October 20, 2009
Anything to keep the peace
(Tune in here every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a new Mainly About Boats column by John Vigor.)
I’M A FULL-KEEL MAN, really, but I did once own a fin-keeler for a few years. I dreamed about her last night, as a matter of fact, dreamed of the day I first sailed her. It was a strange dream. It was as if I was watching myself all those years ago, and listening to my brain ticking over:
THIS FOOL thinks I'm interested in buying his boat. I can tell by the smirk on his face that he thinks I'm hooked. What a jackass. I wasn't exactly born yesterday, you know.
"Very handy to weather," he says.
Well, yes, I can feel that. She's a C&C 28, one of their finest. She damn well ought to be good to weather. But that doesn't mean I want her. Entirely the wrong kind of boat. We've agreed on a cruiser, June and I. Something nice and safe and sedate. Lots of room. Comfortable double bed.
If he thinks I'm going to buy this low-slung, lightweight racing machine he's got another thought coming.
"Try her on a reach," he says. "Pull off and I'll ease the sails. See how nicely she tracks?"
Yes, indeed. She fairly flies across the long, lazy swells from the east. Hardly needs a finger on the helm. A real thoroughbred.
Not that it matters, of course. No matter how much he grins, this boat is not for me.
"Pretty sheerline," he says.
Yes, everybody at the club has mentioned that at one time or another. Delicate. Goes perfectly with that reverse stern. She was one of the last really pretty IOR racers. Now they've all gone fat and funny and ugly.
We run home. He raises the spinnaker and I trim from the helm. She holds up her head and sends spray flying, millions of tiny drops glittering in the afternoon sun.
"Like her?" It's almost a leer, that grin of his.
"She's okay,” I say non-commitally. “Not what I'm looking for though, I'm sorry to say." He's not going to catch me like that.
June's waiting at the slip when we get in. She takes me aside and says: "You're going to buy her, aren't you?"
"What do you mean?"
"You've got that silly look again."
"What?"
"You're in love. It's written all over your face."
I don't know what she's talking about. Sometimes she's very obtuse.
Then the cunning owner invites June below. Good luck. No room to swing even half a cat down there.
She sticks her head up. "She's got the sweetest little galley,” she says brightly. “Sure you don't want to buy her?"
"Well … if that’s what YOU want."
"No, it's YOUR decision."
"I guess so, then, if it makes YOU happy."
Strange creatures, women. We agree to buy a decent, solid cruiser and now suddenly she's urging me, begging me on her knees, to buy this beguiling courtesan, this seductive, curvaceous little beauty that sails like a witch.
Well, okay. I'll go along with her. Anything to keep the peace. Just wish that fool of an owner would stop grinning, though.
Today’s Thought
Many a man has fallen in love with a girl in a light so dim he would not have chosen a suit by it.
— Maurice Chevalier
Tailpiece
Did you hear about the peasant in Afghanistan who was handed a sealed ballot at the polling booth? He started to tear it open, but an official screamed: “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I just wanted to see who I’m voting for,” he replied.
“Are you crazy?” the official exclaimed. “Don’t you know this is supposed to be a secret ballot?”
October 18, 2009
Weight on my mind
I NOTE WITH INTEREST that my boat seems to have sunk deeper in the water every time I happen to look at the boot-top. This has been going on for the seven years I’ve owned my 27-foot sloop, but I’d never stopped to give it serious thought until last weekend when I discovered two dozen cans of Heineken stuffed into a little-used locker, and wondered what they weighed.
My mind drifted back two-and-a-half years to an annual haul-out, when the crane driver leaned out of his cab and yelled over the noise of the diesel engine: “Nine thousand pounds.”
“Nah,” I thought, “can’t be. Her displacement is 7,500 like Mr. Alberg said. As designers go, he was no fool.” I dismissed it as inaccurate instrumentation on the crane, a built-in safety factor to prevent overloading.
But the same thing happened last May when I hauled out. “Exactly 9,000 again,” said the crane driver. I laughed it off. “Sure,” I said. How could she be 1,500 pounds heavier than her design displacement?
Well, I had a good look around last weekend and I must admit to being surprised by the amount of “stuff” on board, stuff that must have crept aboard at nighttime over a period of years, because I sure don’t remember carrying it on.
Take galley equipment, for example. We have mugs for six, about 50 pounds of assorted stainless-steel knives, forks, and spoons from the thrift store, a whistling kettle, heavy skillets that we hardly ever use, saucepans, and a host of gadgets for doing things to food and cans that I suspect were smuggled aboard by the First Mate when I wasn’t looking.
Water is darn heavy, of course. We always have full tanks, plus lord knows how many two-liter bottles of fresh water tucked away up forward, just in case there’s an earthquake and the house falls down and we have to go and live on the boat.
For the same reason, there’s a bunch of food, good heavy long-lasting food, sorted out in plastic bags by meals, all of it left over from a six-week summer cruise. It’s surprising how much it weighs. You wouldn’t suspect it, just to look at it.
Then there are the charts, about 100 of them, that I needed for that cruise. They never got taken home again because, heck, you never know when you might have to flee from an earthquake and head for the Alaskan wilderness. And I swear they absorb water because they seem much heavier now than when I first brought them aboard.
The self-inflating life jackets, combined with safety harnesses and tethers, are quite heavy. They are an example of why small boats suffer more from extra weight than big boats. No matter how big your boat, you only need one life jacket for each person, and a life jacket is a much larger part of a small boat’s displacement than a large boat’s, if you see what I mean. There are many other things like that, including an inflatable dinghy, whose weight would scarcely be noticed on a large yacht.
Did I mention the beer? Okay, but there’s also port. Bottles of port mature particularly well on a small boat. I’m told that the Portuguese used to ballast the Grand Banks fishing fleet with bottles of port. So we carry port also. Nice with cheese and crackers at sunset or after the evening meal. I discovered that we are down to one bottle, though, and now I don’t know whether to get another or not.
Perhaps if I get rid of some of the extra fuel it will balance out. There’s never enough fuel tankage on a small boat, so we always carry another five gallons in plastic jerry cans. I’m not saying it doesn’t weigh anything, but I still think 9,000 pounds is a lot of hogwash. Or maybe I’ll throw out some of the six extra containers of engine oil.
Okay, okay, I’ll grant you that the toolbox has expanded almost exactly as my store of tools in the garage has diminished. I don’t know how that came about, but it sure is nice to have five different-sized screwdrivers and three Vise-Grips, because they fall overboard so easily, you know.
I suppose the boots for hiking ashore weigh something but not as much as the first-aid kit the First Mate keeps adding to every time I turn my back. I swear we could remove an appendix or even carry out a colonoscopy if we had to.
Then there’s the spare sails, the anchor lines, the dedicated tow line, and hundreds of feet of
odd bits and pieces of line no longer than 9 inches long. I can’t bring myself to get rid of them because you just never know when you’ll need an 8-inch line.
I haven’t checked on the engine spare parts yet. The locker is so chock-full that I haven’t had the heart to explore in there. I’m afraid it will probably weigh just as much as the bosun’s spares stuffed into the locker opposite, many of which, I hasten to explain (especially the heavy galvanized shackles and things) were inherited with the boat.
I’ll admit that I was the one who added a self-steering wind vane on the stern that had to be balanced by two large lead bars in the bow anchor locker, but that doesn’t explain everything.
In fact, I can’t find any reasonable explanation for a 1,500-pound increase in displacement. She certainly doesn’t look any fatter from the outside, which I’m sure she would if that crane driver was correct.
Today’s Thought
What difference does it make how much you have? What you do not have amounts to more.
— Seneca
Tailpiece
A sailor with laryngitis knocked on the clinic door. A pretty nurse answered.
“Is the doctor here?” he whispered.
“No,” she whispered back, “come on in.”
My mind drifted back two-and-a-half years to an annual haul-out, when the crane driver leaned out of his cab and yelled over the noise of the diesel engine: “Nine thousand pounds.”
“Nah,” I thought, “can’t be. Her displacement is 7,500 like Mr. Alberg said. As designers go, he was no fool.” I dismissed it as inaccurate instrumentation on the crane, a built-in safety factor to prevent overloading.
But the same thing happened last May when I hauled out. “Exactly 9,000 again,” said the crane driver. I laughed it off. “Sure,” I said. How could she be 1,500 pounds heavier than her design displacement?
Well, I had a good look around last weekend and I must admit to being surprised by the amount of “stuff” on board, stuff that must have crept aboard at nighttime over a period of years, because I sure don’t remember carrying it on.
Take galley equipment, for example. We have mugs for six, about 50 pounds of assorted stainless-steel knives, forks, and spoons from the thrift store, a whistling kettle, heavy skillets that we hardly ever use, saucepans, and a host of gadgets for doing things to food and cans that I suspect were smuggled aboard by the First Mate when I wasn’t looking.
Water is darn heavy, of course. We always have full tanks, plus lord knows how many two-liter bottles of fresh water tucked away up forward, just in case there’s an earthquake and the house falls down and we have to go and live on the boat.
For the same reason, there’s a bunch of food, good heavy long-lasting food, sorted out in plastic bags by meals, all of it left over from a six-week summer cruise. It’s surprising how much it weighs. You wouldn’t suspect it, just to look at it.
Then there are the charts, about 100 of them, that I needed for that cruise. They never got taken home again because, heck, you never know when you might have to flee from an earthquake and head for the Alaskan wilderness. And I swear they absorb water because they seem much heavier now than when I first brought them aboard.
The self-inflating life jackets, combined with safety harnesses and tethers, are quite heavy. They are an example of why small boats suffer more from extra weight than big boats. No matter how big your boat, you only need one life jacket for each person, and a life jacket is a much larger part of a small boat’s displacement than a large boat’s, if you see what I mean. There are many other things like that, including an inflatable dinghy, whose weight would scarcely be noticed on a large yacht.
Did I mention the beer? Okay, but there’s also port. Bottles of port mature particularly well on a small boat. I’m told that the Portuguese used to ballast the Grand Banks fishing fleet with bottles of port. So we carry port also. Nice with cheese and crackers at sunset or after the evening meal. I discovered that we are down to one bottle, though, and now I don’t know whether to get another or not.
Perhaps if I get rid of some of the extra fuel it will balance out. There’s never enough fuel tankage on a small boat, so we always carry another five gallons in plastic jerry cans. I’m not saying it doesn’t weigh anything, but I still think 9,000 pounds is a lot of hogwash. Or maybe I’ll throw out some of the six extra containers of engine oil.
Okay, okay, I’ll grant you that the toolbox has expanded almost exactly as my store of tools in the garage has diminished. I don’t know how that came about, but it sure is nice to have five different-sized screwdrivers and three Vise-Grips, because they fall overboard so easily, you know.
I suppose the boots for hiking ashore weigh something but not as much as the first-aid kit the First Mate keeps adding to every time I turn my back. I swear we could remove an appendix or even carry out a colonoscopy if we had to.
Then there’s the spare sails, the anchor lines, the dedicated tow line, and hundreds of feet of
odd bits and pieces of line no longer than 9 inches long. I can’t bring myself to get rid of them because you just never know when you’ll need an 8-inch line.
I haven’t checked on the engine spare parts yet. The locker is so chock-full that I haven’t had the heart to explore in there. I’m afraid it will probably weigh just as much as the bosun’s spares stuffed into the locker opposite, many of which, I hasten to explain (especially the heavy galvanized shackles and things) were inherited with the boat.
I’ll admit that I was the one who added a self-steering wind vane on the stern that had to be balanced by two large lead bars in the bow anchor locker, but that doesn’t explain everything.
In fact, I can’t find any reasonable explanation for a 1,500-pound increase in displacement. She certainly doesn’t look any fatter from the outside, which I’m sure she would if that crane driver was correct.
Today’s Thought
What difference does it make how much you have? What you do not have amounts to more.
— Seneca
Tailpiece
A sailor with laryngitis knocked on the clinic door. A pretty nurse answered.
“Is the doctor here?” he whispered.
“No,” she whispered back, “come on in.”
October 15, 2009
A night of cold comfort
THEY SAY THAT IF you have a heater on your boat, you can extend your sailing season by six weeks or so at each end. I have never been swayed by that argument. Having spent most of my life in the sub-tropics, I have no love of sailing in the cold. Or the cold-and-rain, as happens around here. So I don’t have a heater on my boat.
There was one on my last boat, however, a little Cape Dory 25D. We found her on an island in north Puget Sound, and sailed her home one bitter-cold day in February, when there was actually ice on deck. We had an overnight stop in a marina in Anacortes, where we accidentally ran into an old sailing friend. He offered us an electric heater because he said a cold night was forecast, but we scoffed and turned him away. “We have a nice Force 10 heater installed,” we said.
After a meal ashore, we came back to the boat and lit the heater. It had started life as a kerosene model, but the previous owner had converted it to gas. A small can of propane screwed onto the bottom.
We soon noticed something strange. It didn’t seem to be producing a lot of heat, and what heat it did produce rose to the top of the cabin and stayed there. What was even stranger was the fact that the can of propane was collecting a coat of ice. If we stood up in the cabin, the air was luke-warm from the belly-button up, and freezing cold from the belly-button down. As the layer of ice on the can grew thicker, we shut the heater off, fearing that it was actually producing more cold than heat on average. Our bunks were below belly-button level, so we spent a very cold night aboard, having brought only light-weight sleeping bags with us.
One of the first jobs I did on that boat was to convert the Force 10 back to kerosene heat. It was a fairly easy job once I’d bought the right tools for flaring the copper tubing and so on. The new burner put out a lot more heat and never tried to make ice, but the hot air still hung around above belly-button level until we bought a 12-volt fan and mounted it where a reading lamp used to be. That stirred the air up nicely, distributing warmth all over the cabin from head to toe.
But we rarely used that heater because the fan used electricity, and I was scared we might flatten the battery overnight and not be able to start the diesel engine on a cold morning.
I have learned over the years that very little is simple on a boat, and the less you have to go wrong the better off you are. So we don’t have a heater on our present boat, which is a very handy excuse for not sailing when the weather gets cold. And our belly buttons are very grateful.
Today’s Thought
What is true, simple and sincere is most congenial to man’s nature.
— Cicero, De Officiis
Tailpiece
“Who gave you that black eye?”
“My wife.”
“I thought she was out of town.”
“So did I.”
There was one on my last boat, however, a little Cape Dory 25D. We found her on an island in north Puget Sound, and sailed her home one bitter-cold day in February, when there was actually ice on deck. We had an overnight stop in a marina in Anacortes, where we accidentally ran into an old sailing friend. He offered us an electric heater because he said a cold night was forecast, but we scoffed and turned him away. “We have a nice Force 10 heater installed,” we said.
After a meal ashore, we came back to the boat and lit the heater. It had started life as a kerosene model, but the previous owner had converted it to gas. A small can of propane screwed onto the bottom.
We soon noticed something strange. It didn’t seem to be producing a lot of heat, and what heat it did produce rose to the top of the cabin and stayed there. What was even stranger was the fact that the can of propane was collecting a coat of ice. If we stood up in the cabin, the air was luke-warm from the belly-button up, and freezing cold from the belly-button down. As the layer of ice on the can grew thicker, we shut the heater off, fearing that it was actually producing more cold than heat on average. Our bunks were below belly-button level, so we spent a very cold night aboard, having brought only light-weight sleeping bags with us.
One of the first jobs I did on that boat was to convert the Force 10 back to kerosene heat. It was a fairly easy job once I’d bought the right tools for flaring the copper tubing and so on. The new burner put out a lot more heat and never tried to make ice, but the hot air still hung around above belly-button level until we bought a 12-volt fan and mounted it where a reading lamp used to be. That stirred the air up nicely, distributing warmth all over the cabin from head to toe.
But we rarely used that heater because the fan used electricity, and I was scared we might flatten the battery overnight and not be able to start the diesel engine on a cold morning.
I have learned over the years that very little is simple on a boat, and the less you have to go wrong the better off you are. So we don’t have a heater on our present boat, which is a very handy excuse for not sailing when the weather gets cold. And our belly buttons are very grateful.
Today’s Thought
What is true, simple and sincere is most congenial to man’s nature.
— Cicero, De Officiis
Tailpiece
“Who gave you that black eye?”
“My wife.”
“I thought she was out of town.”
“So did I.”
October 13, 2009
Still searching for words
WHEN I WAS VERY YOUNG and still learning the language of sailors, I was invited to crew on 38-foot wooden racing sloop with a bucking jib. To this day, I don’t know how a bucking jib differs from an ordinary jib. The skipper was a crusty old salt who could get rather excited on occasion, so I never found the courage to ask him. Not that I would have known what to ask, in any case.
But I did know that it wasn’t just an ordinary jib, because every time we came charging up to the stone jetty at the yacht club after a day on the water, he would jump up and down in the cockpit and shout: “Don’t just stand there, boy! Get that bucking jib down.” Which I did, every time, with great promptitude, fearful of his wrath.
Thinking about this yesterday made we wonder about the language other sailors use to get their sails down. I mean, you can lower the jib or you can strike it. You can douse it, drop it, take (or haul) it down (or in), and furl it.
A phrase such as “Strike the mainsail!” has a fine ring about it, but I fear not many present-day sailors use it. According to my trusty dictionary, to strike sail meant “to lower one or more sails suddenly, as in a sharp maneuver, approach of a squall, or in token of surrender; also as a salute to a superior ship, a sovereign, etc.”
On my boat we just drop the sail, but I have heard other skippers use the word “douse.” The dictionary describes douse as: “To suddenly let go, strike, haul down, lower, or take in, as a sail ...”
You’ll notice that once again there is a hurriedness about it, a sense of urgency. There simply doesn’t seem to be a sailor’s word for those occasions when you don’t care how long it takes your wife to get the main down, those nice gentle days when you’re just slipping along quietly with everything under control, and no squalls, sovereigns, or superior ships causing you anxiety.
You need a sailorly word or short phrase that indicates to her that she can just ease the sail down slowly, gently flake it on top of the boom, tie the gaskets nicely (taking all the time in the world to get the reef knots with their little ends sticking out right) and put the mainsail cover on over everything, laced up and smoothed down, before she rushes down below to pour your gin-and-tonic, start the stove, and get supper ready.
You’d think we’d have a phrase for it by now, wouldn’t you? But no, I can’t think of one. “Ease the main” is already taken and means something else in any case. There’s something unsuitably suggestive about “Gentle the main,” while “Take down the mainsail at your leisure, darling, and fold it gently” is too long and sissy-like.
I’m stumped. If you can think of a good phrase, let me know.
Today’s Thought
I am under the spell of language, which has ruled me since I was 10.
— V. S. Pritchett
Tailpiece
“And how would you like your hair cut, sir?”
“Off.”
“Yes, sir, but what style?”
“What are your prices?”
“Haircut $15, shave $10.”
“So, okay, shave it to a short back and sides.”
But I did know that it wasn’t just an ordinary jib, because every time we came charging up to the stone jetty at the yacht club after a day on the water, he would jump up and down in the cockpit and shout: “Don’t just stand there, boy! Get that bucking jib down.” Which I did, every time, with great promptitude, fearful of his wrath.
Thinking about this yesterday made we wonder about the language other sailors use to get their sails down. I mean, you can lower the jib or you can strike it. You can douse it, drop it, take (or haul) it down (or in), and furl it.
A phrase such as “Strike the mainsail!” has a fine ring about it, but I fear not many present-day sailors use it. According to my trusty dictionary, to strike sail meant “to lower one or more sails suddenly, as in a sharp maneuver, approach of a squall, or in token of surrender; also as a salute to a superior ship, a sovereign, etc.”
On my boat we just drop the sail, but I have heard other skippers use the word “douse.” The dictionary describes douse as: “To suddenly let go, strike, haul down, lower, or take in, as a sail ...”
You’ll notice that once again there is a hurriedness about it, a sense of urgency. There simply doesn’t seem to be a sailor’s word for those occasions when you don’t care how long it takes your wife to get the main down, those nice gentle days when you’re just slipping along quietly with everything under control, and no squalls, sovereigns, or superior ships causing you anxiety.
You need a sailorly word or short phrase that indicates to her that she can just ease the sail down slowly, gently flake it on top of the boom, tie the gaskets nicely (taking all the time in the world to get the reef knots with their little ends sticking out right) and put the mainsail cover on over everything, laced up and smoothed down, before she rushes down below to pour your gin-and-tonic, start the stove, and get supper ready.
You’d think we’d have a phrase for it by now, wouldn’t you? But no, I can’t think of one. “Ease the main” is already taken and means something else in any case. There’s something unsuitably suggestive about “Gentle the main,” while “Take down the mainsail at your leisure, darling, and fold it gently” is too long and sissy-like.
I’m stumped. If you can think of a good phrase, let me know.
Today’s Thought
I am under the spell of language, which has ruled me since I was 10.
— V. S. Pritchett
Tailpiece
“And how would you like your hair cut, sir?”
“Off.”
“Yes, sir, but what style?”
“What are your prices?”
“Haircut $15, shave $10.”
“So, okay, shave it to a short back and sides.”
October 12, 2009
Marital bliss on board
FOR THOSE SAILING COUPLES who have been constantly clamoring, I have the answer to marital bliss on board. I have been handed the most wonderful advice for men whose female partners are not mad-keen sailors themselves.
First, and most importantly, you must remember that she is not your crew. She is your lady love, the light of your life, your dearest darling, and you are taking her for a nice ride. Consequently, accept that you are singlehanding with a passenger.
It’s true that if you go cruising and find a beautiful quiet anchorage, she will probably offer to make supper, especially if you first serve her drinks in the cockpit at sunset. But you should not rely on her to bring you back if you fall overboard--not because she doesn’t want you back (although, sadly, that may be true in some cases) but because she honestly doesn’t feel capable of getting the sails down on her own, finding the Lifesling, starting the engine, and avoiding running over you with the propeller. That’s not why she came sailing.
She did not come sailing to be shouted at, either. She is not your crew, so you can’t shout at her. You can give no commands. You can give no orders. You’re on your own, remember. She is an ornament. She is your treasure. Treat her accordingly.
So set up your boat for singlehanding. Invest in an autopilot, and a self-steering wind vane if you’re going offshore. Don’t expect your darling partner to grind winches like a deck ape, or reef the gnarly mainsail in Force 8.
Having accepted this arrangement with good grace, you might be surprised when she does spontaneously offer help from time to time, when she takes the fenders in of her own accord, or shortens the dinghy painter when you’re about to back up, without being asked. You might even be surprised by how much she actually does know about sailing, and how competent she would be in an emergency. But nothing should be taken for granted. You should not expect it, or require it. Let it be a surprise when it happens. And for gawd’s sake show gratitude.
It should also be no surprise to anyone that my wife practically dictated this column, though I have to say she has stuck with me lo these many decades. I recall only one occasion when she seriously threatened to jump overboard and swim to a nearby sandbank, and that was during a dinghy race when she had rather a lot of difficulty with hoisting the spinnaker and she took exception to the valuable advice I was giving her. Otherwise, apart from the occasional remark about Captain Bligh, we have got on very well together on our boats.
Of course, I realize that advice like this is easier to hand out than to follow, but if it helps prevent a divorce it’s worth persevering with. And while the path to marital bliss never was smooth, you have it within your power to smooth out the sailing bumps. You’re singlehanding. Just accept it.
Today’s Thought
There are only about 20 murders a year in London, and not all are serious—some are just husbands killing their wives.
— G. H. Hatherill, Commander, Scotland Yard, 1 Jul 54
Tailpiece
Beware of the man who insists he’s the boss on his boat. He’ll probably lie about other things, too.
First, and most importantly, you must remember that she is not your crew. She is your lady love, the light of your life, your dearest darling, and you are taking her for a nice ride. Consequently, accept that you are singlehanding with a passenger.
It’s true that if you go cruising and find a beautiful quiet anchorage, she will probably offer to make supper, especially if you first serve her drinks in the cockpit at sunset. But you should not rely on her to bring you back if you fall overboard--not because she doesn’t want you back (although, sadly, that may be true in some cases) but because she honestly doesn’t feel capable of getting the sails down on her own, finding the Lifesling, starting the engine, and avoiding running over you with the propeller. That’s not why she came sailing.
She did not come sailing to be shouted at, either. She is not your crew, so you can’t shout at her. You can give no commands. You can give no orders. You’re on your own, remember. She is an ornament. She is your treasure. Treat her accordingly.
So set up your boat for singlehanding. Invest in an autopilot, and a self-steering wind vane if you’re going offshore. Don’t expect your darling partner to grind winches like a deck ape, or reef the gnarly mainsail in Force 8.
Having accepted this arrangement with good grace, you might be surprised when she does spontaneously offer help from time to time, when she takes the fenders in of her own accord, or shortens the dinghy painter when you’re about to back up, without being asked. You might even be surprised by how much she actually does know about sailing, and how competent she would be in an emergency. But nothing should be taken for granted. You should not expect it, or require it. Let it be a surprise when it happens. And for gawd’s sake show gratitude.
It should also be no surprise to anyone that my wife practically dictated this column, though I have to say she has stuck with me lo these many decades. I recall only one occasion when she seriously threatened to jump overboard and swim to a nearby sandbank, and that was during a dinghy race when she had rather a lot of difficulty with hoisting the spinnaker and she took exception to the valuable advice I was giving her. Otherwise, apart from the occasional remark about Captain Bligh, we have got on very well together on our boats.
Of course, I realize that advice like this is easier to hand out than to follow, but if it helps prevent a divorce it’s worth persevering with. And while the path to marital bliss never was smooth, you have it within your power to smooth out the sailing bumps. You’re singlehanding. Just accept it.
Today’s Thought
There are only about 20 murders a year in London, and not all are serious—some are just husbands killing their wives.
— G. H. Hatherill, Commander, Scotland Yard, 1 Jul 54
Tailpiece
Beware of the man who insists he’s the boss on his boat. He’ll probably lie about other things, too.
October 8, 2009
Sailing under jib only
The yachting hoi polloi is abuzz with a rumor that sailing under a jib only will cause dismasting. It’s one of those rumors that surfaces for a while, dies a natural death because of its inherent stupidity, and then miraculously is reborn, to start the cycle again.
I have no idea why sailing under a jib only should cause dismasting. I have sailed many hundreds of deepsea miles under jib only. I have sailed a long way around the Cape of Storms like that. Yes, in storms.
One of the lovely things about the lone jib is that the center of effort is so far forward that a windvane, which normally struggles dead downwind, is able to guide you through the storm with ease. You can huddle down below, nice and warm and dry, with your hands wrapped around a mug of coffee and rum, while your boats goes downwind like she’s on rails.
The only problem with this rig is that if your course is deeper than a reach, your boat will roll from gunwale to gunwale. But all dead downwind work is pretty rolly, anyway, unless you know how to fly twin jibs in a deep V forward, so they act like a cone and resist sideways movement.
Some sloops and cutters will reach wonderfully and even beat under jib only and do very well to windward. But on the run you need to pole the jib out, of course, and there’s a clever way to do that. I learned it from the Pardeys. The trick is to have a track running up the front of the mast as high as your pole is long. The car that runs on this track accepts the inboard end of the pole. You then hoist the pole up alongside the mast and stow it there.
When you need to deploy the pole, you attach the jib sheet to the bottom, outboard, end of the pole. Then you simply let the pole slide down the mast. As it comes down, the sheet, and the clew of the jib, automatically gets pushed out into position. You never have to handle the weight of the pole.
So don’t be put off. Fly that darn jib on its own if you like, and to heck with the rumor mongers.
Today’s Thought
Rumor travels faster but it don’t stay put as long as truth.
— Will Rogers, The Illiterate Digest
Tailpiece
Our local school officials recently gave eighth-graders a test to see what they were best suited for.
It was found that they were best suited for the seventh grade.
I have no idea why sailing under a jib only should cause dismasting. I have sailed many hundreds of deepsea miles under jib only. I have sailed a long way around the Cape of Storms like that. Yes, in storms.
One of the lovely things about the lone jib is that the center of effort is so far forward that a windvane, which normally struggles dead downwind, is able to guide you through the storm with ease. You can huddle down below, nice and warm and dry, with your hands wrapped around a mug of coffee and rum, while your boats goes downwind like she’s on rails.
The only problem with this rig is that if your course is deeper than a reach, your boat will roll from gunwale to gunwale. But all dead downwind work is pretty rolly, anyway, unless you know how to fly twin jibs in a deep V forward, so they act like a cone and resist sideways movement.
Some sloops and cutters will reach wonderfully and even beat under jib only and do very well to windward. But on the run you need to pole the jib out, of course, and there’s a clever way to do that. I learned it from the Pardeys. The trick is to have a track running up the front of the mast as high as your pole is long. The car that runs on this track accepts the inboard end of the pole. You then hoist the pole up alongside the mast and stow it there.
When you need to deploy the pole, you attach the jib sheet to the bottom, outboard, end of the pole. Then you simply let the pole slide down the mast. As it comes down, the sheet, and the clew of the jib, automatically gets pushed out into position. You never have to handle the weight of the pole.
So don’t be put off. Fly that darn jib on its own if you like, and to heck with the rumor mongers.
Today’s Thought
Rumor travels faster but it don’t stay put as long as truth.
— Will Rogers, The Illiterate Digest
Tailpiece
Our local school officials recently gave eighth-graders a test to see what they were best suited for.
It was found that they were best suited for the seventh grade.
October 6, 2009
An alternative to navigation
DAVID BURCH, of the Starpath School of Navigation in Seattle, Washington, once wrote a fascinating book called Emergency Navigation: Pathfinding Techniques for the Inquisitive and Prudent Mariner. It is designed for use by any deep-sea sailor who has somehow lost all normal means of navigating – electronics, sextant, watch, compass, and nautical almanac. This is a book that helps you find your way back home from the ocean wilderness.
There is only one thing wrong with David Burch’s book. It must somehow be available on board when all that other stuff has disappeared. It must survive the catastrophe that destroyed everything else.
It might be appropriate here to mention that David Burch is a former Fulbright Scholar, a Ph.D. in physics. That means he remembers things. Now, I can’t speak for you, but I don’t.
For example, Mr. Burch talks in his book about errors in the makeshift prescription for the Equation of Time. (Yes, yes, you know what that is. Think, man, think. It’s how you find your longitude with nothing but bare hands and sharp eyes.) “For 82 percent of the year, the values are accurate to within 60 seconds. The maximum error is 95 seconds, which occurs during 4 percent of the year.”
Yeah, right. He’s referring, of course, to a diagram you should have memorized while reading the book. There’s nearly 250 pages of stuff like this, plus tips on how to steer by the wind, the sun, the stars, and even by commercial airliners passing overhead.
But for people like me, whose brain cells choose to store only information connected with the immediate everyday aspects of living, such as where the damn car keys have got to, or the location of the nearest cold beer, there is no hope.
Luckily, however, there is an alternative. You could study survival techniques instead. The ability to catch fish, trawl for plankton, and gather rainwater, might be worth a lot more than a sketchy and ill-remembered knowledge of emergency navigation.
By my reckoning, if you go due east or west for long enough you have got to hit land. Christopher Columbus proved that. It may not be the land you were originally aiming for, but someone there will probably be able tell you what country it is, and where to get a decent shower.
So it boils down to common sense and survival. Oh, and maintaining a good lookout so you don’t bump into the land too hard.
Today’s Thought
If you will be a traveller, have always the eyes of a falcon, the ears of an ass, the face of an ape, the mouth of a hog, the shoulder of a camel, the legs of a stag, and see that you never want two bags very full, that is one of patience and another of money.
— John Florio, Second Frutes.
Tailpiece
It was midwinter in Maine and grandma was feeling the cold, so she had a nip of whisky before going upstairs to bed. She entered the bedroom of her little grandson to say goodnight, but he recoiled when she tried to kiss him.
“Jeez, grandma,” he said accusingly, “you’ve been using Dad’s scent again.”
There is only one thing wrong with David Burch’s book. It must somehow be available on board when all that other stuff has disappeared. It must survive the catastrophe that destroyed everything else.
It might be appropriate here to mention that David Burch is a former Fulbright Scholar, a Ph.D. in physics. That means he remembers things. Now, I can’t speak for you, but I don’t.
For example, Mr. Burch talks in his book about errors in the makeshift prescription for the Equation of Time. (Yes, yes, you know what that is. Think, man, think. It’s how you find your longitude with nothing but bare hands and sharp eyes.) “For 82 percent of the year, the values are accurate to within 60 seconds. The maximum error is 95 seconds, which occurs during 4 percent of the year.”
Yeah, right. He’s referring, of course, to a diagram you should have memorized while reading the book. There’s nearly 250 pages of stuff like this, plus tips on how to steer by the wind, the sun, the stars, and even by commercial airliners passing overhead.
But for people like me, whose brain cells choose to store only information connected with the immediate everyday aspects of living, such as where the damn car keys have got to, or the location of the nearest cold beer, there is no hope.
Luckily, however, there is an alternative. You could study survival techniques instead. The ability to catch fish, trawl for plankton, and gather rainwater, might be worth a lot more than a sketchy and ill-remembered knowledge of emergency navigation.
By my reckoning, if you go due east or west for long enough you have got to hit land. Christopher Columbus proved that. It may not be the land you were originally aiming for, but someone there will probably be able tell you what country it is, and where to get a decent shower.
So it boils down to common sense and survival. Oh, and maintaining a good lookout so you don’t bump into the land too hard.
Today’s Thought
If you will be a traveller, have always the eyes of a falcon, the ears of an ass, the face of an ape, the mouth of a hog, the shoulder of a camel, the legs of a stag, and see that you never want two bags very full, that is one of patience and another of money.
— John Florio, Second Frutes.
Tailpiece
It was midwinter in Maine and grandma was feeling the cold, so she had a nip of whisky before going upstairs to bed. She entered the bedroom of her little grandson to say goodnight, but he recoiled when she tried to kiss him.
“Jeez, grandma,” he said accusingly, “you’ve been using Dad’s scent again.”
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