THERE ARE TIMES when I wonder what sort of loads my jib sheets are carrying. Those times usually come when we are screaming along on a close reach in 20 knots and (for a change) I have nothing else to worry about.
I look at the working sheet, and its bowline, and the lead block, and the winch, and the cleat, and my little brain wonders how many pounds of tension are being created in all those spots, and what would happen if something suddenly gave way.
The modern rope we use for sheets and halyards is a wonderful material, strong almost beyond belief, but it does have its limits, of course, and if your brain demands peace of mind while you’re sailing, maybe you should be quite sure all your running rigging is adequately sized.
You can make a pretty good estimate of the strain your jib imposes on its sheet. You simply square the wind speed in knots and multiply the answer by the sail area in square feet. Then you divide the answer by 232. This gives you the approximate pull on the sheet in pounds.
For example, let’s say you have a 200-square-foot jib, and the wind is blowing 20 knots. Square the wind speed, 20 x 20, and you get 400. Multiply that by the sail area, 200, and you get 80,000. Divide that by 232 and the result is 344.8 pounds, say 345 pounds.
That’s the weight of two big men, which explains why you need the help of a winch to trim the jib when it’s blowing hard. And here’s another thing: wind pressure in the sail rises as a square of wind speed, so the greatest pull you’ll experience on that sheet is likely to be double the 20-knot figure, or in the region of 700 pounds. If you want peace of mind, make sure your gear can handle it.
Today’s Thought
The winds and waves are always on the side of the ablest navigators.
—Edward Gibbon, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.
Tailpiece
Another notice we noticed:
In an optometrist’s office:
“If you don’t see what you’re looking for, you’re in the right place.”
March 15, 2009
March 13, 2009
The sea’s finest show
THE MIRACLE called phosphorescence is one of the finest shows the sea ever puts on. There are times when the water seems to crackle with light. Your eyes alone don’t seem to do it justice. You long to hear it or taste it—to feel the extraordinary sensations you are witnessing so inadequately.
In a small boat you are very close to the sea, and when it’s putting on a show you can touch those glimmering lights and get tiny sparkles all over your hands and face.
But something even more miraculous happened to us one night in tropical seas. Imagine a thin oval disk about 10 feet long and 5 feet wide lying at an angle, 6 feet under water. As we approached slowly, the whole disk erupted instantaneously in an eerie greenish flash that bounced off our white sails.
Every few minutes, another disk, lying at a different angle, would go off like a strobe light. On calm nights it sometimes took us hours to pass through large fields of these flashing disks. We were near the island of Fernando da Noronha, 200 miles off Brazil, at the time—precisely where Charles Darwin had seen them 148 years before.
He had no definite explanation for them, but we had: Just one of the sea’s ordinary, everyday miracles.
Today’s Thought
How cunningly nature hides every wrinkle of her inconceivable antiquity under roses and violets and morning dew!
—Emerson, Letters and Social Aims.
Tailpiece
More notices we noticed:
In a non-smoking section:
“If we see smoke we will assume you are on fire and take appropriate action.”
In a small boat you are very close to the sea, and when it’s putting on a show you can touch those glimmering lights and get tiny sparkles all over your hands and face.
But something even more miraculous happened to us one night in tropical seas. Imagine a thin oval disk about 10 feet long and 5 feet wide lying at an angle, 6 feet under water. As we approached slowly, the whole disk erupted instantaneously in an eerie greenish flash that bounced off our white sails.
Every few minutes, another disk, lying at a different angle, would go off like a strobe light. On calm nights it sometimes took us hours to pass through large fields of these flashing disks. We were near the island of Fernando da Noronha, 200 miles off Brazil, at the time—precisely where Charles Darwin had seen them 148 years before.
He had no definite explanation for them, but we had: Just one of the sea’s ordinary, everyday miracles.
Today’s Thought
How cunningly nature hides every wrinkle of her inconceivable antiquity under roses and violets and morning dew!
—Emerson, Letters and Social Aims.
Tailpiece
More notices we noticed:
In a non-smoking section:
“If we see smoke we will assume you are on fire and take appropriate action.”
March 10, 2009
A yachty aide-mémoire
IF YOU CAN remember what the word mnemonics means, you probably don’t need mnemonics. It’s my personal misfortune, however, that I can’t hardly remember anything, so I’m one of those sailors who definitely does need mnemonics.
I even had to invent a mnemonic to help me remember the colors, shapes, and numbers of navigation buoys. I mean, it’s all very well to remember “Red, Right, Returning,” but what if you’re entering a strange port at dusk, and you can’t see whether the buoy’s red or not? There are many times when you can’t see anything but the black silhouette of a buoy, or maybe just its number. Which side do you leave it on then?
Well, to help me sort it out, I imagine a Russian nun carrying a green milk can from the nunnery cow barn. I recite to myself: “Even Red Nuns Carry Odd Green Cans.”
Those of you who know how to navigate by the Mark 1 Eyeball method will recognize the shorthand code in my mnemonic. It tells you that red buoys are nun buoys — the ones with the conical, pointy tops. It also tells you that nun buoys always carry even numbers. Conversely, can buoys — the ones with the flat tops, like cans of soup — are always colored green, and they carry odd numbers.
Thus, if I stumble upon a buoy while returning to port at dusk, I know I should leave it to starboard, if it (a) has a conical top; OR (b) it’s colored red; OR (c) it carries an even number. OR all three, of course. But any one will do the trick.
However — and there’s always a however — it’s an unfortunate fact that buoys with lights on them do not necessarily conform to the nun or can shapes. From a distance, in broad daylight, most lighted buoys look like can buoys with their middle section missing. In daylight, such a buoy will not tell you which side of the channel it guards. If you’re nervous, you have to hang around until dark, and only when it starts flashing either red or green will you know which side to leave it on.
Meanwhile, it’s sad that there can be no mnemonic for lighted buoys. It’s a flaw that was apparently overlooked by the International Association of Lighthouse Authorities when they bequeathed System B to us. You’d think a high-powered bunch of maritime brains like that would have seen the problem coming, and invented distinctive shapes for red light buoys and green light buoys. But no. No such luck, dude. What do they care about Eyeball Mark 1 navigators in pesky little sailboats, I ask you? Nothing, that’s what. If they ever choke on their caviar, some of us won’t be too concerned.
Today’s Thought
They make glorious shipwreck who are lost in seeking worlds.
—Lessing.
Tailpiece
A hard man is good to find.
—Mae West
I even had to invent a mnemonic to help me remember the colors, shapes, and numbers of navigation buoys. I mean, it’s all very well to remember “Red, Right, Returning,” but what if you’re entering a strange port at dusk, and you can’t see whether the buoy’s red or not? There are many times when you can’t see anything but the black silhouette of a buoy, or maybe just its number. Which side do you leave it on then?
Well, to help me sort it out, I imagine a Russian nun carrying a green milk can from the nunnery cow barn. I recite to myself: “Even Red Nuns Carry Odd Green Cans.”
Those of you who know how to navigate by the Mark 1 Eyeball method will recognize the shorthand code in my mnemonic. It tells you that red buoys are nun buoys — the ones with the conical, pointy tops. It also tells you that nun buoys always carry even numbers. Conversely, can buoys — the ones with the flat tops, like cans of soup — are always colored green, and they carry odd numbers.
Thus, if I stumble upon a buoy while returning to port at dusk, I know I should leave it to starboard, if it (a) has a conical top; OR (b) it’s colored red; OR (c) it carries an even number. OR all three, of course. But any one will do the trick.
However — and there’s always a however — it’s an unfortunate fact that buoys with lights on them do not necessarily conform to the nun or can shapes. From a distance, in broad daylight, most lighted buoys look like can buoys with their middle section missing. In daylight, such a buoy will not tell you which side of the channel it guards. If you’re nervous, you have to hang around until dark, and only when it starts flashing either red or green will you know which side to leave it on.
Meanwhile, it’s sad that there can be no mnemonic for lighted buoys. It’s a flaw that was apparently overlooked by the International Association of Lighthouse Authorities when they bequeathed System B to us. You’d think a high-powered bunch of maritime brains like that would have seen the problem coming, and invented distinctive shapes for red light buoys and green light buoys. But no. No such luck, dude. What do they care about Eyeball Mark 1 navigators in pesky little sailboats, I ask you? Nothing, that’s what. If they ever choke on their caviar, some of us won’t be too concerned.
Today’s Thought
They make glorious shipwreck who are lost in seeking worlds.
—Lessing.
Tailpiece
A hard man is good to find.
—Mae West
March 8, 2009
Advice to the lovelorn
IT’S NOT OFTEN that I’m asked for advice in marital matters, but I could hardly ignore this plea from a boat widow in California:
DEAR JOHN – I need your help. I have been happily married for 10 years but I’m worried my husband is becoming a pervert. He has started secretly looking at boats. I do my best to satisfy him in every way, but I have found a yachting magazine hidden under the cushions in the den. It has a double-page spread of a gorgeous Hinckley.
He also keeps a well-thumbed cover from Good Old Boat magazine in his wallet. It features a shapely C&C 30 having a bottom job. I know he quietly goes on the Internet and watches videos on YouBoat.com and AdultBoatClips.com. There are advertisements showing provocative Catalinas saying: “Call us, we are in your city.”
Last weekend he went to Las Vegas with a bunch of guys from his office. I believe it’s legal in Nevada to consort with boats aged over 18. When I tackled him about it, he said they went to see the spring flowers. What should I do? —Cathy W., Dorchester, Calif.
Cathy, Cathy, please calm down, it’s all perfectly normal. Young boys straight out of puberty take pictures of boats they’ve got friendly with, and send them to each other on their cell phones. Your husband’s actions don’t mean he doesn’t love you. Men have been lusting after boats for centuries. Mostly they just look. Rarely do they touch. They live in a fantasy world. They mean no harm. If I were you, I would get advice. The two of you should make an appointment with a sympathetic yacht broker and discuss the problem. It’s just possible that a small deposit and reasonable monthly payments will solve everything. Good luck. (And don’t call me, I’ll call you, okay?)
Today’s Thought
Love is a fiend, a fire, a heaven, a hell
Where pleasure, pain, and sad repentance dwell.
—Richard Barnfield, The Shepherd’s Content.
Tailpiece
Notices we noticed:
On a maternity room door:
“Push. Push. Push.”
DEAR JOHN – I need your help. I have been happily married for 10 years but I’m worried my husband is becoming a pervert. He has started secretly looking at boats. I do my best to satisfy him in every way, but I have found a yachting magazine hidden under the cushions in the den. It has a double-page spread of a gorgeous Hinckley.
He also keeps a well-thumbed cover from Good Old Boat magazine in his wallet. It features a shapely C&C 30 having a bottom job. I know he quietly goes on the Internet and watches videos on YouBoat.com and AdultBoatClips.com. There are advertisements showing provocative Catalinas saying: “Call us, we are in your city.”
Last weekend he went to Las Vegas with a bunch of guys from his office. I believe it’s legal in Nevada to consort with boats aged over 18. When I tackled him about it, he said they went to see the spring flowers. What should I do? —Cathy W., Dorchester, Calif.
Cathy, Cathy, please calm down, it’s all perfectly normal. Young boys straight out of puberty take pictures of boats they’ve got friendly with, and send them to each other on their cell phones. Your husband’s actions don’t mean he doesn’t love you. Men have been lusting after boats for centuries. Mostly they just look. Rarely do they touch. They live in a fantasy world. They mean no harm. If I were you, I would get advice. The two of you should make an appointment with a sympathetic yacht broker and discuss the problem. It’s just possible that a small deposit and reasonable monthly payments will solve everything. Good luck. (And don’t call me, I’ll call you, okay?)
Today’s Thought
Love is a fiend, a fire, a heaven, a hell
Where pleasure, pain, and sad repentance dwell.
—Richard Barnfield, The Shepherd’s Content.
Tailpiece
Notices we noticed:
On a maternity room door:
“Push. Push. Push.”
March 5, 2009
The spring ritual
IN SPRING a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of hanging upside down by his toes in the hatchway as he tries to perform maintenance tasks in the rear end of his boat. It should be a crime to squeeze a large auxiliary engine into the tiny, convoluted space available in the stern quarters of a small sailboat, but scofflaw yacht designers get away with it all the time.
They put the seacocks for the cockpit drains back there. They put the stuffing box for the propeller shaft back there. They put the dipstick for the transmission box back there. And they put other stuff in there that has to be looked at, poked at, adjusted, and maintained every year before the sailing season starts.
And when I say “back there” I’m talking about a space that’s mostly filled with oily engine, an irregular space under the cockpit with sloping floors and curved walls. It’s a space you can’t even get to on most boats unless you empty an adjacent, claustrophobic, cockpit locker and ooze yourself inside. Even then, if you can find a way to contort your body so you don’t slide head-first into the murky bilgewater, you won’t be able to reach every nut that needs turning or lever that needs to be unfrozen because your arms simply aren’t long enough.
Once you’re in there you can’t turn around. When you’re done, you have to back out. People regularly get cramps and find they’re stuck in position. I know of at least man who had to be rescued with the Jaws of Life by the local fire brigade. He would undoubtedly have starved to death had he not been equipped with a cell phone to call for help.
A sailor called Charlie Brenton was talking about this much-feared annual ritual on the Cape Dory bulletin board the other day. Here are his thoughts:
“Since most of us did not purchase our Cape Dorys new, many are unaware that Cape Dory did require prospective owners to pass a specific physical examination before purchase. Original Cape Dory owners were required to be less than 5 feet 4 inches tall and to weigh less than 120 pounds. Waist size was not to exceed 28 inches. Arm length was critical. It was required that the new owner prove that he could tie his shoes without bending over. Once these requirements were fulfilled, it was furthermore recommended that an additional joint be surgically inserted in the forearm between the elbow and wrist. Many of the spring maintenance problems that skippers experience are directly related to the inability to pass the Cape Dory physical.”
Charlie, who sails a 33-foot Cape Dory sailboat registered in Newington, New Hampshire, apparently did not pass the Cape Dory physical himself, but he has figured out his own personal solution to the problem of squeezing into the black hole back aft:
“Each spring I go on a three-day fast,” he said, “then I roll myself up to the configuration of a beach ball. With the engine room cover removed, my 10-year-old kicks me around the cabin until he is able to boot me over the exhaust riser to the realm beyond. Then I know that I am ready to uncoil and go to work. He throws me a sock full of wrenches, both metric and SAE, a box of Band-Aids and an occasional beer. He then sits enthralled while his Dad adds entirely new words to the English language.”
All I can say is that Charlie’s suggestion of a qualifying physical exam before purchase is a good idea. The fact that it might produce a new race of sailing dwarfs with chimpanzee arms is neither here nor there. At least the damn cockpit seacocks will work as they should.
Today’s Thought
Nothing is so easy but it becomes difficult when done with reluctance.
—Terence, Heauton Timoroumenos
Tailpiece
Notices we noticed:
Outside a church:
“Seven days without God makes one weak.”
They put the seacocks for the cockpit drains back there. They put the stuffing box for the propeller shaft back there. They put the dipstick for the transmission box back there. And they put other stuff in there that has to be looked at, poked at, adjusted, and maintained every year before the sailing season starts.
And when I say “back there” I’m talking about a space that’s mostly filled with oily engine, an irregular space under the cockpit with sloping floors and curved walls. It’s a space you can’t even get to on most boats unless you empty an adjacent, claustrophobic, cockpit locker and ooze yourself inside. Even then, if you can find a way to contort your body so you don’t slide head-first into the murky bilgewater, you won’t be able to reach every nut that needs turning or lever that needs to be unfrozen because your arms simply aren’t long enough.
Once you’re in there you can’t turn around. When you’re done, you have to back out. People regularly get cramps and find they’re stuck in position. I know of at least man who had to be rescued with the Jaws of Life by the local fire brigade. He would undoubtedly have starved to death had he not been equipped with a cell phone to call for help.
A sailor called Charlie Brenton was talking about this much-feared annual ritual on the Cape Dory bulletin board the other day. Here are his thoughts:
“Since most of us did not purchase our Cape Dorys new, many are unaware that Cape Dory did require prospective owners to pass a specific physical examination before purchase. Original Cape Dory owners were required to be less than 5 feet 4 inches tall and to weigh less than 120 pounds. Waist size was not to exceed 28 inches. Arm length was critical. It was required that the new owner prove that he could tie his shoes without bending over. Once these requirements were fulfilled, it was furthermore recommended that an additional joint be surgically inserted in the forearm between the elbow and wrist. Many of the spring maintenance problems that skippers experience are directly related to the inability to pass the Cape Dory physical.”
Charlie, who sails a 33-foot Cape Dory sailboat registered in Newington, New Hampshire, apparently did not pass the Cape Dory physical himself, but he has figured out his own personal solution to the problem of squeezing into the black hole back aft:
“Each spring I go on a three-day fast,” he said, “then I roll myself up to the configuration of a beach ball. With the engine room cover removed, my 10-year-old kicks me around the cabin until he is able to boot me over the exhaust riser to the realm beyond. Then I know that I am ready to uncoil and go to work. He throws me a sock full of wrenches, both metric and SAE, a box of Band-Aids and an occasional beer. He then sits enthralled while his Dad adds entirely new words to the English language.”
All I can say is that Charlie’s suggestion of a qualifying physical exam before purchase is a good idea. The fact that it might produce a new race of sailing dwarfs with chimpanzee arms is neither here nor there. At least the damn cockpit seacocks will work as they should.
Today’s Thought
Nothing is so easy but it becomes difficult when done with reluctance.
—Terence, Heauton Timoroumenos
Tailpiece
Notices we noticed:
Outside a church:
“Seven days without God makes one weak.”
March 3, 2009
Another great escape
I’VE BEEN SURPRISED recently to receive several letters from prison inmates. They all had read my book, Twenty Small Sailboats to Take You Anywhere, and they all had questions about which boat might be most suitable for them.
I’m at a loss to explain this sudden development. Are they planning to break out of jail and disappear over the horizon in a stolen boat? Or are they about to finish their terms with the realization that now is a good time to find bargains in used sailboats? You wouldn’t think the national economy would have much impact on someone in the slammer but I suppose they have a lot of time to ponder on it.
Perhaps it’s just the thought of spring that has seeped into their minds after a long bleak winter. When you’re wasting your life away reclining on a barebones bed in a concrete cell, you might well entertain romantic visions of white sails in warm turquoise water, and green palm trees rustling on soft sunny beaches. Hell, I do that myself, and I have a nice soft bed.
I always advise them to go simple. Most of them seem to be interested in singlehanding, and simplicity is the key for the lone sailor. Boat speed seems to be of interest to them, too, which is understandable, I suppose, if you’re being chased by the law. But I keep telling them that none of the 20 boats in my book is going to be able to outrun the Coasties or the Home Security guys who routinely drive around at 20 knots because they don’t have to pay for the gas.
If I were on the lam I’d want a small inconspicuous sailboat, something that wouldn’t attract attention, something that wouldn’t arouse suspicion. Something old, a bit shabby, and tired-looking. Something a bit like me, I guess.
Today’s Thought
His venture sounds like a banana peel awaiting its victim.
—Charlotte Curtis, New York Times
Tailpiece
A new poll reveals Americans’ 10 favorite forms of exercise:
• Jumping to conclusions.
• Hurling insults.
• Sidestepping responsibilities.
• Throwing fits.
• Running down friends.
• Running up bills.
• Pushing their luck.
• Fending off creditors.
• Pulling fast ones.
• Passing the buck.
I’m at a loss to explain this sudden development. Are they planning to break out of jail and disappear over the horizon in a stolen boat? Or are they about to finish their terms with the realization that now is a good time to find bargains in used sailboats? You wouldn’t think the national economy would have much impact on someone in the slammer but I suppose they have a lot of time to ponder on it.
Perhaps it’s just the thought of spring that has seeped into their minds after a long bleak winter. When you’re wasting your life away reclining on a barebones bed in a concrete cell, you might well entertain romantic visions of white sails in warm turquoise water, and green palm trees rustling on soft sunny beaches. Hell, I do that myself, and I have a nice soft bed.
I always advise them to go simple. Most of them seem to be interested in singlehanding, and simplicity is the key for the lone sailor. Boat speed seems to be of interest to them, too, which is understandable, I suppose, if you’re being chased by the law. But I keep telling them that none of the 20 boats in my book is going to be able to outrun the Coasties or the Home Security guys who routinely drive around at 20 knots because they don’t have to pay for the gas.
If I were on the lam I’d want a small inconspicuous sailboat, something that wouldn’t attract attention, something that wouldn’t arouse suspicion. Something old, a bit shabby, and tired-looking. Something a bit like me, I guess.
Today’s Thought
His venture sounds like a banana peel awaiting its victim.
—Charlotte Curtis, New York Times
Tailpiece
A new poll reveals Americans’ 10 favorite forms of exercise:
• Jumping to conclusions.
• Hurling insults.
• Sidestepping responsibilities.
• Throwing fits.
• Running down friends.
• Running up bills.
• Pushing their luck.
• Fending off creditors.
• Pulling fast ones.
• Passing the buck.
March 1, 2009
The Terrors of Being Towed
I ONCE SAILED a 17-foot sailboat across the English Channel from Dover to Calais. But I didn’t sail back. I was towed by a cabin cruiser. And I’ve never been so scared in my life.
I was young then. I knew it all. I gave the towboat my anchor chain and shackled a concrete weight in the middle to prevent snatching. I lowered my heavy metal centerboard for maximum stability. Big mistakes.
We left Calais at dusk in a dead calm. The other skipper had promised to go no faster than 6 knots, but we took off at 10. The tow line stretched bar taut. The concrete black slammed into the swells, showering the open cockpit with heavy spray and drenching me.
Every few minutes she’s heel far over, staggering and juddering as the centerboard gained lift. I strained against the tiller, trying to keep her in line astern. I heard water swishing down below, but couldn’t leave the helm to pump. I daren’t go forward to cast off the tow for fear of immediate capsize. I couldn’t communicate with the cruiser.
In pitch darkness, rigid with fear, I was dragged at 10 knots toward the Goodwin Sands lightship, which had its name painted on its sides in 6-foot white letters. The idiot powerboat skipper circled it and yelled: “Where are we? Which way to Dover?”
When we finally got to Dover he towed us into the Royal Navy’s submarine pen. Police pounced on us and searched both boats. Turned out there had been a big jewel theft in France. A getaway cruiser had been stolen in Calais.
The cops removed the idiot skipper and his friends, and I didn’t feel at all sorry for them. I collapsed on a damp bunk strewn with debris from the police search and vowed never to be towed again if I couldn’t cast off the tow line from the cockpit at any time I wanted.
Today’s Thought
There are many advantages in sea-voyaging, but security is not one of them.
—Sadi. (Emerson, English Traits: The Voyage.)
Tailpiece
Another notice we noticed:
In a bar’s non-smoking section:
“If we see smoke we will assume you are on fire and take appropriate action.”
I was young then. I knew it all. I gave the towboat my anchor chain and shackled a concrete weight in the middle to prevent snatching. I lowered my heavy metal centerboard for maximum stability. Big mistakes.
We left Calais at dusk in a dead calm. The other skipper had promised to go no faster than 6 knots, but we took off at 10. The tow line stretched bar taut. The concrete black slammed into the swells, showering the open cockpit with heavy spray and drenching me.
Every few minutes she’s heel far over, staggering and juddering as the centerboard gained lift. I strained against the tiller, trying to keep her in line astern. I heard water swishing down below, but couldn’t leave the helm to pump. I daren’t go forward to cast off the tow for fear of immediate capsize. I couldn’t communicate with the cruiser.
In pitch darkness, rigid with fear, I was dragged at 10 knots toward the Goodwin Sands lightship, which had its name painted on its sides in 6-foot white letters. The idiot powerboat skipper circled it and yelled: “Where are we? Which way to Dover?”
When we finally got to Dover he towed us into the Royal Navy’s submarine pen. Police pounced on us and searched both boats. Turned out there had been a big jewel theft in France. A getaway cruiser had been stolen in Calais.
The cops removed the idiot skipper and his friends, and I didn’t feel at all sorry for them. I collapsed on a damp bunk strewn with debris from the police search and vowed never to be towed again if I couldn’t cast off the tow line from the cockpit at any time I wanted.
Today’s Thought
There are many advantages in sea-voyaging, but security is not one of them.
—Sadi. (Emerson, English Traits: The Voyage.)
Tailpiece
Another notice we noticed:
In a bar’s non-smoking section:
“If we see smoke we will assume you are on fire and take appropriate action.”
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