Manners makyth boaters

IT HAS BEEN SUGGESTED to me that I should write a column about radio etiquette for boaters.  You know, how to be politically correct on your VHF radio. I have rejected the idea because it is so boring.

I mean, everybody knows you don’t tell your mates on Channel 16 how you’ve just pumped out your holding tank in the middle of the yacht basin. Everybody knows not to ask the Coast Guard for a radio check, because it makes them so mad. Everybody knows you never end a conversation with “over and out.” If it’s over it’s not out. Jeez, make up your mind.

One thing that might not be so well known is that you should hold the microphone about two or three inches from your lips and talk briskly in a deep, gruff, macho voice.  You see, the same VHF channels that you use are also used by loggers, fishermen, rum runners, tugboat skippers and Somali pirates.  These are tough guys, and they can hear you when you’re calling your yacht-club friends anchored nearby on Happy Daze to come on over for sundowners. You don’t want those tough guys out there to think you’re effeminate, or a pushover, or unable to resist a boatload of hairy party-crashers. You need to sound tough, too.

I can’t vouch for this, but a macho voice on the radio might also just dissuade the Coasties from boarding you for a potty inspection. When they call you on Channel 16 and say they’re going to board you, ask the nice officer if he once signed a statement swearing to uphold the Constitution of the United States. When he says yes (because they all have to, you know) ask him why he’s contravening the Fourth Amendment, which states that he can’t board and search your boat without a warrant from a judicial official; and that your right to be secure against unreasonable searches and seizures shall not be violated; and that he needs probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, describing the boat to be searched and the persons or things to be seized. Says so right there in the Constitution, officer.

They’ll board you, of course. At gunpoint, if necessary. They don’t worry about contravening the Fourth Amendment because they have the backing of the Pentagon and those bums in Congress, who will knowingly ignore the Constitution when it suits their own ends and when the negligible number of votes from the yachting fraternity is not going to affect their chances of re-election.

Apart from that, all I can add is that you should never mention on Channel 16 the name of any boat called M’Aidez.  When I was young and naive — well, that is, even more naive than I am now — I named my racing dinghy M’Aidez.  I thought it was deliciously chic, not to mention absolutely hilarious. (I told you I was naive.)

We raced offshore in those days, and the results of races were sent to the beach party from the committee boat by VHF radio.  It didn’t take long for everyone to discover that whenever my boat’s name was mentioned in the results, every marine radio operator within listening distance pricked up his ears and prepared for action.

God knows what would have happened if I’d ever needed to be rescued and somebody had broadcast a Mayday for M’Aidez.

Today’s Thought

For as laws are necessary that good manners may be preserved, so there is need of good manners that laws may be maintained.
— Machiavelli, Dei Discorsi

Tailpiece

 A Hollywood film unit hired a public relations officer for a movie they were making in Africa.
The director explained: “Your job is to promote goodwill.  So be sure to humor the locals. If they say Africa is bigger than Texas, don’t argue. Agree with them.”

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

Cruising boats need Samson posts

YOU DON’T SEE MANY Samson posts on small boats these days, which is a pity. Every cruising boat should have a Samson post. There is something very shippy about a Samson post, something that connects a sensitive person to a nautical heritage going back thousands of years. But if you’re not a sensitive person, or don’t give a damn about your nautical heritage, you probably don’t even know what a Samson post is. Well, for your edification let me quote from the Encyclopedia of Nautical Knowledge (Cornell Maritime Press):

“Samson post: a single bollard or bitt at the fore end of a small vessel for making fast a tow rope, anchor cable, etc.”

It is, indeed very useful for those purposes, and also for mooring lines. It is a sturdy, honest-to-goodness hitching post that puts to shame those piddling little deck cleats now supplied in its stead by tight-fisted, insensitive boatbuilders.

When I converted a little Santana 22 club racer into a mini-cruiser, the first thing I did was to make her a Samson post of 2-inch by 2-inch white oak. I took it right through the deck, bolted it through the forepeak bulkhead and footed it on the keelson. I stood back many times to admire it, confident in the knowledge that it was more than man for the job.

I shaped the top into the traditional pyramid form, filed comely curves into the upright edges, and varnished the hell out of it.  I knew the lines around it would wear the varnish off, but I couldn’t help myself.  I wanted it to start off looking good anyway.

It needed a through pin, of course, and I couldn’t decide at first whether it should north-south or east-west. I eventually made it east-west, responding to some half-memory of an illustration in an old book, and hammered a piece of 3/8-inch stainless steel rod into a hole slightly too small. The hole, unfortunately, wasn’t exactly horizontal, so the Samson post always had a slightly woozy look about it, but that never stopped it doing its manly job, and I loved it anyway.

Another nice thing about a Samson post is that if you ever need a tow, you can show off  by making the line fast with an esoteric knot like the capstan hitch, or the towboat hitch, which, I suspect, is the same thing. I understand that girls are attracted to sailors who can do the capstan hitch, but I can’t vouch for that personally. The closest I came to it was once when  woman told me she admired the way I coiled a line around my arm. She was the skipper’s steady girlfriend, so it came to nothing, and rightly so, because line-coiling demands none of the flair and expertise of the capstan hitch, and, of course, a capstan hitch is no darned good without a Samson post, which that particular boat lacked.

Today’s Thought

A knot is a picky thing; if you don’t tie it exactly right, it is an entirely different knot — or it is nothing at all.
— Brian Toss, Knots

Tailpiece

 Johnny’s mother had just presented the family with twins.
His father said: “If you tell your teacher, I’m sure she’ll give you a day off school.”
Sure enough, Johnny came home smiling. “No school for me tomorrow,” he announced.
“Did you tell your teacher about the twins?” his father asked.
“I told her about one,” said Johnny. “I’m saving the other one for next week.”

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

Dreams in small increments

CHUCK PAINE, one of America’s best-known smallboat architects spoke to me in my sleep the other night. He said he wished he’d squared off the bottom of the keel of his sweet little Frances 26/Morris 26 design.  If the corners had been sharp instead of rounded, she would have gone to windward even better, he said.  I don’t know why he told me this, but I have to believe him. I have seen the little winglets on Boeing planes that achieve the same purpose.

It has taken me a long time to appreciate how small details like this make a big difference on yachts. Inches of freeboard here, square feet of sail area there.

Another famous North American boat designer, Ted Brewer, once told me he’d wished he’d given one of his designs an inch more sheer at the bow. An inch? On a 40-footer? “It would have made a big difference visually,” he assured me.

You probably know as well as I do how a mainsail can start lifting right next to the mast when it’s backwinded by the jib. There are days when it seems to do this on purpose. But it takes only the smallest adjustments to put things right: you can ease the jib sheet an inch, or sheet in the mainsail an inch, or tighten the clew outhaul an inch. That’s all it takes to make the difference. Anything more heavy-handed marks you as a neophyte.

I used to scoff at the notion that an extra inch of beam could make a difference to a boat’s performance.  After all, it was regarded as a minor miracle if, in the olden days of wooden construction, a boat was finished within two or three inches of her designed overall length.

But an inch of beam does in fact make a difference because the interior volume gained through that inch stretches the whole length of the boat.  It’s more in the middle and less at the ends, admittedly, but neverthless it’s not just an inch across the belly section.

I used to sail on a old wooden boat in San Diego that had an extra wooden skin added to the outside of the hull. It was only about 3/4 inch thick, but over the 35-foot length of the boat, it must have weighed a ton and I imagined  the boat must have sunk a good couple of inches in the water. But an old salt came on board and asked the skipper: “How much extra freeboard did you gain?”

I forget now exactly how far she rose out of the water when that extra skin was added, but it did give me furiously to think about how much the extra volume of water displaced all around the hull must have weighed, and, in consequence, made her float higher.

I have more respect now, when people tell me about small changes that have made big differences.  I don’t scoff any more.  If Chuck Paine says square edges are faster than round edges I’m happy to accept it. I wish he’d give me advance warning of when he’s going to appear in my dreams, though. I’m sure I could think of some good questions to ask him.

Today’s Thought

Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives.
— Dr. William C. Dement, Newsweek, 30 Nov 59

Tailpiece

“I had a date with Jack last night.”
“How’d it go?”
“He had the nerve to try to kiss me.”
“Wow, I bet you were furious.”
“Yeah, every darned time.”

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

Knowing when not to talk

I WAS ASKED the other day if I would care to give a talk to our local Sail and Power Squadron. I said, as I almost always do in similar circumstances, that I would not. I know full well that there are sailors there, and many of them, who know far more about the sea and sailing than I do. I would be an imposter among the truly knowledgeable. And besides, I am a wretched speaker.  I have the kind of mind that needs time to select words, to wrestle them from their hiding places in my mind, and to test them for aptness before I let them loose in public. For this reason, I prefer to write. And write rather slowly, at that. Then, if I find my offering lacking in appeal, I  have the option of seasoning it with a dash of Attic salt.

This request reminded me of another journalist with the same problem. He wrote a weekly column for The Star, a London newspaper, during World War I, and was known simply by his pen name, Alpha of the Plough. In his book, Leaves in the Wind (E. P. Dutton & Co., 1919), he republished a delightful column that describes my situation precisely. Here is a salient extract:

“THE OTHER DAY I went to dine at a house known for the brilliancy of the conversation. I confess that I found the experience a little trying. In conversation I am naturally rather a pedestrian person . . . I do not want to be expected to be brilliant or to be dazzled by verbal pyrotechnics.

“But at this dinner table the conversation flashed around me like forked lightning. It was so staccato and elusive that it seemed like talking in shorthand. It was a very fencing match of wit and epigram.

“I thought of a bright thing to say now and then, but I was always so slow in getting away from the mark that I never got it out. It had grown stale and out of date before I could invest it with the artistic merit that would enable it to appear in such brilliant company.

“And so, mentally out of breath, I just sat and felt old-fashioned and slow, and tried to catch the drift of the sparking dialogue. But I looked as wise as possible, just to give the impression that nothing was escaping me, and that the things I did not say were quite worth saying. That was Henry Irving’s way when the conversation got beyond him. He just looked wise and said nothing.

“There are few things more enviable than the quality of good talk, but this was not good talk. It was clever talk, which is quite a different thing. There was no 'stuff' in it. It was like trying to make a meal off the east wind, which it resembled in its hard brilliancy and lack of geniality. Wit alone never made good conversation. It is like mint sauce without the lamb.”

 Today’s Thought

The American’s conversation is much like his courtship. . . . He gives an inkling and watches for a reaction; if the weather looks fair, he inkles a little more.
— Donald Lloyd, “The Quietmouth American,” Harper’s, Sep 63

Tailpiece

Judge: “What is your name and occupation?”
Prisoner: “My name is Sparks, I’m an electrician.”
Judge: “What is the charge?”
Prisoner: “Battery.”
Judge: “Officer, place this man in a dry cell.”

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

How fit you need to be

PEOPLE WHO PUT OFF CRUISING until retirement age sometimes ask how fit you need to be to sail a boat at sea.  I always tell them that “reasonable physical fitness” is all you need for cruising.  That’s a cop-out, of course, because everybody’s needs are different, but what I mean by it is that you don’t have to go to the athletic extremes of deep-sea racing crews.

If people do seek advice about exercise programs, I advise them to check with their doctors, and tell them that they’re interested in anaerobic exercises that improve strength. Aerobic exercises such as running, swimming or cycling actually don’t contribute much to the needs of sailors, unless they happen to fall into the water a lot. They do, admittedly, improve one’s general level of fitness if it has fallen to an unacceptably low level, and they do benefit the heart, lungs and circulation, but otherwise they don’t help much.

Being reasonably fit means you can tug on a halyard without pulling a muscle, and haul up an anchor without straining your back.  A fitness regime for sailors should concentrate on strengthening the back, shoulders, arms, and even fingers.

But the fact is that once you’re living on board you can hardly help getting enough exercise to keep you fit. It’s interesting how many times a time you find yourself climbing up the companionway ladder. And if you’re anchored out you’ll get plenty of good exercise from swimming, walking the dog on land, trying to get the darned outboard started, and (eventually) rowing the dinghy ashore.

Of course, if you’ve been physically inactive for some time, you might want, out of an abundance of caution, to see your doctor for a physical check-up before you start a major voyage.  But if you’re under 35 and don’t suffer from cardiovascular disease, and don’t have any known primary-risk factors such as high blood pressure, high cholesterol levels, and smoker’s cough; or secondary-risk factors such as a family history of heart trouble, obesity, stroke, or diabetes, you’re pretty much good to go. And go you should.

Today’s Thought

We can now prove that large numbers of Americans are dying from sitting on their hands.

— Dr. Bruce B. Dan, NY Times, 27 Jul 84

Tailpiece

“I’ve got nothing against you personally,” said the hefty boxer to his weedy opponent. “In fact, after this bout I’ll even stand you a pint — as long as we’re in the same blood group, that is.”

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

Navigating by barometer

NOT MANY OF US would define a barometer as a piece of navigational equipment. But two very experienced South African round-the-worlders, Barry and Patrick Cullen, introduced many skippers to the concept of barometer navigation during the first ocean yacht race from Cape Town to Rio de Janeiro in 1971.

The racing fleet had to skirt the South Atlantic High, a disk-shaped area of high pressure with wind strengths gradually increasing from zero in the middle to Force 4 at the outer edges.

The dilemma facing each navigator was whether to sail close to the center, thereby lessening the distance to be traveled, or to go farther north, the long way around the edge, thereby getting more wind.

The Cullens were sailing a famous 47-foot Colin Archer ketch called Sandefjord. They solved the problem by finding the wind they wanted and noting the barometer pressure. If the pressure dropped, they edged closer to the center of the high.  If the pressure rose, they headed out toward the edge. And so they automatically stayed almost equidistant from the moving center of the high-pressure area, carving a huge but efficient semi-circle across the South Atlantic.

Now this is, admittedly a comparatively crude method of rounding a high, but the Cullens stood no chance of taking home a trophy, so they were quite happy to know that they were probably doing the best that dear old Sandefjord was capable of, without all the stress and nail-biting that normally accompanies  electronic weather forecasting and optimum course-finding.

There are highs in all the big oceans that can be navigated the Sandefjord way. The only thing you have to watch out for is the natural variation of the barometer, the diurnal variation, which rises between 4 a.m. and 10 a.m., and also between 4 p.m. and 10 p.m.  The barometer falls between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m. and also between 10 p.m. and 4 a.m.

How much does it rise and fall?  Well the range of the diurnal variation varies according to latitude. It’s about 0.15 inch (5 millibars) at the equator and about zero at the poles.  And it occurs with great regularity, regardless of local weather patterns, although they may mask its presence, of course.

Incidentally, you need a brass-cased aneroid barometer for this business. A mercury barometer has no place on a small boat because the boat’s motion makes it “pump” up and down. But we now also have available the digital electronic barometer with a liquid crystal display screen that shows you a history of the changing pressure plus a current reading.  That’s very handy and a great safety feature — but there is still much to be said for the aneroid barometer. It’s very simple, extremely reliable, doesn’t need batteries, and doesn’t throw a fit if it accidentally gets wet.

Today’s Thought

There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,
Or the way of a man with a maid;
But the sweetest way to me is a ship’s upon the sea,
In the heel of the North-East Trade.
— Rudyard Kipling, The Long Trail.

Tailpiece

A soldier applied for a weekend leave pass.
“What for?” asked the lieutenant.
“My wife’s going to have a baby.”
“Very well.  It’s good to see a man with family pride.”
On Monday morning the lieutenant asked the soldier whether the happy event had taken place.
“What happy event?” said the soldier.
“Did your wife have her baby?”
“Jeez, have a heart, lieutenant. Don’t you know it takes nine months?”

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

Making fiberglass gleam

IT WAS WITH no small degree of astonishment that I recently learned how I should have been making my fiberglass gleam during all these long years of boat ownership. It was thanks to a four-page article in the latest issue of America’s largest-circulation boating magazine, BoatU.S. magazine, that I learned how I was supposed to have done it.

I read that article through from beginning to end with a growing sense of shame and disillusionment.  I ended up confessing to the cat, who could sense my distress:  “I am guilty, guilty as charged.  I have never ever made my fiberglass gleam like this. I am a failure, an impostor, and unworthy of boat ownership.”

Let me boil down those four pages for you, so that you won’t repeat my failure.  Making your fiberglass gleam is apparently not just a matter of vanity but a matter of protecting your boat. To do this you should follow these steps:

1.  Remove oxidation from the topsides with a power orbital buffer and oxidation remover.

2.  Remove the oxidation remover.

3.  If the oxidation was severe, remove remaining oxidation with orbital buffer and oxidation remover.

4.  Remove oxidation remover.

5.  Eliminate any stains remaining. Use rubbing compound and a rag. Rub by hand.

6.  Remove rubbing compound.

7.  Polish hull with buffer and a dedicated polish.

8.  Remove polish.

9.  Polish hull again.

10. Remove polish again.

11. Seal the shine in with a thorough coating of paste wax over the whole hull, by hand. Let it dry.

12. Remove paste wax.

13. Apply another coat of paste wax by hand. Let it dry.

14. Remove paste wax.

15. The coup de grace — apply a coat of carnauba wax by hand.

16. Clean off the carnauba wax with a buffer and a microfiber bonnet.

Now, I don’t know how long all this is supposed to take you, but presumably you can get it all done in just one winter because the article then adds that in spring “you should be able to get away with a quick polish and then sealing in the shine.”  And if you can actually bring yourself to use the boat after all this spiffing up, during the sailing season you can renew the shine by giving the gelcoat another carnauba wax job every other week.

Well, let us pause for breath here. As I told the cat, I have never wax polished the hull of any boat I have owned. When fiberglass hulls were invented, the inherent promise was that they would never need any maintenance.  We would be freed from the annual task of rubbing down the topsides and slapping on another coat of paint.  They would simply shine forever, reflecting the rays of the sun and spreading joy and happiness wherever they went.

It wasn’t true, of course.  They got scuffed and battered just like wooden topsides before them, and after a few years we noticed that the gelcoat developed a sort of powder on its surface, and when we complained to the builders they laughed and told us how naive we were.  “One word governs all of boating,” they pointed out. “Entropy. Go look it up.”

I decided then and there that my topsides would have to take their chances in life and I cleverly decided that white was the only color for a hull because oxidized white hulls look better than oxidized hulls of any other color, especially red or blue.

I also learned in later years that when a boat got so badly oxidized that it looked like a moose shedding fur, you could slap on a coat or two of twin-pack polyurethane paint and it would look bright and shiny and brand new for at least seven years to come, and with about a quarter of the effort you’d need to make your fiberglass gleam by applying wax paste and repeating the whole process until Armageddon set you free.

I’m sure the BoatU.S. people think that anybody with my attitude is unfit to own a fiberglass hull, but I don’t really care.  My cat thinks I’m plenty smart, if a little over-emotional.

Today’s Thought

I’m tired of all this nonsense about beauty being only skin-deep. . . . What do you want — an adorable pancreas?
— Jean Kerr, The Snake Has All the Lines

Tailpiece

“Officer, is this the crash victim?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is he badly injured?”
“Well, so-so, sir. Two of the wounds are fatal but the other one’s not so bad.”

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