored at Sucia Island. But of course, even then nothing was straightforward about buying a Christmas present for your wife. There were always those nagging questions. Would she like traditional three-strand nylon, or would she prefer nylon double-braid? Which would be kinder on her hands? And — very important this — which would surprise and delight her more on Christmas morning?
Perhaps, I thought,  I could throw in a decent pair of canvas gloves, so she doesn’t add to the number of calluses she seems to be collecting. On the other hand, a really nice present for her would be a new GPS chart plotter, not one of those cheapo Chinese knock-offs, but a really deluxe Garmin color plotter with interfacing capabilities to link up with the radar and depth-sounder I thought she might like for her next birthday. I could justify the cost. She is my darling and deserves nothing but the best.
I already had her stocking stuffer. It was the cutest, top-of-the-range iridium oxide scraper, to help her get the old antifouling paint off, next time we hauled. The expense was nothing. The point is, you’ve got to let your wife know how much you love her. And you want her to be cheerful in the sport she loves so much. I had to work hard at it, but it did give me great pleasure to make her happy.
Now it's even more difficult, and I have to confess I still haven't found a suitable gift. There's still time, of course. Hours and hours. Well, minutes, anyway. It seems a lot better if you think in seconds.

Meanwhile, I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and the finest greetings of the holiday season.  I hope Santa brings you nice new anchor ropes and fresh cans of antifouling paint and some of those fancy yachting shoes with the non-skid treads and the designer logo. It's so nice when you get presents you can really enjoy.  
Today’s Thought
God loveth a cheerful giver.
--New Testament: II Corinthians, ix, 7
Tailpiece
“Why do giraffes have such long necks?”
“Boy, but you ask some dumb questions. So they can eat from tall trees, of course.”
“Okay, so why do the trees have to be so tall?”
“So the giraffes won’t have to bend their necks, naturally.”

(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.) 

Here's to singlehanders

ONCE AGAIN we seem somehow to have halted the sun’s flight to the south. Yesterday he came to the end of his tether and we in the north can now start dragging him back to our hemisphere.

It means we can start looking forward to summer. Oh, I know that this is actually the beginning of the northern winter, but it also means the days will be getting longer and, eventually, warmer. It gives us hope that another summer of blue skies and warm winds will come our way — and prompt another crop of amateur sailors to set off across oceans.

Some  of those footloose adventurers will be singlehanders. Not many, but some. There are always a few every year, and they choose to sail alone for a host of different reasons.

In my book, The Practical Mariner’s Book of Knowledge, I list 10 reasons that motivate people to disappear over the horizon on their own. The list was originally compiled by Richard Henderson, a sailor and author with a profound knowledge of the singlehanded psyche. Here it is:
1. Practical purposes: To test a theory or to gather research material for a book. To earn money. To win a race. (Sometimes the practical reason is that the boat isn’t big enough for two.)
2. Self-significance: To find one’s place in the pecking order and acquire a sense of belonging.
3. Curiosity and fulfillment: A desire to see and experience things for oneself.
4. Recognition: Allied to self-significance, this takes things a stage further and involves a desire for fame.
5. Independence: The need for the greatest possible freedom and control over one’s destiny.
6. Escapism: Closely allied to independence. A rebellion against routine and flight from personal and societal problems.
7. Adventurousness: Pandering to the restless spirit, the desire for novelty, travel, and excitement.
8. Competitiveness: This takes many forms, including personal competition with the ocean and one’s inner fears as well as the desire to win races and set records.
9. Solitude: Some people are natural introverts. They like being alone. Others experience a spiritual cleansing that makes them more appreciative of subsequent human contact.
10. The Mother Sea: All life came from the sea. Some deep instinct, some unsummoned fascination, draws many people back.
Ø Well, there you are. I’m sure a great many of us have felt that inner urge to set sail alone, free of all the problems that most crews present, and free of the need to take anybody else’s feelings (or their safety) into account before making decisions, big or small.

But most of us would never dare to rely entirely on ourselves to cross an ocean. It takes a lot of guts to do that. We will say we can’t find the find the time or the opportunity; but if we examine our consciences we will find that we could, in fact, make the time and the opportunity, if only we were prepared to change our lives completely.

Meanwhile, I’m sure you’ll join me in wishing the best to all those sailors who are preparing for long solo voyages in 2015.  Good luck to you, guys and gals. May you enjoy fair winds and good landfalls.

 Today’s Thought There is a need to find and sing our own song, to stretch our limbs and shake them in a dance so wild that nothing can roost there, that stirs the yearning for solitary voyage. — Barbara Lazear Ascher, Playing after Dark
Tailpiece
“Is there someone in the class who can tell me what steps you would take to determine the height of a ship’s mast using only an aneroid barometer?”
“Yes, sir. I would lower the barometer on a piece of string and then measure the string.”

(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday for a new Mainly about Boats column.)

Waiting for boat fever to return

CHRISTMAS ISN'T EVEN HERE YET but a lot of northern sailors are already looking forward to spring and a new sailing season. Our weather hasn't been too good lately, what with all the wind and rain and frost. And all this mad running around to find Christmas trees and presents for ungrateful recipients has made a whole lot of owners neglect a whole lot of boats. Those poor boats sit there, abandoned in the marina, wincing as the drops of rain seep through the deck and drip onto burgeoning beds of mold and mildew.


Spring can't come quick enough. It has always been thus, it seems. This is what Thomas Fleming Day, editor of The Rudder, had to say about it more than 100 years ago:

"When Winter gets up his hook and stands offshore, the boat fever comes on strong and the itch to be away on the blue again takes hold of us. Sunday finds the boys sidling off towards the yards and wading around in the slush looking over the laid-up craft.

"They walk round and round them, peer at the stern, eye the bow, comment on the spars, find fault with the bottom, and curse the price that makes it not for them. Year after year this is our amusement. Spring after spring we go through the same yards, see the same boats, and express the same opinions regarding their appearance and condition. If those boats have ears, how tired they must get, how weary of the silly comments that the boat-fevered busybody makes each March under their hulls.

'A few weeks after, the yard is almost cleared, except here and there a poor old cripple or rich man's forgotten plaything is left standing surrounded by a raffle of timber and truck. Over by the fence, lying on its side, is a once crack-a-jack racer, too rotten to be moved and going rapidly to punk.

"And we look on her and think of the days when we will be lying up against the fence, dismantled and broken, while our successors are out cleaving the blue and making a mainsheet haul of health and happiness."

* Well, he ended up a little maudlin, there, didn't he? I guess he was rather depressed after a Christmas that had gone on too long and kept him away from his boat.

Today's Thought

Christmas is a time when kids tell Santa what they want and adults pay for it. Deficits are when adults tell the government what they want — and their kids pay for it.

— Richard Lamm, former Governor of Colorado.

Tailpiece

"My girlfriend thinks I'm a stalker."
"Your girlfriend thinks that?"
"Yeah, well, she's not actually my girlfriend yet."

(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday for a new Mainly about Boats column.)

Barnacles on my mind

THE AUTHORITIES IN CHARGE of all living things in the water have banned the use of certain bottom paints for yachts because they are toxic to sea life. Probably the most effective of these anti-fouling paints was based on tin, and that is almost completely forbidden now unless you have an aluminum boat, which is allergic to the ubiquitous copper-based anti-fouling paint.


The latest news I hear is that the bottom-paint police are now considering banning copper paint, too. I don’t know of any viable alternative to copper paint for most of us — and by viable I mean compatibly priced and easy to apply — so it appears our underwater hulls are doomed to play host to great colonies of barnacles. Any hull roughened in that way creates a great deal of resistance to movement through water. Those barnacles will slow our boats drastically under sail, and send fuel bills skyrocketing under power.


Now, there is a point here that the bottom-paint police seem to have overlooked. These sea creatures they’re so concerned about are not helpless. They have a choice. They are not forced to attach themselves to my hull. Nobody tells them they have to live there. They have the whole sea to choose from, billions of welcoming rocks and sunny beaches, concrete seawalls, and lovely wooden piles; and if they have any of the sense of survival that Nature is supposed to have instilled in them, they will carefully avoid the comparatively tiny number of boat bottoms painted with copper paint. Those without that sense of survival (and there do seem to be some) surely deserve what they get, and their suicidal genes should not be passed on to future generations.


It is difficult to perceive what part is played in the great business of life on earth by barnacles, and their cousins, limpets, and their low-life relations, brown and green slime. I seem to remember a hymn about all things wise and wonderful, all creatures great and small, but the voice of experience tells me that not all creatures great and small are wise and wonderful. And that applies especially to the barnacles and slime that attempt to fasten their useless, loathsome, parasitic selves to boats.


Let us not forget that Whoever or Whatever created barnacles also created copper, and nowhere in the good book does it say the twain shall never meet. Let Nature take its course, I say. Let copper keep my bottom clean. Let all wise and wonderful barnacles go and live somewhere else, and let Nature remove the dumb and unwonderful ones in her own way.



Today’s Thought
Nature is that lovely lady to whom we owe polio, leprosy, smallpox, syphilis, tuberculosis, cancer.
—Dr. Stanley N. Cohen, geneticist, Stanford.
(He forgot to mention barnacles. —JV)



Tailpiece
“You in trouble with the IRS again?”
“Yeah, they disallowed my medical expenses.”
“What medical expenses?”
“Five hundred dollars for the tooth fairy.”