Christmas presents for your boat

I KNOW we haven’t even had Thanksgiving yet, but that’s not my fault, and I maintain that you can never prepare too far ahead for Christmas. Furthermore, I have heard it said by both sexes that it’s very difficult to buy Christmas presents for men. That being the case, perhaps we men should do our bit to make this task easier, and, incidentally, thereby help the economy along.

One way to do this would be to make up a list of the Christmas presents we’d like to receive, and hand it out to friends, relatives, co-workers, and passers-by.

Some of you will think this is a very crass thing to do, but it has occurred to me that a wish-list of this sort would be completely acceptable if it were presented in the form of a request for items for your boat.

You might think this a little strange at first, but it’s not really. It moves the guilt factor away from you to a third party. And people (even landlubbers) know instinctively that boats have souls. They realize that there are strong emotional ties between sailors and their boats that stop short only of kissing and hugging. Well, in most cases, anyway.

Now, you may be saying, “But people will surely query why a boat would need a new flat-screen, Internet-ready, 72-inch, plasma TV with icemaker.  Or a case of Johnny Walker Red Label whisky; or a five-year subscription to Playboy. How do you answer them?”

Well, use your common sense. Close your eyes slightly. Look wise and mysterious. Say: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Explain that the bond between a man and his boat is intimate and very private. Tell them you have this intuitive, exclusive insight into your boat’s true needs and desires.

And make sure they realize that every boat knows the difference between real Johnny Walker and the cheap hooch they distill up in those scruffy hills in Arkansas.

Today’s Thought

Ever since Eve gave Adam the apple, there has been a misunderstanding between the sexes about gifts

— Nan Robertson

Tailpiece

He asked her for a burning kiss;

She said in accents cruel:

“I may be called a red-hot babe

“But I’m still nobody’s fuel.”

 

Falling down below

THE ESTEEMED early-20th-century boat designer William Atkin once designed for himself a 29-foot wooden sloop that was remarkable in my eyes for one particular thing — she had no companionway steps.

“If you drop down into the cabin of Ben Bow (and you will have to drop down because there is no companion ladder) you will find the bunks aft, then the galley, then two pipe berths, with a water closet near the foot of the mast,” Atkin wrote in his book Of Yachts and Men.

“As I have just mentioned, in Ben Bow we do not have a companion ladder. Sort of a man’s boat she is. We are not yet so old or stiff as to be unequal to scrambling in or out her cabin.

“Just two steps does it, one being a projection shod with a bit of brass on the bulkhead, the second being a corner of the starboard locker top. And so we are rid of a ladder, a piece of furniture which is always, I feel, too much in the way.

“The ladies? Well, God bless ’em, we might lower them away on the end of a rope. Somehow women generally do not love boats. Think they are a little jealous of them, just a little. Or perhaps their natures are too much alike . . . uncertain sort’a, and feminine, and — well I suppose I shall have to admit it — lovely.

“The cabin has among other features, one wide berth on the port side set high from the floor and with large lockers underneath. Even our old friend Abel Brown, who tells racy tales about berths, cannot quarrel much with the dimensions of this one; ‘big enough for perfect comfort under any situation,’ he might have remarked.”

It was surely a strange aberration that made Atkin omit a companionway ladder on his own boat. It wasn’t something he normally did on the hundreds of other boats he designed. It’s true that the darned ladder does take up precious space on a small boat, but if you’re a man who wants to share the pleasure of sailing with a wife or lady friend it is surely an act of gallantry to provide decent access from the cabin to the cockpit. Sort of like flinging your cloak into a puddle, so Her Majesty can keep her dainty slippers dry. Only more permanent. And a definite investment in marital bliss.

Today’s Thought

The hardest step is that over the threshold.

— James Howell,  Proverbs. No. 7

Tailpiece

Groucho Marx once opened a drawer by mistake in a friend’s home. He found a Colt automatic pistol surrounded by several small pearl-handled revolvers.

“My God,” he said, “This gat has had gittens.”

Recovering a lost anchor

IF YOU WANT to call yourself a sailor, you really should know how to recover a lost anchor. Luckily for you, I know how. I found the instructions among a bunch of old magazine clippings that had fallen down behind my desk. So here, in the words of a very old salt, is the way they used to do it in the days before you could effect a quick and painless anchor replacement by flashing a credit card in a West Marine store:

“You will need two boats, an oarsman in each. Fasten a weight to the middle of a long, heavy line to keep it down; also, position weights about 10 feet from the middle.

“Fasten the ends of the line to the two boats, coiling it loosely in each. Row to windward of the estimated position of the anchor, then row the boats away from each other to run out the line so it will be stretched just off the bottom. Row the boats down toward the estimated position of the anchor.

“When the bight of the line catches on the anchor’s fluke, cross the boats to take a round turn around the fluke. Make a running bowline at the end of another line, around the drag line, weight it so it sinks, and slip it down. When the bowline is fast to the fluke, pull up the anchor.”

Yeah. Okay. Thanks a lot, old-timer. So where did I put that credit card?

Today’s Thought

The wonder is always new that any sane man can be a sailor.

— Emerson, English Traits

Tailpiece

“How much is a bottle of brandy? It’s my nephew’s birthday and he likes brandy.”
“Well, madam, it depends on the age. Seven-year-old is quite reasonably priced. Ten-year-old costs a bit more. Twelve-year-old can be quite expensive.”
“Gee, that’s terrible. My nephew is 25.”

The truth about offshore sailing

IT’S HARD TO EXPLAIN to a landlubber what offshore sailing is all about. But William G. Homewood found a way to do it, after he had raced from Newport, Rhode Island, to Bermuda and back in a Ranger 26.

This is his description, as recorded in Richard Henderson’s book, Choice Yacht Designs:

“First, at home, you should go into the bedroom fully dressed and pour a bucket of water over your head. Put on your foul-weather gear and harness.  Prop up one side of the bed to an angle of 20 degrees, then pour a bucket of water over the pillow and bedding.

“Engage the services of a fork-lift (and operator) who will lift one corner of your house up into the air six feet and then let it drop down with a bang.  He should do this all night long, intermittently, without warning. Now, go to bed.

“After one hour of sleep it will be time to get out of bed, open the sliding door to the balcony, and peer out (checking the sails). At this moment a friend, well hidden, should throw a bucket of water onto the back of your head. Your jacket hood must be in the off position, as this will allow the water to run down your neck. . . .  As  you turn to go back into the bedroom, another well-hidden friend should club you over the head with a two-by-four. This simulates head blows from the  bulkheads. . . .”

There’s more that a landlubber needs to know, of course. You should fill your rubber boots with water and you should remember to throw up only on the lee side of the cockpit. You should preferably practice walking with one leg shorter than the other so as to remain upright on the slanted deck and you should develop arms like a gorilla’s so you can hang on to the handholds when a wave tries to wash you overboard.

You should also practice holding your bladder for at least eight hours because it’s impossible to get a hand on the outlet from your urinary tract when you’ve got a whole bunch of layers of clothing and waterproof pants on.

As for cheerful, sustaining hot meals — um, well, sorry feller. Ain’t gonna happen.

Today’s Thought

We have all sinned and come short of the glory of making ourselves as comfortable as we easily might have done.

— Samuel Butler the Younger, The Way of All Flesh

Tailpiece

Adolescence is a period of rapid change. Between the ages of 12 and 17, for instance, a parent can age as much as 20 years.

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

Epoxy warfare on my deck

AFTER PAINTING TWO BOATS with twin-pack polyurethane paint, I thought I knew all about polyester urethanes. I was wrong.

After I had finished the second boat, the surveyor came along. Tap, tap, tap, he went, all over the hull and decks of my sweet little 22-foot Santana.

He approached me with a long face. “Bad news,” he said, “your deck is delaminating.”

“What?” I cried. “Impossible. I’ve just been all over it. Sanded it. Painted it. There was nothing wrong with it.”

“Come and listen,” he said. He tapped the deck and it made that sickening dull thud, instead of a nice bright ring.

“Omigod,” I said.

There was no doubt about it. Something was badly amiss. We pondered it together, and eventually I decided there was nothing to lose.

I took a sharp knife and cut into the deck. I pulled back a strip. It was all paint. The deck underneath was as solid as ever.

“The paint hasn’t stuck,” the surveyor said. “How did you do this?”

I told him I’d sanded down the old deck paint. I applied a coat of Interlux epoxy primer. Then, having run out of that particular paint on the weekend, I grabbed some more epoxy primer from my nearest Ace Hardware store, and applied that. Before it cured, I sprinkled sand over it, 30-grit sand from a local builder’s yard. When the epoxy dried, I brushed off the excess sand lying on top with a soft brush.

Then I painted on two coats of Interlux twin-pack polyurethane. The result was magnificent. Better than new. Much better. Until the surveyor came along.

We poked around the deck some more and found that we could peel the new deck off by hand. Large chunks of  it came away as we togged. The epoxy and polyurethane and sand had formed a thick pliable skin — but it was not attached to the old deck. Underneath this skin, and on top of the old deck, was a sweet-smelling layer of some kind of liquid chemical.

“Aha,” said the surveyor, who was a smart man. “Incompatible epoxies.” He explained that the Interlux epoxy and the Ace Hardware epoxy had not liked each other. They had not got on well together at all. One of the other had revolted and formed this liquid layer that had prevented the top layers from sticking to the deck.

So I pulled off the new layer of deck paint like you’d peel the skin off a banana, scrubbed the whole deck down with acetone, and started again, this time with two epoxy coats from Interlux. And this time it worked. But it was a hard way to learn that different epoxies hate each other so much. I always thought epoxy was epoxy. Anyway, for someone who thought he knew all about twin-pack polyurethane, it was a humbling lesson.

Today’s Thought

Good painting is like good cooking: it can be tasted, but not explained.

— Vlaminck, On Painting

Tailpiece

“Johnny, who was the roundest knight at the Round Table of King Arthur?”

“Sir Cumference, sir.”

“Very good. And how did he achieve his great size?”

“From too much pi, sir.”

Sorting out the urethanes

I’VE DONE MY FAIR SHARE of painting boats, both wooden and fiberglass, but I was only vaguely aware of the difference between polyester urethane and acrylic urethane. However, I was looking through some notes the other day and came across a copy of an e-mail that explains things quite nicely.

I believe I originally found it on the Cape Dory bulletin board. In any case, it was posted by someone called Brandon, of Fort Lauderdale, who owned a 1985 Cape Dory 25D called Seamona. Here is what he had to say:

“The difference between the two, without getting long and boring boils down to this:

“Polyester urethane molecules are much smaller than acrylic molecules. So when they cure, the polyester urethane forms a tighter matrix, which gives a harder, more abrasion-resistant film, with better chemical resistance than acrylic.

“Acrylics are more forgiving in application, trap less dust, and are buffable. When an acrylic urethane is buffed, due to the lower cross-link density the melting point of the resin is much lower, i.e., it is softer. When buffing is carried out the resin-rich layer "melts" and reflows into the scratch. It is possible to retain an intact resin-rich layer at the surface protecting the pigments, and not losing significant thickness. The edges of touch-ups can be blended carefully in the same way. Long-term performance is not affected, as much of the resin layer remains.

“With the polyester urethane, the paint is a very hard, rigid film, and to get rid of a scratch you need to cut deeply into the paint, leading to the exposure of the pigments. This looks shiny to begin with but the long-term performance of the finish is now compromised.
“I am currently following the build of a 95 footer in Viareggio, Italy. We are using Awlcraft (Snow White), and almost finished painting her. I am happy to use the acrylic because we have found fairing issues on the hull, even with the white paint, and with the acrylic we can re-fair this 6-square-foot area, reshoot the area, and blend in. We don't have to repaint the entire 95-foot topside as we would with the polyester!

“OK . . . so maybe I got long and boring.”
Today’s Thought

Paintin’s not important. The important thing is keepin’ busy.

— Anna Mary Robertson Moses (“Grandma Moses”)

Tailpiece

Mary has a cool, cool gown,
It’s almost slit to bits.
Who gives a damn for Mary’s lamb
When we can see her calf?

Use common sense in fog

IT’S NOVEMBER. The last of the spiders are drifting off on their silken threads, the air is cooling rapidly, and fog is creeping into the coves and straits overnight. Fog is dangerous for boaters who lack radar, as most of us do. Fog is especially frightening when you are caught out on a passage. What advice do I have?

Well, frankly, there isn’t much advice to give about getting caught in fog that isn’t covered by common sense. I mean, if you see a fog bank forming ahead, and you have a chance to turn back to a safe anchorage, do so. It’s the seamanlike action to take. Otherwise, you’re stuck with it.

Fog is treacherous. Go slowly and listen very carefully. If fog catches you out, try to get into shallow water and anchor there. Oftentimes that’s easier said than done, of course.

You should raise a radar reflector as high as you can, so other vessels with radar sets will see you. And you should be meticulous about making the right sound signal every two minutes or less. I have noticed that too many skippers are very lax about this. I have even traveled on a Washington State ferry that made no sound signals in thick fog, presumably relying on radar and AIS and clearance from Seattle Traffic Control, which can’t possibly tell the ferry if a small craft, invisible to radar, is in its path. There’s no warning for a small craft in the path of the ferry, either.

If you’re sailing, the correct signal is one long blast and two short blasts. That’s also the signal by a vessel not under command, or restricted by her ability to maneuver. The same signal comes from a vessel engaged in fishing, or towing or pushing another vessel.

If you’re under power, the fog signal (and the signal in any kind of restricted visibility, by the way) is one long blast every two minutes or less.

And one last tip — take along a horn that you can blow into. The fog horns that work off cans of compressed air don’t always work. I can vouch for that. I can also tell you that blowing the damn horn as loud as you can every two minutes is a pain in the you-know-what. You can’t go anywhere or do anything that lasts more than one minute, fifty-nine seconds. It puffs your cheeks out and raises your blood pressure. It makes you dizzy and produces black spots before your eyes. But it’s better than being run down at sea. So do it.

Today’s Thought

He that bringeth himself into needless dangers dieth the devil’s martyr.

— Thomas Fuller, Holy War

Tailpiece

“I’ve found out why production has slowed down since you got that second computer.”

“Good. What’s wrong?”

“The big computer’s shoving all the work on to the little computer.”