IT COMES AS A SURPRISE to many boaters to learn that inertia is of great importance to seaworthiness. It is one of the principal ways by which a boat resists being capsized by waves.
Inertia sounds like the feeling that afflicts you when you settle down on the sofa to read a good book or watch a movie on television. It sounds like the feeling you get when you know the lawn needs to be trimmed, or the dishes need to be washed. It is, of course, the full-blood mother of procrastination.
But in physical terms, inertia is the property of matter that makes it want to keep moving when it’s already moving. And it makes it want to keep still when it’s still. In other words, inertia resists change.
Therefore, if a wave breaks against the side of a boat that has significant inertia, it will not immediately throw her over on her beam ends. The boat’s inertia will resist any sudden change, and the more inertia the boat has, the more it will resist.
Deep, heavy boats have a lot of inertia. Heavy-displacement boats have as much as five times the resistance to being rolled over that ultra-light boats of the same length have, according to research scientist and naval architect Tony Marchaj.
A heavy mast on a sailboat or a tall tuna tower on a sportfisher provides considerable inertia via leverage, and takes a lot of jerkiness out of rolling. At the same time, it tends to prolong the roll and perhaps exaggerate it. You always have to be careful about adding weight too high up.
Inertia also affects hobbyhorsing. It makes a boat press her bows deeper in the water as a wave arrives, and throw them higher in the air as the wave passes by. This detrimental effect may be mitigated substantially, if not completely cured, by moving heavy weights away from the ends of the boat and placing them more toward the center. Now, you might think that this is counter-intuitive; that the bow will rise quicker and higher if it’s light and free to rise to waves. Well, that’s certainly true, but the fact is that the bow won’t be fighting the waves by being forced through them. It’s riding buoyantly over them. Your ride will be jerkier, but your speed will improve, and you won’t suffer that very frustrating business of standing dead still while the bow rears and plunges in the same darned hole in the water.
Today’s Thought
Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men.
— Matthew Arnold, A Question
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #153
On a long cruise of, say, a week or more, every crewmember needs a place on board where he or she is guaranteed privacy. A bunk is the most suitable spot and a curtained-off pilot berth is a sailor’s dream of heaven. It’s important that crewmembers respect and preserve each other’s private retreats. Even a special drawer or cubby-hole allocated to one person alone can make a big difference.
Tailpiece
“Grief, who’s that ugly girl in the corner over there?”
“That’s no girl, that’s my son.”
“Oh geez, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t know you were his mother.”
“I’m not. I’m his father.”
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
January 30, 2011
January 27, 2011
Is a third reef necessary?
EVERY NOW AND THEN some cruising sailor gets caught out in a gale and comes home wondering out loud if the mainsail should have a third reef. The advice comes pouring in from all sides, and it’s usually contradictory and confusing.
Racing skippers will tell you they never reef. Well, hardly ever. But it’s different for them. They don’t care if their mainsails flog themselves to bits on the beat. They’re going to buy new sails next season anyhow. And they’ve got large muscular crews with highly developed clinging powers, so they won’t fall overboard when the boat broaches and the mast hits the water.
Some sailmakers aren’t much use, either. A contributor to one bulletin board I read recently said his sailmaker simply refused to put a third reef in the mainsail for his 26-foot full-keeler. “He said the extra sailcloth and grommets involved would screw up my main's light-air performance. I would add too much ‘stuff’ (weight, hardware, etc.) up high, where I don't want it. And would not let the leech open up properly in light air.” Well, to put it delicately, this is pure poppycock, of course. That sailmaker has been brain-washed by racing skippers.
However, I personally don’t believe a boat of average displacement under 35 feet in length is going to benefit from a third reef in storm conditions in the open ocean. Perhaps that reef might help in calm water near shore, but it’s not going to generate enough power to push a boat to windward in the big seas a storm generates.
My preference is for two oversized reefs on a boat of that size, and when things become too hectic for the second reef you have three choices: lie a-hull, heave to under a main trysail, or run off, either under a storm jib or under bare poles.
Now when it comes to bigger boats, a third reef can make sense. The difference here is that a big boat not only finds it easier to carry its way against big waves, but it also can carry comparatively more sail to drive it to windward. That’s because stability (hence the power to carry sail) increases as a cube of the boat’s length, while the force of the wind increases only as a square of its speed.
So, while a 40-footer is only 62 percent longer than a 25-footer, it can carry 410 percent more sail for the same degree of stability. That means a third reef in a 40-footer is comparatively much bigger than a third reef in a 25-footer, and is thus able to generate a comparatively greater amount of power.
I once had a third reef added to my main on a 31-foot heavy displacement sloop. I went through seven gales with that boat and never used my third reef once. I thought it would substitute for a main trysail, but by the time the third reef was down, the center of effort had moved too far forward. The heavy wind against the mast and rigging simply blew the bows off and she wouldn’t heave to. That’s what a trysail is all about. It gets sail area well aft, so the stern will blow to leeward and the boat will end up lying pointing at an angle of 60 or 70 degrees off the oncoming wind and waves. That’s the safest, most comfortable position until the boat starts to be picked up bodily and hurled down sideways.
Finally, let me repeat the three basic rules of thumb about the timing of reefing:
1. Reef before you have to.
2. When sailing downwind, reef in the same wind speed you would if you were beating. (Not easy either to judge or to do, but very necessary.)
3. When in doubt, go straight to the double reef.
Today’s Thought
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine.
— Burns, Winter: A Dirge
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #152
WHEN to reef? Before you lose control. On the wind, the signs are pretty obvious: sidedecks awash, dreadful weather helm, and lack of response to the helm. Downwind, watch for prolonged surfing and a sloppy, dead feeling to the helm when a waves passes underneath the stern. Time to slow down.
Après moi, le déluge
I’M PLEASED and astonished to report that new Followers have been flocking around in hordes to compensate for the fickle Follower who left me for greener pastures (long may he rot). The Follower count is now up to a record 37. I am a happy man.
Tailpiece
“Hey, do me a favor, willya? Stick your head out the window and see if my turn signals are working.”
“Okay.”
“Well, are they working?”
“Yes — no — yes — no — yes — no —”
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
Racing skippers will tell you they never reef. Well, hardly ever. But it’s different for them. They don’t care if their mainsails flog themselves to bits on the beat. They’re going to buy new sails next season anyhow. And they’ve got large muscular crews with highly developed clinging powers, so they won’t fall overboard when the boat broaches and the mast hits the water.
Some sailmakers aren’t much use, either. A contributor to one bulletin board I read recently said his sailmaker simply refused to put a third reef in the mainsail for his 26-foot full-keeler. “He said the extra sailcloth and grommets involved would screw up my main's light-air performance. I would add too much ‘stuff’ (weight, hardware, etc.) up high, where I don't want it. And would not let the leech open up properly in light air.” Well, to put it delicately, this is pure poppycock, of course. That sailmaker has been brain-washed by racing skippers.
However, I personally don’t believe a boat of average displacement under 35 feet in length is going to benefit from a third reef in storm conditions in the open ocean. Perhaps that reef might help in calm water near shore, but it’s not going to generate enough power to push a boat to windward in the big seas a storm generates.
My preference is for two oversized reefs on a boat of that size, and when things become too hectic for the second reef you have three choices: lie a-hull, heave to under a main trysail, or run off, either under a storm jib or under bare poles.
Now when it comes to bigger boats, a third reef can make sense. The difference here is that a big boat not only finds it easier to carry its way against big waves, but it also can carry comparatively more sail to drive it to windward. That’s because stability (hence the power to carry sail) increases as a cube of the boat’s length, while the force of the wind increases only as a square of its speed.
So, while a 40-footer is only 62 percent longer than a 25-footer, it can carry 410 percent more sail for the same degree of stability. That means a third reef in a 40-footer is comparatively much bigger than a third reef in a 25-footer, and is thus able to generate a comparatively greater amount of power.
I once had a third reef added to my main on a 31-foot heavy displacement sloop. I went through seven gales with that boat and never used my third reef once. I thought it would substitute for a main trysail, but by the time the third reef was down, the center of effort had moved too far forward. The heavy wind against the mast and rigging simply blew the bows off and she wouldn’t heave to. That’s what a trysail is all about. It gets sail area well aft, so the stern will blow to leeward and the boat will end up lying pointing at an angle of 60 or 70 degrees off the oncoming wind and waves. That’s the safest, most comfortable position until the boat starts to be picked up bodily and hurled down sideways.
Finally, let me repeat the three basic rules of thumb about the timing of reefing:
1. Reef before you have to.
2. When sailing downwind, reef in the same wind speed you would if you were beating. (Not easy either to judge or to do, but very necessary.)
3. When in doubt, go straight to the double reef.
Today’s Thought
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine.
— Burns, Winter: A Dirge
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #152
WHEN to reef? Before you lose control. On the wind, the signs are pretty obvious: sidedecks awash, dreadful weather helm, and lack of response to the helm. Downwind, watch for prolonged surfing and a sloppy, dead feeling to the helm when a waves passes underneath the stern. Time to slow down.
Après moi, le déluge
I’M PLEASED and astonished to report that new Followers have been flocking around in hordes to compensate for the fickle Follower who left me for greener pastures (long may he rot). The Follower count is now up to a record 37. I am a happy man.
Tailpiece
“Hey, do me a favor, willya? Stick your head out the window and see if my turn signals are working.”
“Okay.”
“Well, are they working?”
“Yes — no — yes — no — yes — no —”
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
January 25, 2011
The sleep-killing mast
WHEN YOU’RE THINKING about buying a boat there’s always something you think of too late. Something that will keep you awake all night the very first time you drop the hook in a beautiful anchorage.
Slap! Clang! Slap! It’s the noise of the loose wires in the mast. The incessant noise of the loose wires in the mast. The noise that drives you mad with frustration as you lie wide awake at 3 a.m. in your nice cozy bunk wanting to tear the mast open with your bare hands and strangle those damn wires that go clang with every little movement of the boat.
I have seen instructions from the experts showing how to pop-rivet a small-diameter plastic pipe inside the mast. Apparently, if you thread all the wires and cables through that pipe they can’t move around enough to make a noise.
The other way, which is a whole lot easier, is to fit those nylon zip ties used to bundle up electrical wiring. You’re supposed to use extra-long ones, so that the stiff ends protrude, and place groups of four of them together so they stick out at right angles to each other. The ends should protrude more than the diameter of the mast, so they will bend in place with enough spring to hold the wires in the middle of the mast. The groups of four need to be about 6 inches apart all the way up the bundle. You then haul the wires up through the mast on your messenger line, fix them in place, and hope for the best.
I don’t know how long this arrangement will last. I can’t guarantee that the stiff nylon ends won’t make dozens of squeaky little scritching noises in the middle of the night, which might be more annoying than a few honest-to-god hearty slaps, but people who’ve done it assure me they’ve enjoyed nothing but silence.
On a long cruise, I find that I don’t notice the slapping noises after the second or third night. My brain just tunes them out. But the first night is always hell, no matter how calm the anchorage seems, and no matter how many Dark ’n Stormies I have taken as a medicinal aid to sleep.
So before you buy your next boat, put an ear to the mast and get someone to rock the boat from side to side. Then get a quote for dropping the mast and fixing the slap. Subtract it from the purchase price. No seller with the faintest modicum of conscience will object.
More strangeness
ANOTHER strange thing happened. The number of my Followers has jumped from 29 to 36 virtually overnight. My fickle Follower who jumped ship has been replaced by seven new faithful Followers.
People ask me why I don’t show my Followers on this page, and I tell them that if I reveal my Followers then my readers may find them more interesting than me and desert me. For instance, I happen to know that one very interesting Follower has a Ph.D. in geology and sails one of my very favorite small boats, a Drascombe Lugger. I don’t doubt she’s more fascinating than me, and I know for sure she writes better than wot I can, so I’m not telling you who she is.
There is also a philosophical question concerning Vigor’s Silent Fan Club. If the chairman, Ivor Tungin-Cheaque, finds out about my Followers, and decides they are Following me as a crafty way of expressing praise for my writing, they will all be expelled from the club. As you know, members of this, the world’s largest fan club, are forbidden to acknowledge me or praise me in any way, in writing or by word of mouth. Old Medvedev has been very good about obeying this rule, and so has Mr. Obama, not to mention Queen Elizabeth, bless her little heart.
So I am playing it very cool for the moment, hoping that Mr. Tungin-Cheaque is looking the other way. I fear that a time may come when I shall have to reveal my Followers, but I leave that to Fate. The time is not now.
Today’s Thought
I never take a nap after dinner but when I have had a bad night, and then the nap takes me.
-- Samuel Johnson, (Boswell, Life, 1775)
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #151
Preparing a new boat for extended cruising costs about an additional 25 percent of the purchase price. A second-hand boat that has already been used for cruising will cost you only about 10 to 15 percent of the purchase price to be ready for cruising again.
Tailpiece
“I find you guilty and sentence you to a fine of $250 and 30 days in jail.”
“Oh, please Your Honor, please I beg of you, please reverse my sentence.”
“Very well. I sentence you to a fine of $30 and 250 days in jail.”
Slap! Clang! Slap! It’s the noise of the loose wires in the mast. The incessant noise of the loose wires in the mast. The noise that drives you mad with frustration as you lie wide awake at 3 a.m. in your nice cozy bunk wanting to tear the mast open with your bare hands and strangle those damn wires that go clang with every little movement of the boat.
I have seen instructions from the experts showing how to pop-rivet a small-diameter plastic pipe inside the mast. Apparently, if you thread all the wires and cables through that pipe they can’t move around enough to make a noise.
The other way, which is a whole lot easier, is to fit those nylon zip ties used to bundle up electrical wiring. You’re supposed to use extra-long ones, so that the stiff ends protrude, and place groups of four of them together so they stick out at right angles to each other. The ends should protrude more than the diameter of the mast, so they will bend in place with enough spring to hold the wires in the middle of the mast. The groups of four need to be about 6 inches apart all the way up the bundle. You then haul the wires up through the mast on your messenger line, fix them in place, and hope for the best.
I don’t know how long this arrangement will last. I can’t guarantee that the stiff nylon ends won’t make dozens of squeaky little scritching noises in the middle of the night, which might be more annoying than a few honest-to-god hearty slaps, but people who’ve done it assure me they’ve enjoyed nothing but silence.
On a long cruise, I find that I don’t notice the slapping noises after the second or third night. My brain just tunes them out. But the first night is always hell, no matter how calm the anchorage seems, and no matter how many Dark ’n Stormies I have taken as a medicinal aid to sleep.
So before you buy your next boat, put an ear to the mast and get someone to rock the boat from side to side. Then get a quote for dropping the mast and fixing the slap. Subtract it from the purchase price. No seller with the faintest modicum of conscience will object.
More strangeness
ANOTHER strange thing happened. The number of my Followers has jumped from 29 to 36 virtually overnight. My fickle Follower who jumped ship has been replaced by seven new faithful Followers.
People ask me why I don’t show my Followers on this page, and I tell them that if I reveal my Followers then my readers may find them more interesting than me and desert me. For instance, I happen to know that one very interesting Follower has a Ph.D. in geology and sails one of my very favorite small boats, a Drascombe Lugger. I don’t doubt she’s more fascinating than me, and I know for sure she writes better than wot I can, so I’m not telling you who she is.
There is also a philosophical question concerning Vigor’s Silent Fan Club. If the chairman, Ivor Tungin-Cheaque, finds out about my Followers, and decides they are Following me as a crafty way of expressing praise for my writing, they will all be expelled from the club. As you know, members of this, the world’s largest fan club, are forbidden to acknowledge me or praise me in any way, in writing or by word of mouth. Old Medvedev has been very good about obeying this rule, and so has Mr. Obama, not to mention Queen Elizabeth, bless her little heart.
So I am playing it very cool for the moment, hoping that Mr. Tungin-Cheaque is looking the other way. I fear that a time may come when I shall have to reveal my Followers, but I leave that to Fate. The time is not now.
Today’s Thought
I never take a nap after dinner but when I have had a bad night, and then the nap takes me.
-- Samuel Johnson, (Boswell, Life, 1775)
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #151
Preparing a new boat for extended cruising costs about an additional 25 percent of the purchase price. A second-hand boat that has already been used for cruising will cost you only about 10 to 15 percent of the purchase price to be ready for cruising again.
Tailpiece
“I find you guilty and sentence you to a fine of $250 and 30 days in jail.”
“Oh, please Your Honor, please I beg of you, please reverse my sentence.”
“Very well. I sentence you to a fine of $30 and 250 days in jail.”
January 23, 2011
A Follower goes astray
SOMETHING STRANGE and disconcerting has happened. Last Thursday I had 30 Followers. Last Saturday I had 29 Followers. Where is my missing Follower? Who has deserted the pack? What rat has fled the sinking ship?
It has taken me about two-and-a-half years to build up my Following of Followers — mainly, I suppose, because I have kept their existence secret — and I am not going to take it lightly if Followers suddenly stop Following.
I have not publicized my Followers because I was going to wait until I had a reasonably decent number of them to boast about, say a couple of hundred, before I revealed their existence. But now my hand has been forced and I have had to humiliate myself in public, revealing such a weensy band of Followers. I bet Oprah has 29 million Followers, not just 29 — though I imagine they would be of much lower class than my Followers. Volume is not everything, you know. Quality of Followership counts, too.
Frankly I have no idea how my small but gallant band of Followers came about in the first place. There is nothing on my blog or website that invites readers to Follow me. I was always rather nervous about being Followed in any case. It sounds too much like Stalking, and a man of great sensitivity like me soon begins to see Followers lurking on every dark street corner, and begins to wonder if he should buy a large semi-automatic pistol to protect himself and his family.
At first, when I discovered their clandestine presence, I imagined there had been an outbreak of spontaneous Self-Following. But throughout my months and years of blogging the number of Followers has gradually increased. One here, one there. Long period of nothing. One more. And so on. But always in an upward direction, always increasing.
So now, having reached 30, we suddenly slide back to 29. Who is this backslider? Where are you now? I will not tolerate this nonsense. What insubordination is this? Either you Follow or you don’t join in the first place, dammit. Are you some ignorant foreigner who over-estimated his ability to read good plain English presented with immaculate style and wondrous phrasing? Or have you simply taken leave of your senses?
I demand answers. Return to Followship immediately, whoever you are, rotten ex-Follower. I am not to be trifled with. I am der Leader of der Followers. Und I vant 30, not 29. Remember, I haf vays to make you Follow. Even if it means jumping out ahead of you.
Today’s Thought
He who betrays his friend shall never be
Under one roof, or in one ship with me.
— Swift, Imitations of Horace: Odes
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #150
How often have you seen the word “portal” on a boating bulletin board? The correct word is porthole, which is an opening in the hull or cabintop to admit light and air. It’s also known as a port. The framed glass that makes the hole watertight has two names. If it can be opened, it’s a portlight. If not, it’s a deadlight.
Tailpiece
“What are you so excited about, Clara?”
“My Daddy’s got a new car.”
“Great. Is he excited, too?”
“Yeah, he spent all last night painting it and changing the license plates.”
It has taken me about two-and-a-half years to build up my Following of Followers — mainly, I suppose, because I have kept their existence secret — and I am not going to take it lightly if Followers suddenly stop Following.
I have not publicized my Followers because I was going to wait until I had a reasonably decent number of them to boast about, say a couple of hundred, before I revealed their existence. But now my hand has been forced and I have had to humiliate myself in public, revealing such a weensy band of Followers. I bet Oprah has 29 million Followers, not just 29 — though I imagine they would be of much lower class than my Followers. Volume is not everything, you know. Quality of Followership counts, too.
Frankly I have no idea how my small but gallant band of Followers came about in the first place. There is nothing on my blog or website that invites readers to Follow me. I was always rather nervous about being Followed in any case. It sounds too much like Stalking, and a man of great sensitivity like me soon begins to see Followers lurking on every dark street corner, and begins to wonder if he should buy a large semi-automatic pistol to protect himself and his family.
At first, when I discovered their clandestine presence, I imagined there had been an outbreak of spontaneous Self-Following. But throughout my months and years of blogging the number of Followers has gradually increased. One here, one there. Long period of nothing. One more. And so on. But always in an upward direction, always increasing.
So now, having reached 30, we suddenly slide back to 29. Who is this backslider? Where are you now? I will not tolerate this nonsense. What insubordination is this? Either you Follow or you don’t join in the first place, dammit. Are you some ignorant foreigner who over-estimated his ability to read good plain English presented with immaculate style and wondrous phrasing? Or have you simply taken leave of your senses?
I demand answers. Return to Followship immediately, whoever you are, rotten ex-Follower. I am not to be trifled with. I am der Leader of der Followers. Und I vant 30, not 29. Remember, I haf vays to make you Follow. Even if it means jumping out ahead of you.
Today’s Thought
He who betrays his friend shall never be
Under one roof, or in one ship with me.
— Swift, Imitations of Horace: Odes
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #150
How often have you seen the word “portal” on a boating bulletin board? The correct word is porthole, which is an opening in the hull or cabintop to admit light and air. It’s also known as a port. The framed glass that makes the hole watertight has two names. If it can be opened, it’s a portlight. If not, it’s a deadlight.
Tailpiece
“What are you so excited about, Clara?”
“My Daddy’s got a new car.”
“Great. Is he excited, too?”
“Yeah, he spent all last night painting it and changing the license plates.”
January 20, 2011
The nose remembers
I WAS PASSING BY Old Wotsisname’s boat the other day when the smell of burning alcohol fuel came wafting out of his cabin. I was immediately transported back many years to a host of beautiful sunsets in the South Atlantic.
This kind of thing happens to me a lot. The world of boats is filled with specific smells that remind me strongly of past adventures.
We were running before the southeast trades all those years ago, and sunset was the time when my wife June lit the kerosene stove for supper while I was on watch in the cockpit.
If you’ve ever made a long passage on a small sailboat, you’ll appreciate how important mealtimes become in the daily scheme of things. June first had to pre-heat the kerosene burner with denatured alcohol, and it wasn’t long before the smell of burning stove alcohol had me salivating in anticipation of that much-anticipated meal, just like Pavlov’s dog.
Today, the smell takes me back to rolling, deep-blue swells and white crests fringed with the orange of the setting sun, and my sweet little boat surging buoyantly ahead under twin staysails toward the tiny island of St. Helena.
And then, on the other hand, there’s rubber glue. The sharp, eye-watering fumes remind me of the time in my teen years when I tried to repair an old wooden racing dinghy with Pliobond slathered over the inside to seal the leaky seams. It didn’t work. The boat sank and I had to swim for my life. Rubber glue still gives me the shivers.
I had a much better experience when I visited Portland Island in British Columbia a few years back. We moored stern-to the shore in the little anchorage and settled back in the cockpit for a rest. It was a hot day, one in a long spell of fine weather, and everything was bone dry, including the pine trees all around us. We sniffed deeply and savored the rich resinous odor of warm pine branches while a small otter perched on the rocky shore nearby and crunched away at his newly caught lunch.
There are many other evocative smells connected to boats, including those of newly applied varnish and (another of my favorites) tarred twine, but one I hope never to experience again is gas in the bilge. I was the mate aboard a 72-foot ketch when we woke up in a little English harbor to find our bilges reeking of cooking gas. We had a bilge blower, but we weren’t sure it wouldn’t spark if we turned it on, so three of us bailed the gas out of the bilges with plastic buckets. To the astonishment of the local onlookers, we solemnly poured our buckets of invisible gas overboard one by one, and went back for more. They must have thought we were mad. It took quite a while but it worked. We fixed the leak and we didn’t explode. But now every time I smell gas I go straight back to Thelma II and Ramsgate.
There’s another smell I hope never to smell again, too. The only time it ever happened was when we got caught in a bad gale off the Cape of Storms at the bottom of Africa. We were lying a-hull in 50 knots or so and I was on watch in the cockpit. Every time a plunging breaker came crashing down against the side of the boat I crouched over, and little puffs of acrid warm air spurted up from inside my oilskins. It was the rank smell of fear. I’ve never smelled it again and I never want to.
Luckily, there are many much nicer smells that have accompanied my sailing experiences, including the wonderful aroma of my wife’s freshly washed hair on the pillow next to mine in the V-berth. I am also somewhat attached to the rather strange and pungent smell of wet spinnaker nylon, and very much attached to the crisp smell of new wood shavings in the workshop, and the smell of blue wood smoke curling lazily out of a cabintop Charlie Noble on a frosty morning.
People who have been at sea for a long time, and whose olfactory senses have therefore been deprived of stimulation, swear they can smell land before it comes over the horizon. That has never happened to me, perhaps because I find the sea itself has a smell if you sniff hard enough. It’s a faint version of the smell that lightning leaves in the air, a kind of fresh, invigorating ozone smell that bursts out of those millions of tiny hissing bubbles in the wake.
But I do remember the smell of the tropical island of Fernando de Noronha, 200 miles off the coast of Brazil. We came up to it from leeward in mid-morning when the burning sun had begun its work. I can’t begin to describe how sweet it smelled when we got within a mile or so. The wind wafted toward us the scent of wet, warm, fecund earth mixed with gusts of sweet frangipani and other fragrant tropical flowers whose names and faces we could only guess at. For sailors coming in from the deep sea it was Nature’s pouncet-box, a heavenly welcome, and one that my nose will never forget.
Today’s Thought
They that smell least, smell best.
Unknown, New Help to Discourse (1669)
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #149
When does a suitably shaped hull begin to plane? The rule of thumb is that planing starts when the speed in miles per hour, divided by the square root of the waterline length in feet, equals 2 or more. Thus, a 25-foot waterline hull theoretically begins planing at 10 miles an hour.
Tailpiece
“Every night when I switch off the light I see little green and yellow flashing lights before my eyes.”
“Good grief, have you seen a doctor?”
“No, just little green and yellow flashing lights.”
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
This kind of thing happens to me a lot. The world of boats is filled with specific smells that remind me strongly of past adventures.
We were running before the southeast trades all those years ago, and sunset was the time when my wife June lit the kerosene stove for supper while I was on watch in the cockpit.
If you’ve ever made a long passage on a small sailboat, you’ll appreciate how important mealtimes become in the daily scheme of things. June first had to pre-heat the kerosene burner with denatured alcohol, and it wasn’t long before the smell of burning stove alcohol had me salivating in anticipation of that much-anticipated meal, just like Pavlov’s dog.
Today, the smell takes me back to rolling, deep-blue swells and white crests fringed with the orange of the setting sun, and my sweet little boat surging buoyantly ahead under twin staysails toward the tiny island of St. Helena.
And then, on the other hand, there’s rubber glue. The sharp, eye-watering fumes remind me of the time in my teen years when I tried to repair an old wooden racing dinghy with Pliobond slathered over the inside to seal the leaky seams. It didn’t work. The boat sank and I had to swim for my life. Rubber glue still gives me the shivers.
I had a much better experience when I visited Portland Island in British Columbia a few years back. We moored stern-to the shore in the little anchorage and settled back in the cockpit for a rest. It was a hot day, one in a long spell of fine weather, and everything was bone dry, including the pine trees all around us. We sniffed deeply and savored the rich resinous odor of warm pine branches while a small otter perched on the rocky shore nearby and crunched away at his newly caught lunch.
There are many other evocative smells connected to boats, including those of newly applied varnish and (another of my favorites) tarred twine, but one I hope never to experience again is gas in the bilge. I was the mate aboard a 72-foot ketch when we woke up in a little English harbor to find our bilges reeking of cooking gas. We had a bilge blower, but we weren’t sure it wouldn’t spark if we turned it on, so three of us bailed the gas out of the bilges with plastic buckets. To the astonishment of the local onlookers, we solemnly poured our buckets of invisible gas overboard one by one, and went back for more. They must have thought we were mad. It took quite a while but it worked. We fixed the leak and we didn’t explode. But now every time I smell gas I go straight back to Thelma II and Ramsgate.
There’s another smell I hope never to smell again, too. The only time it ever happened was when we got caught in a bad gale off the Cape of Storms at the bottom of Africa. We were lying a-hull in 50 knots or so and I was on watch in the cockpit. Every time a plunging breaker came crashing down against the side of the boat I crouched over, and little puffs of acrid warm air spurted up from inside my oilskins. It was the rank smell of fear. I’ve never smelled it again and I never want to.
Luckily, there are many much nicer smells that have accompanied my sailing experiences, including the wonderful aroma of my wife’s freshly washed hair on the pillow next to mine in the V-berth. I am also somewhat attached to the rather strange and pungent smell of wet spinnaker nylon, and very much attached to the crisp smell of new wood shavings in the workshop, and the smell of blue wood smoke curling lazily out of a cabintop Charlie Noble on a frosty morning.
People who have been at sea for a long time, and whose olfactory senses have therefore been deprived of stimulation, swear they can smell land before it comes over the horizon. That has never happened to me, perhaps because I find the sea itself has a smell if you sniff hard enough. It’s a faint version of the smell that lightning leaves in the air, a kind of fresh, invigorating ozone smell that bursts out of those millions of tiny hissing bubbles in the wake.
But I do remember the smell of the tropical island of Fernando de Noronha, 200 miles off the coast of Brazil. We came up to it from leeward in mid-morning when the burning sun had begun its work. I can’t begin to describe how sweet it smelled when we got within a mile or so. The wind wafted toward us the scent of wet, warm, fecund earth mixed with gusts of sweet frangipani and other fragrant tropical flowers whose names and faces we could only guess at. For sailors coming in from the deep sea it was Nature’s pouncet-box, a heavenly welcome, and one that my nose will never forget.
Today’s Thought
They that smell least, smell best.
Unknown, New Help to Discourse (1669)
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #149
When does a suitably shaped hull begin to plane? The rule of thumb is that planing starts when the speed in miles per hour, divided by the square root of the waterline length in feet, equals 2 or more. Thus, a 25-foot waterline hull theoretically begins planing at 10 miles an hour.
Tailpiece
“Every night when I switch off the light I see little green and yellow flashing lights before my eyes.”
“Good grief, have you seen a doctor?”
“No, just little green and yellow flashing lights.”
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
January 18, 2011
What happened to hand tools?
I GET AN UNEASY FEELING when I see how dependent we have become on machines. Have we lost the art of working on boats with hand tools, or have we simply lost the will?
I mention this because I watched with fascination a recent discussion on the Cape Dory bulletin board. A poster wanted to know how best to cut through a small stainless-steel pin, one that looked about 3/16-inch in diameter. Get an abrasive wheel, a fellow Cape Dory owner advised him. Or get a large bolt cutter with hardened steel jaws.
No, no, said another. Get a 4 1/2-inch angle grinder.
I shoved my oar in: Use a hacksaw, I said. It’s simple. It’s easy.
Big mistake. A quick rebuttal followed: Cutting 416 stainless steel with a hacksaw should be incredibly difficult, said a CD owner who appeared to be speaking more from hearsay than experience, and who has apparently invented a new grade of stainless steel. Get a cheap 4-inch angle grinder and some metal-cutting blades. And safety goggles, of course.
No, no, said the next poster in line. An angle grinder can cause a lot of collateral damage. Use bolt cutters.
No, no, came the follow-up. Bold cutters will crush the pin and you may not be able to get it out of the hole.
And so it went on. The collective wisdom of the Cape Dory board grinding away, taking longer than it would have taken me to cut the damn pin with my little hacksaw.
I grew up in an era when boat people used hand tools not only because they were cheaper and simpler but because they would work on boats in mid-ocean as well as they would on boats with umbilical cords plugged in to shore power. It is revealing to me that the first reaction now is to rush out and buy a power tool.
I built a wooden one-design racing dinghy with no power tools whatsoever. I had a beautifully made Stanley hand drill, which I loved dearly, and still have. And I had screwdrivers, saws and planes, files and sandpaper, and a large supply of elbow grease. I’m no shipwright, nor even a good carpenter, but it gave me great pleasure and satisfaction to work simply and quietly with my bare hands; so much pleasure, in fact that I went on to build another three dinghies of the same design — only for those I used just one power tool, an electric drill. I still have that, too.
When I lived in San Diego, I bought a wreck of an International Mirror dinghy that needed a lot of work. The only place I had to work on it was in a garage I rented under an occupied apartment. I rebuilt that boat with hand tools in almost complete silence so that the occupants of the apartment wouldn’t hear me and have me thrown out. I secretly sawed and sanded and repainted and glued and screwed while listening to the noise of the television above, and they never found out.
The famous American round-the-worlder Jean Gau, the Waldorf-Astoria chef, used a hacksaw to clear his stainless-steel rigging after he lost his bolt cutter overboard when his 30-foot Tahiti ketch, Atom, was dismasted while rounding the Cape of Good Hope.
My boyhood hero, Henry Wakelam, built himself a small ocean-going yacht, a Thuella design by Harrison-Butler, without any power tools at all. He was working out in the open, in the bush.
More recently, a friend came aboard while I was cutting a large hole in a solid fiberglass bulkhead for a new access hatch. He was almost struck dumb when he saw me using my old Stanley hand drill to bore about 200 1/8-inch holes around the perimeter, each slightly overlapping the last.
“Why not use a power saw?” he asked.
“I’m practicing for one day when I have to do it in an emergency at sea,” I told him.
There is great pleasure to be had in working slowly but effectively. There is deep satisfaction in developing the skills and patience to work with hand planes, knives, saws, and (if you have some toes left) the adze. The smell of curly new wood shavings thrills me still, as does the lack of noise, that infernal, unnecessary noise.
It’s sad that too many people are now scared to do anything by hand, scared even to contemplate cutting a thin rod of stainless steel with a hacksaw. I can only hope this is a passing phase and that sailors will one day learn to use their hands again, just as their ancestors did.
Today’s Thought
There is a period of life when we go back as we advance.
— Rousseau, Émile
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #148
Scientists have discovered that human performance levels drop steeply between midnight and 3 a.m. They peak between 6 a.m. and 11 a.m. and then taper off again until 3 p.m., after which there is a gradual improvement to average levels at 5 p.m. The rule of thumb, therefore is to make night watches as short as possible between midnight and 4 a.m.
Tailpiece
“Does your husband always speak to himself like that when he’s alone?”
“Dunno. I’ve never been with him when he’s alone.”
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
I mention this because I watched with fascination a recent discussion on the Cape Dory bulletin board. A poster wanted to know how best to cut through a small stainless-steel pin, one that looked about 3/16-inch in diameter. Get an abrasive wheel, a fellow Cape Dory owner advised him. Or get a large bolt cutter with hardened steel jaws.
No, no, said another. Get a 4 1/2-inch angle grinder.
I shoved my oar in: Use a hacksaw, I said. It’s simple. It’s easy.
Big mistake. A quick rebuttal followed: Cutting 416 stainless steel with a hacksaw should be incredibly difficult, said a CD owner who appeared to be speaking more from hearsay than experience, and who has apparently invented a new grade of stainless steel. Get a cheap 4-inch angle grinder and some metal-cutting blades. And safety goggles, of course.
No, no, said the next poster in line. An angle grinder can cause a lot of collateral damage. Use bolt cutters.
No, no, came the follow-up. Bold cutters will crush the pin and you may not be able to get it out of the hole.
And so it went on. The collective wisdom of the Cape Dory board grinding away, taking longer than it would have taken me to cut the damn pin with my little hacksaw.
I grew up in an era when boat people used hand tools not only because they were cheaper and simpler but because they would work on boats in mid-ocean as well as they would on boats with umbilical cords plugged in to shore power. It is revealing to me that the first reaction now is to rush out and buy a power tool.
I built a wooden one-design racing dinghy with no power tools whatsoever. I had a beautifully made Stanley hand drill, which I loved dearly, and still have. And I had screwdrivers, saws and planes, files and sandpaper, and a large supply of elbow grease. I’m no shipwright, nor even a good carpenter, but it gave me great pleasure and satisfaction to work simply and quietly with my bare hands; so much pleasure, in fact that I went on to build another three dinghies of the same design — only for those I used just one power tool, an electric drill. I still have that, too.
When I lived in San Diego, I bought a wreck of an International Mirror dinghy that needed a lot of work. The only place I had to work on it was in a garage I rented under an occupied apartment. I rebuilt that boat with hand tools in almost complete silence so that the occupants of the apartment wouldn’t hear me and have me thrown out. I secretly sawed and sanded and repainted and glued and screwed while listening to the noise of the television above, and they never found out.
The famous American round-the-worlder Jean Gau, the Waldorf-Astoria chef, used a hacksaw to clear his stainless-steel rigging after he lost his bolt cutter overboard when his 30-foot Tahiti ketch, Atom, was dismasted while rounding the Cape of Good Hope.
My boyhood hero, Henry Wakelam, built himself a small ocean-going yacht, a Thuella design by Harrison-Butler, without any power tools at all. He was working out in the open, in the bush.
More recently, a friend came aboard while I was cutting a large hole in a solid fiberglass bulkhead for a new access hatch. He was almost struck dumb when he saw me using my old Stanley hand drill to bore about 200 1/8-inch holes around the perimeter, each slightly overlapping the last.
“Why not use a power saw?” he asked.
“I’m practicing for one day when I have to do it in an emergency at sea,” I told him.
There is great pleasure to be had in working slowly but effectively. There is deep satisfaction in developing the skills and patience to work with hand planes, knives, saws, and (if you have some toes left) the adze. The smell of curly new wood shavings thrills me still, as does the lack of noise, that infernal, unnecessary noise.
It’s sad that too many people are now scared to do anything by hand, scared even to contemplate cutting a thin rod of stainless steel with a hacksaw. I can only hope this is a passing phase and that sailors will one day learn to use their hands again, just as their ancestors did.
Today’s Thought
There is a period of life when we go back as we advance.
— Rousseau, Émile
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #148
Scientists have discovered that human performance levels drop steeply between midnight and 3 a.m. They peak between 6 a.m. and 11 a.m. and then taper off again until 3 p.m., after which there is a gradual improvement to average levels at 5 p.m. The rule of thumb, therefore is to make night watches as short as possible between midnight and 4 a.m.
Tailpiece
“Does your husband always speak to himself like that when he’s alone?”
“Dunno. I’ve never been with him when he’s alone.”
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
January 16, 2011
Size and seaworthiness
 |
| The Cal 20 |
Hiscock, like C. A. Marchaj and other experts, believed in the dictum that the larger the boat, the more seaworthy — all else being equal. On other words, a good big boat should be safer than a good small boat.
I believe that, too, but the fly in the ointment here is that all else is never equal, including, most importantly, the experience and skill of the skipper. Furthermore, if the definition of seaworthiness is the ability to stay afloat and undamaged no matter how severe the weather, then the cork stopper from your last bottle of wine would win the prize, followed closely by a burned-out light bulb.
There are indeed very valid reasons why a smaller boat may be more seaworthy than a larger boat — but let me set some limits here to make more sense of this argument. By “smaller,” in regard to ocean voyaging, I mean about 20 feet on deck, and by “larger” I mean anything between 38 and 50 feet.
In 2008, Californian Robert Crawford raced from San Francisco to Kauai, Hawaii, in a 20-foot, ballast-keel, day-sailer, a Cal 20 named Black Feathers. She wasn’t the first of Bill Lapworth’s Cal 20s to make that crossing, but she was the smallest boat in the 2,200-mile 2008 Singlehanded TransPac and placed 8th on corrected time. Crawford and his wife Jeanne wrote a book entitled Black Feathers[1], which details how he changed his $1,000 Cal 20, with its huge cockpit and tiny cabin, into a seagoing racer. This is a very valuable book for anyone intending to cruise or race across an ocean in a micro-cruiser, singlehanded or crewed.
Crawford lists the advantages and disadvantages of small boats:
ADVANTAGES
► Cost, of course. Everything to do with small boats costs less than everything to do with big boats.
► Maintenance is easier and cheaper.
► You can more easily handle sails, winches, spinnaker poles, anchors, etc.
► Smaller spinnakers make dealing with snafus a lot less traumatic.
► Boat handling under normal conditions is easier and more forgiving because the boat is smaller and lighter.
► Small boats are more responsive and more maneuverable in confined spaces.
► Small boats can be rowed, paddled, or sculled.
► In a singlehanded race, the skipper of a small boat has a better chance of sailing a boat to its potential, thus improving his chances of winning on handicap.
► Smaller boats are less intimidating and easier to understand.
► Because smaller boats respond more quickly to change, you can more readily learn better sailing techniques.
► Because they’re less expensive to start with, you can experiment with gear changes that make holes everywhere, without destroying the value of an expensive boat.
► You have the feeling of being more at one with the water you’re sailing in.
► Because small boats generate small forces, breakage of equipment is not so common.
► If your boat develops a leak, it’s easier to trace and fix in a small boat that has fewer areas of the hull inaccessible.
► You can’t hoard too much heavy “stuff” on a small boat because there’s nowhere to put it.
► Emergency repairs to spars and rudders are more manageable. (Crawford himself had to ship a spare rudder at sea.)
► Erecting a jury mast is much simpler on a small boat.
DISADVANTAGES
► Small boats give you a rougher ride in heavy weather.
► You need to reef earlier and discontinue sailing to windward sooner.
► You may have to beef up a small day-sailer for ocean work.
► Small boats often lack headroom and interior space. They won’t offer luxuries such as a full galley with fridge, or a shower, or even a fixed head. (Crawford had a bucket for a head, and ate all his food unheated.)
► Small boats are usually wetter inside and often have no sump for bilge water, which is then free to wash across the cabin and under the bunks.
► They’re not as fast as larger boats — but, let’s face facts: even larger boats are slow, very slow, compared with other forms of transport.
It’s like everything else in life. You have to make compromises, and you pay for everything one way or another. But if you have a sense of adventure and are willing to suffer a little discomfort for a week or two at a time, there is no valid reason concerning seaworthiness why you shouldn’t cross oceans and discover the joys of sailing into exotic harbors in a boat costing less than a used automobile. Quite a lot less, in some cases.
[1]Black Feathers: A Pocket Racer Sails the Singlehanded TransPac, by Robert and Jeanne Crawford, iUniverse, Inc., New York. ISBN 978-1-4401-9196-1.
Today’s Thought
Size is a matter of opinion.
— George Meredith, Richard Feverel
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #147
If you’re thinking of designing a boat, or just changing one, bear in mind that the minimum width for passages and doorways down below is 19 inches. Below the waist you can get away with a cutout 14 inches wide. The waist is taken to be 30 inches above the floor.
Tailpiece
More books you won’t find on the library shelves:
The Philanderer, by Rex Holmes
Happy Punter, by Ida Wynne
Postscript, by Adeline Moore
Saving Bus Fares, by Rider Muill
The Spinster, by I. Wanda Mann
The Prevaricator, by Eliza Lott
Cheap French Sandals, by Phillipe Phillope
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
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