I DON’T KNOW who Augustus de Morgan was, but every time I think about dinghies for yachts I am reminded of something he wrote:
Great fleas have little fleas upon their back to bite ’em,
And little fleas have lesser fleas, and so ad infinitum.
It’s the little fleas of the yacht world that I think about, the tiny fellers I see outboard motoring up the Inside Passageway to Alaska, towing their lesser fleas behind them.
Big yachts have problems enough with their tenders, but it’s the little ones that really suffer. Any boat of 25 feet or under that cannot be beached is going to have to spend time in anchorages, and the question is: How do we get ashore? Hard dinghy? Nesting? Inflatable? Kayak? Folding boat?
Folding boats need space on the side-deck, and not many small yachts can afford it. Kayaks must be towed, but they flip and fill too easily. Inflatables are safe and reliable, but they tow badly. They stick to the water. And deflating them, stowing them, and re-inflating them again at your destination is a pain in the cockpit – or on the foredeck, or wherever you do it.
Hard dinghies tow well, and are the most barnacle-resistant when you drag them ashore, but they’re usually cranky and heavy. They’re also likely to fill with spray or green water in rough seas, although I have towed one 10-footer hundreds of miles in the open Pacific without problems. The secret was to use a 75-foot painter and to weigh down the stern to prevent her from taking a sheer on the front of swells. Furthermore, we had an understanding, that dinghy and I: if ever she gave me trouble, if ever she started running down and ramming my counter, I would cut her free and leave her to fend for herself. That threat was enough, apparently. I never had to carry it out.
L. Francis Herreshoff listed five features for his “ideal tender.” She would:
► Row easily, light or loaded
► Be light enough to be hoisted aboard easily
► Be stiff enough to get into and out of easily
► Be strong enough not to leak, and able to take some abuse
► Tow steadily, always holding back on her painter and never yawing around.
I firmly believe there is no ideal tender, and the smaller the mother yacht the greater the compromises that have to be made. I once used to tow a 10-foot dinghy behind a 22-foot Santana, and I’m sure it looked quite ludicrously out of proportion. But that was the dinghy I had and that was the sacrifice I made. We all have to come to terms with the dinghy problem somehow, and if some people managed it more elegantly than I did, good luck to them. At least the flea upon my back was a nice big fat one.
Today’s Thought
When eager bites the thirsty flea,
Clouds and rain you sure shall see.
— Inwards, Weather Lore.
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #179
Next time you break an oar or a rudder in your dinghy, you’ll be glad for a sculling notch in the transom. The usual size for a yacht tender is 1 7/8 inches wide by 2 1/2 inches deep. It should be egg-shaped, slightly narrower at the top than the bottom, and all edges should be well rounded.
Tailpiece
“How did you enjoy the bridge party the other night?”
“It was great — until the cops looked under the bridge”
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
March 31, 2011
March 29, 2011
Where is the magic?
SOMETIMES I WONDER about the magic of sailing. Just what is it about sailboats that draws us back to the water time and time again? What possesses us to spend so much time and money getting cold, wet, frightened, and seasick?
For years people have been telling me that Maurice Griffiths had the answer. He wrote a book in 1932 called The Magic of the Swatchways. It’s all about sailing in the Thames Estuary, off London, an area of wicked tides and nasty sandbanks, bordered by rivers and the tiny rivulets and creeks that I believe they call swatchways. These swatchways dry out at low tide, revealing acres of hissing, smelly mud.
I know this because I have at long last got around to reading Mr. Griffiths’ book about his venturesome voyages in and around the swatchways, and I am as puzzled as ever about the magic of it.
He sails, often at night, in small, full-keeled gaff-riggers with topsails and 15-foot bowsprits; and he seeks solitude. He doesn’t want to be where other boats are. So he sails in gales and takes desperate chances. He sails on Christmas Day and he sails in the snow. No lifelines on his boats, of course. No tethers or lifejackets. Nothing sissy like that. He gets cold, wet, and seasick, and when the wind frustrates him once too often, he makes a downwind dash at dusk for a harbor whose bar is awash in breakers. He is saved at the last minute from certain shipwreck by flagged directions from a shorebound pilot who takes pity on him.
Why does he do it? Well, he’s obviously in love with sailing. Terribly in love. And love, as we all know, is temporary madness. There’s nothing rational about love. Unfortunately, Mr. Griffiths’ problem seems to be that his ailment isn’t temporary. He’s doomed to suffer all his life.
He was, of course, a yacht designer and editor of Yachting Monthly from 1927 to 1967, and he used that vehicle to spread his madness through articles, written with great charm and dignity, thereby inducing thousands of innocent readers to take up the sport of sailing and infecting their lives forever.
I doubt that I have ever read such beautiful descriptions of wind and wave as are contained in his book. I doubt that anyone has managed to describe so delicately and so accurately the way of a ship in the sea. The magic in this book is the magic of language, the magic of words strung together in such a way as to stir the heart and soul of anyone capable of finer feelings.
But I’m afraid Mr. Griffiths doesn’t explain for me the magic of sailing. It is simple madness to expose oneself voluntarily to the rigors and dangers that his kind of sailing entails. No, the magic must lie somewhere else. I don’t know where, but it must surely be very powerful magic to overwhelm all the misery, and keep us coming back for more.
Today’s Thought
The masterless man ... afflicted with the magic of the necessary words ... Words that may become alive and walk up and down in the hearts of the hearers.
— Rudyard Kipling.
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #178
What screw to use in wood? The old rule of thumb used by boatbuilders was that a screw should have a thread depth at least six times its shank diameter near the head, to obtain maximum grip in hardwood. For softwood that ratio was increased to 8:1.
Tailpiece
“Whatcha want?”
“Two eggs easy over, hash browns, coffee, and a kind word.”
The waitress brought his order and was about to move away when he said:
“Hey, how about that kind word?”
“Okay,” she whispered. “Don’t eat them eggs.”
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
For years people have been telling me that Maurice Griffiths had the answer. He wrote a book in 1932 called The Magic of the Swatchways. It’s all about sailing in the Thames Estuary, off London, an area of wicked tides and nasty sandbanks, bordered by rivers and the tiny rivulets and creeks that I believe they call swatchways. These swatchways dry out at low tide, revealing acres of hissing, smelly mud.
I know this because I have at long last got around to reading Mr. Griffiths’ book about his venturesome voyages in and around the swatchways, and I am as puzzled as ever about the magic of it.
He sails, often at night, in small, full-keeled gaff-riggers with topsails and 15-foot bowsprits; and he seeks solitude. He doesn’t want to be where other boats are. So he sails in gales and takes desperate chances. He sails on Christmas Day and he sails in the snow. No lifelines on his boats, of course. No tethers or lifejackets. Nothing sissy like that. He gets cold, wet, and seasick, and when the wind frustrates him once too often, he makes a downwind dash at dusk for a harbor whose bar is awash in breakers. He is saved at the last minute from certain shipwreck by flagged directions from a shorebound pilot who takes pity on him.
Why does he do it? Well, he’s obviously in love with sailing. Terribly in love. And love, as we all know, is temporary madness. There’s nothing rational about love. Unfortunately, Mr. Griffiths’ problem seems to be that his ailment isn’t temporary. He’s doomed to suffer all his life.
He was, of course, a yacht designer and editor of Yachting Monthly from 1927 to 1967, and he used that vehicle to spread his madness through articles, written with great charm and dignity, thereby inducing thousands of innocent readers to take up the sport of sailing and infecting their lives forever.
I doubt that I have ever read such beautiful descriptions of wind and wave as are contained in his book. I doubt that anyone has managed to describe so delicately and so accurately the way of a ship in the sea. The magic in this book is the magic of language, the magic of words strung together in such a way as to stir the heart and soul of anyone capable of finer feelings.
But I’m afraid Mr. Griffiths doesn’t explain for me the magic of sailing. It is simple madness to expose oneself voluntarily to the rigors and dangers that his kind of sailing entails. No, the magic must lie somewhere else. I don’t know where, but it must surely be very powerful magic to overwhelm all the misery, and keep us coming back for more.
Today’s Thought
The masterless man ... afflicted with the magic of the necessary words ... Words that may become alive and walk up and down in the hearts of the hearers.
— Rudyard Kipling.
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #178
What screw to use in wood? The old rule of thumb used by boatbuilders was that a screw should have a thread depth at least six times its shank diameter near the head, to obtain maximum grip in hardwood. For softwood that ratio was increased to 8:1.
Tailpiece
“Whatcha want?”
“Two eggs easy over, hash browns, coffee, and a kind word.”
The waitress brought his order and was about to move away when he said:
“Hey, how about that kind word?”
“Okay,” she whispered. “Don’t eat them eggs.”
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
March 27, 2011
No need for special glasses
A LETTER to the Editor of the Walnut Street Gazeout (should be Gazette) says:
Sir, — I recently read an article by some fancy schmancy sports doctor type. He says if you go skiing or yachting, you need special glasses or else you’ll eventually go blind. Something to do with ultraviolent rays.
I understand that small sailboats bounce around a lot at sea but I still don’t understand why you need special glasses. What’s wrong with ordinary glasses?
— Armpit Leftwich,
Block 5 Row 3 cell 14
► Well, I have to agree with Armpit. There is no need for special glasses since most sailors drink their beer straight from the can or bottle when they’re at sea. Some of them will use glasses when the boat is in port, to convince young ladies that they have been house trained and can therefore be trusted when they invite you on an after-dinner tour of the fo’c’s’le. They can’t be, of course, but that’s beside the point.
I have noticed that most of them use square tumblers, the kind whisky drinkers prefer. These glasses are squat and, like the best crew members, have a low center of gravity, which is desirable on a boat, especially when some low-life comes speeding past in a powerboat and sets the boat rocking ultraviolently.
Personally, I don’t see how your choice of glasses can make you blind unless you drink raw ouzo or absinthe. I know that stove alcohol, strained through a loaf of bread, also can make you blind, but most people don’t bother with glasses when they do that.
Perhaps that sports doctor doesn’t realize that sailors can go blind in other ways besides drinking out of glasses, at least one of which actually causes you to grow hair on your palms as well, and he needs to sort out those who only drink beer from those with multiple vices.
In the meantime, Armpit, if I were you I wouldn’t worry my pretty little head about it. I mean, hell, glasses are cheap. Ten cents a throw at my local thrift store, although I guess there’s no guarantee that they didn’t already make somebody blind.
Today’s Thought
For drink, there was beer which was very strong when not mingled with water, but was agreeable to those who were used to it. They drank this with a reed, out of the vessel that held the beer, upon which they saw the barley swim.
— Xenophon, Anabasis
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #177
How much sail can you manage alone? A sail of about 400 square feet is about as much as the average person working alone would want to handle with any regularity. Interestingly, though, a larger hull, one that provides a more stable working platform, might ease the handling of a larger sail.
Tailpiece
“Hey gorgeous, I hear you collect stamps. How about inviting me in to see your collection some time?”
“Down boy, down. Philately will get you nowhere.”
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
Sir, — I recently read an article by some fancy schmancy sports doctor type. He says if you go skiing or yachting, you need special glasses or else you’ll eventually go blind. Something to do with ultraviolent rays.
I understand that small sailboats bounce around a lot at sea but I still don’t understand why you need special glasses. What’s wrong with ordinary glasses?
— Armpit Leftwich,
Block 5 Row 3 cell 14
► Well, I have to agree with Armpit. There is no need for special glasses since most sailors drink their beer straight from the can or bottle when they’re at sea. Some of them will use glasses when the boat is in port, to convince young ladies that they have been house trained and can therefore be trusted when they invite you on an after-dinner tour of the fo’c’s’le. They can’t be, of course, but that’s beside the point.
I have noticed that most of them use square tumblers, the kind whisky drinkers prefer. These glasses are squat and, like the best crew members, have a low center of gravity, which is desirable on a boat, especially when some low-life comes speeding past in a powerboat and sets the boat rocking ultraviolently.
Personally, I don’t see how your choice of glasses can make you blind unless you drink raw ouzo or absinthe. I know that stove alcohol, strained through a loaf of bread, also can make you blind, but most people don’t bother with glasses when they do that.
Perhaps that sports doctor doesn’t realize that sailors can go blind in other ways besides drinking out of glasses, at least one of which actually causes you to grow hair on your palms as well, and he needs to sort out those who only drink beer from those with multiple vices.
In the meantime, Armpit, if I were you I wouldn’t worry my pretty little head about it. I mean, hell, glasses are cheap. Ten cents a throw at my local thrift store, although I guess there’s no guarantee that they didn’t already make somebody blind.
Today’s Thought
For drink, there was beer which was very strong when not mingled with water, but was agreeable to those who were used to it. They drank this with a reed, out of the vessel that held the beer, upon which they saw the barley swim.
— Xenophon, Anabasis
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #177
How much sail can you manage alone? A sail of about 400 square feet is about as much as the average person working alone would want to handle with any regularity. Interestingly, though, a larger hull, one that provides a more stable working platform, might ease the handling of a larger sail.
Tailpiece
“Hey gorgeous, I hear you collect stamps. How about inviting me in to see your collection some time?”
“Down boy, down. Philately will get you nowhere.”
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
March 24, 2011
The right size boat for you
HOW BIG A BOAT do you need for long-distance cruising in reasonable comfort? I say reasonable comfort because there are those among us, usually the young and adventurous, who will go to sea in almost anything that floats, no matter how small and rudimentary. And good luck to them. I salute them. But them are not me. And I are not they. Not any longer.
To answer the question, though: it depends on three factors: the number of crew, the weight of the stores they need, and the number of days between provisioning stops.
So, to find the minimum required displacement of a cruising sailboat (within 10 percent) start by multiplying the combined weight of crew and stores (including water) by 7.
For planning purposes, use these guidelines:
Crew: Multiply number of crew by 160 pounds.
Stores: Allow 6 pounds per person per day.
Water: Allow 8.5 pounds per person per day.
Safety reserve: Multiply the total of stores and water by 1.5.
Personal gear: Allow 5 pounds per days or a maximum of 120 pounds per person. (For permanent liveaboards, a maximum of 500 to 1,000 pounds is more appropriate.)
Here’s an example:
1. Find the minimum boat displacement for two people with water and provisions for 42 days.
2. Displacement (within 10 percent) = (weight of crew and stores) times 7.
3. Longest time between provisionings = 42 days.
4. Number of crew = 2. Crew weight = 2 times 160 = 320 pounds.
5. Daily stores = 6 pounds times 2 crew times 42 days = 504 pounds.
6. Water = 8.5 pounds times 2 crew times 42 days = 714 pounds.
7. Safety reserve = 504 (stores) + 714 (water) = 1,218; times 1.5 = 1,827.
8. Personal gear = 120 pounds times 2 = 240 pounds.
9. Total weight of stores, water, safety reserve and personal gear = 1,827 + 240 = 2,067 pounds.
10. Displacement = 2,067 times 7 = 14,469 pounds or 6.5 tons.
11. Displacement within 10 percent = 13,000 pounds to 16,000 pounds (5.8 tons to 7 tons.)
A heavy displacement 30-footer, such as circumnavigators Eric and Susan Hiscock’s Wanderer III weighs in at 16,000 pounds but more modern designs could get that displacement down to 12,500 to 13,000 pounds and produce a faster hull with more room down below. And in each case, the boat could easily be handled by a crew of two.
Today’s Thought
It is a pleasure for to sit at ease
Upon the land, and safely for to see
How other folks are tossèd on the seas
That with the blustering winds turmoilèd be.
— Lucretius.
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #176
To estimate the sail area a boat needs, take three quarters of the square of the waterline length in feet — that is, multiply the waterline length by itself and take 75 percent of the result. The answer is in square feet. Some boats will vary considerably, of course, but this will give you a general idea.
Tailpiece
“Sorry to hear about your husband. What happened?”
“Well, I asked him to pick a cabbage for supper and he went into the garden and keeled over suddenly and that was that.”
“Wow. What did you do then?”
“Oh, I opened a can of peas instead.”
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
To answer the question, though: it depends on three factors: the number of crew, the weight of the stores they need, and the number of days between provisioning stops.
So, to find the minimum required displacement of a cruising sailboat (within 10 percent) start by multiplying the combined weight of crew and stores (including water) by 7.
For planning purposes, use these guidelines:
Crew: Multiply number of crew by 160 pounds.
Stores: Allow 6 pounds per person per day.
Water: Allow 8.5 pounds per person per day.
Safety reserve: Multiply the total of stores and water by 1.5.
Personal gear: Allow 5 pounds per days or a maximum of 120 pounds per person. (For permanent liveaboards, a maximum of 500 to 1,000 pounds is more appropriate.)
Here’s an example:
1. Find the minimum boat displacement for two people with water and provisions for 42 days.
2. Displacement (within 10 percent) = (weight of crew and stores) times 7.
3. Longest time between provisionings = 42 days.
4. Number of crew = 2. Crew weight = 2 times 160 = 320 pounds.
5. Daily stores = 6 pounds times 2 crew times 42 days = 504 pounds.
6. Water = 8.5 pounds times 2 crew times 42 days = 714 pounds.
7. Safety reserve = 504 (stores) + 714 (water) = 1,218; times 1.5 = 1,827.
8. Personal gear = 120 pounds times 2 = 240 pounds.
9. Total weight of stores, water, safety reserve and personal gear = 1,827 + 240 = 2,067 pounds.
10. Displacement = 2,067 times 7 = 14,469 pounds or 6.5 tons.
11. Displacement within 10 percent = 13,000 pounds to 16,000 pounds (5.8 tons to 7 tons.)
A heavy displacement 30-footer, such as circumnavigators Eric and Susan Hiscock’s Wanderer III weighs in at 16,000 pounds but more modern designs could get that displacement down to 12,500 to 13,000 pounds and produce a faster hull with more room down below. And in each case, the boat could easily be handled by a crew of two.
Today’s Thought
It is a pleasure for to sit at ease
Upon the land, and safely for to see
How other folks are tossèd on the seas
That with the blustering winds turmoilèd be.
— Lucretius.
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #176
To estimate the sail area a boat needs, take three quarters of the square of the waterline length in feet — that is, multiply the waterline length by itself and take 75 percent of the result. The answer is in square feet. Some boats will vary considerably, of course, but this will give you a general idea.
Tailpiece
“Sorry to hear about your husband. What happened?”
“Well, I asked him to pick a cabbage for supper and he went into the garden and keeled over suddenly and that was that.”
“Wow. What did you do then?”
“Oh, I opened a can of peas instead.”
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
March 22, 2011
Alarming lack of hyphen power
A HEADLINE in a local boating magazine reads: “Calling All Wooden Boat Owners.” The story concerns sailboat racing in Port Townsend, Washington, which is apparently starting up again for “wooden boat owners.”
I fear there cannot be many of those around. But one never knows. Are you, perchance, a wooden boat owner? That is, are you wooden? Do you own a boat? Are you a chip off the old block, maybe, with a heart of oak? Do you creak when the wind blows? Do you splinter easily? If so, you may be able to enter your boat for the Balsa Bowl, the Cedar Cup, the Mahogany Mug, the Plywood Plaque, and who knows what all else?
Okay, enough already. Yes, I know, it gets tiresome. The real story, of course, concerns the power of the hyphen and the lack of knowledge of boating headline writers. The tiny hyphen has it within its power to change a wooden boat owner into a wooden-boat owner, a vastly different thing. You may think this is splitting hairs, a semantic silliness, but it’s not.
Take, for instance, the headline on a pack of milk in my fridge. It says Fat Free Milk. Fat milk and free milk. And yet, by golly, it has no fat and it’s not free. It’s saying exactly the opposite of what it means to say because it has ignored the humble hyphen in Fat-Free Milk.
Of course, I don’t mean to denigrate any of you who actually happen to be wooden boat owners. Good luck to you, I say, and no doubt the Coasties will excuse you from wearing life jackets — all except those of you made of lignum vitae, which, I believe, sinks rather than floats. But there, you can’t have everything. Not even a hyphen, it seems.
Today’s Thought
When I read some of the rules for speaking and writing the English language correctly, ... I think—
Any fool can make a rule
And every fool will mind it.
— H. D. Thoreau.
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #175
No matter what your instincts are, do not cut down the size or height of your rig to go ocean voyaging. That’s the rule of thumb from experienced cruisers Lin and Larry Pardey. “Cruising boats need power to keep them moving,” they say, “since they are almost always heavily laden.”
Tailpiece
An old lady approached the boy who was sitting on the curb with a cigarette in one hand and a hip-flask in the other.
“Sonny,” she said, “why aren’t you in school?”
“Jeez, have a heart, lady,” he said. “I’m only three.”
I fear there cannot be many of those around. But one never knows. Are you, perchance, a wooden boat owner? That is, are you wooden? Do you own a boat? Are you a chip off the old block, maybe, with a heart of oak? Do you creak when the wind blows? Do you splinter easily? If so, you may be able to enter your boat for the Balsa Bowl, the Cedar Cup, the Mahogany Mug, the Plywood Plaque, and who knows what all else?
Okay, enough already. Yes, I know, it gets tiresome. The real story, of course, concerns the power of the hyphen and the lack of knowledge of boating headline writers. The tiny hyphen has it within its power to change a wooden boat owner into a wooden-boat owner, a vastly different thing. You may think this is splitting hairs, a semantic silliness, but it’s not.
Take, for instance, the headline on a pack of milk in my fridge. It says Fat Free Milk. Fat milk and free milk. And yet, by golly, it has no fat and it’s not free. It’s saying exactly the opposite of what it means to say because it has ignored the humble hyphen in Fat-Free Milk.
Of course, I don’t mean to denigrate any of you who actually happen to be wooden boat owners. Good luck to you, I say, and no doubt the Coasties will excuse you from wearing life jackets — all except those of you made of lignum vitae, which, I believe, sinks rather than floats. But there, you can’t have everything. Not even a hyphen, it seems.
Today’s Thought
When I read some of the rules for speaking and writing the English language correctly, ... I think—
Any fool can make a rule
And every fool will mind it.
— H. D. Thoreau.
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #175
No matter what your instincts are, do not cut down the size or height of your rig to go ocean voyaging. That’s the rule of thumb from experienced cruisers Lin and Larry Pardey. “Cruising boats need power to keep them moving,” they say, “since they are almost always heavily laden.”
Tailpiece
An old lady approached the boy who was sitting on the curb with a cigarette in one hand and a hip-flask in the other.
“Sonny,” she said, “why aren’t you in school?”
“Jeez, have a heart, lady,” he said. “I’m only three.”
March 20, 2011
Sea anchors versus drogues
TWO PEOPLE have asked me recently: “What is the difference between a drogue and a sea anchor?”
Well now, because two is a significant percentage of my readership, I feel compelled to offer an explanation.
A sea anchor is anything designed to hold a boat almost stationary in the water, anything that is not attached to the bottom. It usually takes the form of a heavy-duty parachute or a large conical canvas bucket with a wide mouth and a small hole in the bottom, such as the one Captain Voss made popular.
In really heavy weather, a sea anchor streamed from the bow will keep a shallow-draft powerboat or a sailing multihull pointing into the waves and making slow sternway, which is probably the safest way to lie.
But sea anchors don’t work very well on most deep-keel sailboats. The windage on the mast, which lies a long way forward, causes the bow to blow off and jerk the line constantly. The result is that most of the time the boat will lie almost broadside on to the waves, which is not always the best position, depending on the boat’s underwater shape.
Then there is the difficulty of streaming a sea anchor, with its mess of canopy lines, in a gale of wind. The makers of sea anchors don’t list this among the selling points.
A drogue on the other hand, is anything dragged in the water behind the boat to slow it down, rather than to bring it to a halt. A drogue is useful when a boat is running before the wind and starts to get out of control. In combination with a scrap of sail up forward, or even under bare poles, a drogue over the stern will help prevent a boat from slewing broadside on to the swells and being laid over on her side, vulnerable to complete capsize on the next wave.
The time to stream a drogue is when your boat starts to get out of control as you race along almost at the same speed as the overtaking waves and the helm goes slack while you wallow in foam-filled water. The drogue slows you down so that the wave will pass under your transom quickly, and restore control to the rudder once more.
Some deep-sea sailors use car tires as drogues. Others use fancier drogues made for the purpose, including one with scores of small conical pockets on a long line that evens out the strain. But the principle is the same. The drogue just slows the boat down. It’s also very useful when running an inlet with a shallow bar, to keep the boat lined up at right angles to the surf.
Today’s Thought
He that mounts him on the swiftest hope
Shall often run his courser to a stand.
— Colley Cibber, Richard III
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #174
To estimate the sail area your boat needs, take three quarters of the square of her waterline length in feet. That is, multiply the waterline length in feet by itself, and take 75 percent of the result. The answer is in square feet.
Tailpiece
Two pink elephants, a mauve spider, and two yellow snakes strolled into a local bar.
“Sorry, guys,” said the bartender. “You’re a bit early. John Vigor isn’t here yet.”
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
Well now, because two is a significant percentage of my readership, I feel compelled to offer an explanation.
A sea anchor is anything designed to hold a boat almost stationary in the water, anything that is not attached to the bottom. It usually takes the form of a heavy-duty parachute or a large conical canvas bucket with a wide mouth and a small hole in the bottom, such as the one Captain Voss made popular.
In really heavy weather, a sea anchor streamed from the bow will keep a shallow-draft powerboat or a sailing multihull pointing into the waves and making slow sternway, which is probably the safest way to lie.
But sea anchors don’t work very well on most deep-keel sailboats. The windage on the mast, which lies a long way forward, causes the bow to blow off and jerk the line constantly. The result is that most of the time the boat will lie almost broadside on to the waves, which is not always the best position, depending on the boat’s underwater shape.
Then there is the difficulty of streaming a sea anchor, with its mess of canopy lines, in a gale of wind. The makers of sea anchors don’t list this among the selling points.
A drogue on the other hand, is anything dragged in the water behind the boat to slow it down, rather than to bring it to a halt. A drogue is useful when a boat is running before the wind and starts to get out of control. In combination with a scrap of sail up forward, or even under bare poles, a drogue over the stern will help prevent a boat from slewing broadside on to the swells and being laid over on her side, vulnerable to complete capsize on the next wave.
The time to stream a drogue is when your boat starts to get out of control as you race along almost at the same speed as the overtaking waves and the helm goes slack while you wallow in foam-filled water. The drogue slows you down so that the wave will pass under your transom quickly, and restore control to the rudder once more.
Some deep-sea sailors use car tires as drogues. Others use fancier drogues made for the purpose, including one with scores of small conical pockets on a long line that evens out the strain. But the principle is the same. The drogue just slows the boat down. It’s also very useful when running an inlet with a shallow bar, to keep the boat lined up at right angles to the surf.
Today’s Thought
He that mounts him on the swiftest hope
Shall often run his courser to a stand.
— Colley Cibber, Richard III
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #174
To estimate the sail area your boat needs, take three quarters of the square of her waterline length in feet. That is, multiply the waterline length in feet by itself, and take 75 percent of the result. The answer is in square feet.
Tailpiece
Two pink elephants, a mauve spider, and two yellow snakes strolled into a local bar.
“Sorry, guys,” said the bartender. “You’re a bit early. John Vigor isn’t here yet.”
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
March 17, 2011
Capsizing on the wavetops
ONE ASPECT OF SEAWORTHINESS that has interested me for years is rarely discussed in the technical press and probably little understood by the experts. It’s the fact that a sailboat is very prone to capsize on the top of a big wave or swell attacking from the side.
I have seen a video of this phenomenon in which a Star-class dinghy simply gets blown flat on her side after rising to the very top of a swell, and it’s my guess that keelboats are just as vulnerable. It’s not the water hitting the hull that causes the capsize. It’s an interesting physical phenomenon.
When a boat of any kind is lifted by a broadside swell, there comes a moment at the top when she is almost weightless. It’s the feeling you get when an elevator starts to descend, and your stomach rises to your chin. Because the boat is weightless, almost all of her stability disappears. Both form stability, from her beam, and gravitational stability, from her heavy fixed keel, are reduced to nil in the moment when the upward movement stops and the downward movement begins.
In that moment, there is nothing to counteract the wind pressure in the sails. She simply gets blown flat on her side in a second.
Most of us have recognized that moment without realizing its import. It’s a strange feeling at first, and highly conducive to seasickness until you get used to it. Even in light winds it often results in an awkward lurch to leeward, and in heavy winds, as I’ve said, there’s every chance of a lightning 90-degree capsize.
I have never seen any studies on this phenomenon and I don’t know what you can do to lessen the chance of capsize, except to change course just before the critical moment, so that the hull is no longer on a beam reach. That’s my intuitive reaction. Either pulling off or heading up for a few seconds would probably help but I can’t explain why; and maybe I’ve got it quite wrong. Maybe it wouldn’t help at all. Weightless is weightless, no matter which way you turn. In any case, I offer this as food for thought. Actually, more like food for sober reflection next time you find yourself bobbing up and down among big swells in a capful of wind.
Today’s Thought
He who has suffered shipwreck fears to sail
Upon the seas, though with a gentle gale.
— Robert Herrick, Shipwreck
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #173
After running aground, your first action in a sailboat should be to try to spin the boat about to face deep water. In a powerboat, it usually makes more sense to keep the propellers in deeper water astern, and apply full power astern.
Tailpiece
I hear that the fastest growing organization in the States is Athletics Anonymous. When you get the urge to hike or jog or work out at the gym, they send a man over to drink with you until the feeling passes.
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
I have seen a video of this phenomenon in which a Star-class dinghy simply gets blown flat on her side after rising to the very top of a swell, and it’s my guess that keelboats are just as vulnerable. It’s not the water hitting the hull that causes the capsize. It’s an interesting physical phenomenon.
When a boat of any kind is lifted by a broadside swell, there comes a moment at the top when she is almost weightless. It’s the feeling you get when an elevator starts to descend, and your stomach rises to your chin. Because the boat is weightless, almost all of her stability disappears. Both form stability, from her beam, and gravitational stability, from her heavy fixed keel, are reduced to nil in the moment when the upward movement stops and the downward movement begins.
In that moment, there is nothing to counteract the wind pressure in the sails. She simply gets blown flat on her side in a second.
Most of us have recognized that moment without realizing its import. It’s a strange feeling at first, and highly conducive to seasickness until you get used to it. Even in light winds it often results in an awkward lurch to leeward, and in heavy winds, as I’ve said, there’s every chance of a lightning 90-degree capsize.
I have never seen any studies on this phenomenon and I don’t know what you can do to lessen the chance of capsize, except to change course just before the critical moment, so that the hull is no longer on a beam reach. That’s my intuitive reaction. Either pulling off or heading up for a few seconds would probably help but I can’t explain why; and maybe I’ve got it quite wrong. Maybe it wouldn’t help at all. Weightless is weightless, no matter which way you turn. In any case, I offer this as food for thought. Actually, more like food for sober reflection next time you find yourself bobbing up and down among big swells in a capful of wind.
Today’s Thought
He who has suffered shipwreck fears to sail
Upon the seas, though with a gentle gale.
— Robert Herrick, Shipwreck
Boaters’ Rules of Thumb, #173
After running aground, your first action in a sailboat should be to try to spin the boat about to face deep water. In a powerboat, it usually makes more sense to keep the propellers in deeper water astern, and apply full power astern.
Tailpiece
I hear that the fastest growing organization in the States is Athletics Anonymous. When you get the urge to hike or jog or work out at the gym, they send a man over to drink with you until the feeling passes.
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
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