Equinox and a trusty compass

ONCE AGAIN I HAVE FAILED to write a book about the equinox and putting one’s faith in a compass. It was an idea that rattled around in my head briefly a few years ago and it seemed like a good plan at the time. But I regret to say it was an idea that escaped, like so many others, never to be captured again.

I did, however, write a short piece to serve as a sort of story skeleton, a bag of bones, which, suitably clothed, could turn into a minor masterpiece. So here, by way of compensation, is the short version of my unwritten magnum opus: 

A JUG OF WINE, A HAND BEARING COMPASS, AND THOU

The cedars in the back yard were twinkling with cool gray mist this morning, a sure sign that the autumnal equinox is almost upon us.

For years, when we lived on Whidbey Island, Washington, my wife June and I used to make a short pilgrimage on the date of the equinox. We went to a grassy little west-facing hillside in a quiet state park. We took along a blanket, a bottle of Vouvray, some cheese and crackers, and maybe a baguette. And, of course, our hand bearing compass from the boat.

On the evening of the equinox we watched the sun go down into the middle of the Strait of Juan de Fuca and checked the accuracy of the compass. This is one of only two days in the year when the sun rises exactly in the east and sets exactly in west. Otherwise, it’s always either north or south of true east and west.

At that magic moment when half the blazing red sun was hidden beneath the sea horizon, I checked its bearing with the compass up to my eye. Every year, the compass proved accurate to within one degree. And at that moment I was flooded with a wonderful feeling of trust.

Cruising under sail is built on trust in so many ways. You trust that the mast won’t fall down, you trust that the engine will start, you trust that the waves won’t be big enough to sink your boat, and, of course, you trust that your compass is telling the truth. (The way you know whether your main steering compass is telling the truth is to check it against your hand bearing compass, now proven accurate by the sun itself. Trust, but verify, as it were.)

We always stayed long after the sun sank into the strait. We went home cold and happy and damp from dew, and slightly woozy from the wine, holding hands, with our trust in our compass and our boat restored for another year.

And every year I think to myself what a wonderful metaphor this is for life. And I tell myself I must nurture that nascent thought and expand it into a living philosophy and write a fascinating book about it and make a lot of money and get famous and appear on Oprah. But I never do. Restoring trust is easy. Writing a book is hard work.

Today’s Thought

A man who trusts nobody is apt to be the kind of man nobody trusts.

— Harold Macmillan, NY Herald Tribune, 17 Dec 63

Tailpiece

“Dad, what’s horse sense?”

“It’s one of Nature’s little safeguards, son. It’s what keeps a horse from betting on people.”

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

Equinoctial compass check

Time to check the compass

THE CEDARS IN THE BACK YARD were twinkling with cool gray mist this morning, a sure sign that the autumnal equinox is almost upon us.

For years, when we lived on Whidbey Island, my wife June and I used to make a short pilgrimage on the date of the equinox. We went to a grassy little west-facing hillside in a quiet state park. We took along a blanket, wine, cheese and crackers, and maybe a baguette. And, of course, our hand bearing compass from the boat.

On the evening of the equinox we watched the sun go down into the sea and checked the accuracy of the compass. This is one of only two days in the year when the sun rises exactly in the east and sets exactly in west. Otherwise, it’s always either north or south of true east and west.

At that magic moment when half the blazing red sun was hidden beneath the sea horizon, I checked its bearing with the compass up to my eye. Every year, the compass proved accurate to within one degree. And at that moment I was flooded with a wonderful feeling of trust.

Cruising under sail is built on trust in so many ways. You trust that the mast won’t fall down, you trust that the engine will start, you trust that the waves in a 20-knot breeze won’t be big enough to sink your boat, and of course you trust that your compass is telling the truth.

We always stayed long after the sun sank into the Strait of Juan de Fuca. We went home cold and happy and damp from dew, and slightly woozy from the wine, holding hands, with our trust in our compass and our boat restored for another year.

And every year I think to myself what a wonderful metaphor this is for life. And I tell myself I must nurture that nascent thought and expand it into a living philosophy and write a fascinating book about it and make a lot of money and get famous and appear on Oprah. But I never do.

Today’s Thought
The west is broken into bars
Of orange, gold and gray;
Gone is the sun, come are the stars,
And night infolds the day.

— George Macdonald, Songs of Summer Nights

Boater’s Rules of Thumb, #97
Hatch dimensions. A hatch opening of 24 inches by 24 inches is adequate for most purposes, but a few inches more in either direction is always welcome. Naval architect Dave Gerr uses this rule of thumb for the minimum size of hatch in square feet needed to pass a sail through:
Racing boats: Sail area in square feet divided by 160.
Cruising boats: Sail area in square feet divided by 200.

Tailpiece
Two old salts were talking in the yacht club bar.
“When did you last make love to a woman?” one asked.
“Nineteen forty,” said the other.
“Did you say 1940?” the first asked in astonishment.
“Yeah,” said the other, “and I’m picking her up again at 2145.”

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

The equinox and the compass

(Enjoy a new Mainly About Boats column here every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.)

IT’S THE EQUINOX TODAY, one of those gorgeous, calm, sunny days that Puget Sound so often enjoys in September, and I’m thinking of a warm grassy slope on Whidbey Island.

For several years we lived on the island, which lies at the end of the 80-mile long Strait of Juan de Fuca, the restless marine highway that leads directly to the open Pacific Ocean.

Because the strait runs due west from Whidbey Island, the sun sets on the sea horizon on the days of the equinox.

So, in the early evening we would make ourselves comfortable on that warm grassy slope, with a blanket, a bottle of wine, some picnic treats, and my hand bearing compass. And we’d watch the sun.

As you know, it’s only on the day of the equinox that the sun actually sets in the true west. All summer, it’s been setting to the north of west, and all winter it will be setting to the south of west, but on the actual day of the equinox it sets plumb due west. And thus you can test the accuracy of your hand bearing compass.

Our ritual was to start watching when the sun’s lower limb kissed the sea horizon. I took its bearing with the compass when only half the flaming red disk was left showing. The bearing was never 270 degrees, of course, because of magnetic variation. The variation was about 20 degrees east in Oak Harbor at that time, and, as they teach the neophytes in navigation kindergarten, “variation east, magnetic least.” So I subtracted 20 from 270 and got 250 degrees magnetic, which, lo and behold, it always was.

And then, with renewed confidence in my little hand bearing compass, I would go sailing and point it at ships on a collision course, and use it to check the main steering compass, and take beam bearings to make sure the anchor wasn’t dragging.

I don’t live in Oak Harbor any longer, but they tell me that if you sit on that beautiful grassy slope at West Beach, the sun still goes down in exactly the same place on exactly the same date. Just plain habit, I guess.

Today’s Thought
I have a horror of sunsets, they’re so romantic, so operatic.
— Marcel Proust

Tailpiece
A little boy and girl came across a high fence surrounding a nudist colony. The girl peeked through a knothole.
“What are dey, den?” asked the boy. “Men or women?”
“Dunno,” said the little girl. “Dey hasn’t got deir clothes on.”