MR. OBAMA'S SELECTION of Supreme Court nominee Sonia Sotomayor has touched a raw nerve in the editorial department of The Walnut Street Gazeout (should be Gazette). It evoked a scathing editorial in the latest issue of the prison's underground newspaper, whose editor happens to be doing time for grand yacht theft. Here is his weighty piece, word for word:
IT'S HIGH TIME judges were chosen for their fairness and ability. Not because they're Hispanic. Not because they're women. These are values chosen solely because they advance the political aspirations of the current president and his party. What we desperately need right now is judges who sail. It's time we had a sailor on the High Court.
There has never been a greater need to select judges based on their knowledge and experience without regard to their jender (sic) or race. We need people like sailboat owners, people of charm and distinction and good taste, people who would see immediately that stealing a sailboat is not a crime and never could be. It's like picking a wild flower or eating a blackberry. The principle is exactly the same. Would anybody send a person to prison for that? These things were put on earth for all to share.
Just as land cannot belong to one person, as my Native American friends so rightly believe, so sailboats are placed on earth for the benefit of us all. And if a sailboat belongs to everybody, how can one solitary person (namely, me) be accused of grand theft of it? I ask you! That's what I told the judge but he wasn't having it. Stupid judge. I bet he never sailed a boat in his life. Anyone who has sailed would have been on my side and recognized the validity of my argument.
The lack of sailing judges at all levels of the justice system amounts to nothing less than discrimination. It's shameful. It's tragic. It's making innocent people like me suffer. When I get out of here I'm going to start a nation-wide campaign to make sailing lessons obligatory for all judges. Or maybe I'll just steal another yacht and take off for Tahiti. I haven't decided yet.
Today's Thought
If the district attorney wanted, a grand jury would indict a ham sandwich.
—Barry Slotnick
Tailpiece
“I don’t trust this caddie. I think he’d steal my ball as soon as look at it.”
“Yeah, right, I agree. I wouldn’t putt it past him.”
May 28, 2009
May 26, 2009
Fighting weather helm
WEATHER HELM is not much discussed in polite sailing circles. In the same way that you don’t entertain party guests with tales of an ancestor hanged for treason, or a maiden aunt gone mad from syphilis, you don’t go around telling everybody your boat has weather helm, especially if you’re trying to sell it. Nevertheless, most boats have it, and it’s a vexing thing to have.
Weather helm is the name we give to the tendency of a boat to round up into the wind. The term is actually incorrect, since weather helm is what the helmsman applies in an effort to counteract the tendency to round up, which is known as griping.
If your boat has a tiller, your arm can become mighty tired fighting weather helm. It’s an unrelenting tug that soon becomes much less than fun. Even if you have a wheel, and don’t have to counteract griping with sheer muscle power, excessive weather helm is a bad thing because putting the rudder over in an attempt to keep the boat going straight slows the boat down considerably and puts a heavy strain on the steering gear. In other words, like a leaky loo, weather helm is not a good thing to have.
So what causes it, and, more importantly, how do we cure it? Well, you might have to face the fact that it’s not always possible to cure it entirely, depending on the shape of your hull, the shape, size and position of your keel, and the position of your masts and sails.
What the designer seeks in the first place is a close balance between the center of effort (CE) of the sails and the center of lateral resistance (CLR) of the keel and the underwater hull and appendages.
Normally, the CE is a little forward of the CLR, because (just to make things more difficult) the CLR moves forward as the boat starts to move through the water. So it’s partly a guessing game with a new design. You may have seen boats like the Catalina 30 with little bowsprits added at a later stage. That’s an effort to move the CE forward, to counteract weather helm. But you have to be careful. Move it a little too far forward and you get lee helm, which is even worse than weather helm.
Some designs will always carry more weather helm than others. Hull types like the old IOR designs with a lot of beam carried a good way aft, and hard bilges, will quickly gripe in a puff. Boats with high-aspect-ratio rigs carry weather helm more quickly because the CE of the tall narrow sails is higher, so CE moves farther outboard over the water as the boat heels, thus pushing the boat from the side, and much farther out from the side, gaining leverage with every degree of heel.
Boats with blown-out, baggy sails suffer from weather helm because the CE moves aft. You can cure a bit of that, especially in rising winds, by tightening the halyards and flattening the sail any way you can, which will move the CE forward. The deepest bulge in a sail, the camber, always moves toward the edge under most strain. You can try that yourself with a handkerchief if you need convincing.
What other cures are there? Well, you could move the whole mast and rig forward. (Well, most of us couldn’t, actually, for obvious reasons.) You could rake the mast forward very slightly, or at least set it completely upright if it’s leaning aft. If you have a racing mast, a bendy mast, hauling on the backstay will induce an aft bend in the mast that will flatten the sail and reduce weather helm. In heavy winds you should set the mainsail traveler down to leeward as far as possible so that the sail spills wind and lies flatter. That helps quite a lot.
One thing often overlooked is that a large headsail can contribute to weather helm, too. Quite a lot of the area of your 150 percent genoa lies aft of the CLR, which is somewhere in the middle (in fore-and-aft terms) of your keel. You might as well be adding that extra genoa area to your mainsail. Change down to a smaller genoa or working jib, or roll it up to a similar size, and your CE will move forward.
And let’s not forget the best cure of all: reef the mainsail. Get rid of the sail area at the aft end of the boat that is constantly pushing the stern away from the wind and making the boat want to point up.
A little weather helm is a good thing. You don’t want it to disappear completely. You just need to be able to control it. Tank testing has shown that about 2 or 3 degrees of rudder from dead center helps lift a sailboat to windward. More than 4 degrees just acts as a brake to your progress.
In gusty weather, most of us will try to ride out the puffs by easing the mainsheet and putting the rudder over to leeward, but because excessive heeling is a major cause of weather helm it’s always wiser to reef down and keep the boat more upright if the wind is likely to continue at a greater strength.
Do what you can to lessen weather helm. It’s a good feeling to be in decent control of your boat in heavy wind. And I’ll tell you what — I won’t mention your weather helm to anyone if you don’t mention my maiden aunt.
Today’s Thought
It would have been as though he were in a boat of stone with masts of steel, sails of lead, ropes of iron, the devil at the helm, the wrath of God for a breeze, and hell for his destination.
—Emory A. Storrs
Tailpiece
“The doctor said I’d be on my feet in two weeks.”
“Was he right?”
“Yeah, I had to sell my car yesterday.”
Weather helm is the name we give to the tendency of a boat to round up into the wind. The term is actually incorrect, since weather helm is what the helmsman applies in an effort to counteract the tendency to round up, which is known as griping.
If your boat has a tiller, your arm can become mighty tired fighting weather helm. It’s an unrelenting tug that soon becomes much less than fun. Even if you have a wheel, and don’t have to counteract griping with sheer muscle power, excessive weather helm is a bad thing because putting the rudder over in an attempt to keep the boat going straight slows the boat down considerably and puts a heavy strain on the steering gear. In other words, like a leaky loo, weather helm is not a good thing to have.
So what causes it, and, more importantly, how do we cure it? Well, you might have to face the fact that it’s not always possible to cure it entirely, depending on the shape of your hull, the shape, size and position of your keel, and the position of your masts and sails.
What the designer seeks in the first place is a close balance between the center of effort (CE) of the sails and the center of lateral resistance (CLR) of the keel and the underwater hull and appendages.
Normally, the CE is a little forward of the CLR, because (just to make things more difficult) the CLR moves forward as the boat starts to move through the water. So it’s partly a guessing game with a new design. You may have seen boats like the Catalina 30 with little bowsprits added at a later stage. That’s an effort to move the CE forward, to counteract weather helm. But you have to be careful. Move it a little too far forward and you get lee helm, which is even worse than weather helm.
Some designs will always carry more weather helm than others. Hull types like the old IOR designs with a lot of beam carried a good way aft, and hard bilges, will quickly gripe in a puff. Boats with high-aspect-ratio rigs carry weather helm more quickly because the CE of the tall narrow sails is higher, so CE moves farther outboard over the water as the boat heels, thus pushing the boat from the side, and much farther out from the side, gaining leverage with every degree of heel.
Boats with blown-out, baggy sails suffer from weather helm because the CE moves aft. You can cure a bit of that, especially in rising winds, by tightening the halyards and flattening the sail any way you can, which will move the CE forward. The deepest bulge in a sail, the camber, always moves toward the edge under most strain. You can try that yourself with a handkerchief if you need convincing.
What other cures are there? Well, you could move the whole mast and rig forward. (Well, most of us couldn’t, actually, for obvious reasons.) You could rake the mast forward very slightly, or at least set it completely upright if it’s leaning aft. If you have a racing mast, a bendy mast, hauling on the backstay will induce an aft bend in the mast that will flatten the sail and reduce weather helm. In heavy winds you should set the mainsail traveler down to leeward as far as possible so that the sail spills wind and lies flatter. That helps quite a lot.
One thing often overlooked is that a large headsail can contribute to weather helm, too. Quite a lot of the area of your 150 percent genoa lies aft of the CLR, which is somewhere in the middle (in fore-and-aft terms) of your keel. You might as well be adding that extra genoa area to your mainsail. Change down to a smaller genoa or working jib, or roll it up to a similar size, and your CE will move forward.
And let’s not forget the best cure of all: reef the mainsail. Get rid of the sail area at the aft end of the boat that is constantly pushing the stern away from the wind and making the boat want to point up.
A little weather helm is a good thing. You don’t want it to disappear completely. You just need to be able to control it. Tank testing has shown that about 2 or 3 degrees of rudder from dead center helps lift a sailboat to windward. More than 4 degrees just acts as a brake to your progress.
In gusty weather, most of us will try to ride out the puffs by easing the mainsheet and putting the rudder over to leeward, but because excessive heeling is a major cause of weather helm it’s always wiser to reef down and keep the boat more upright if the wind is likely to continue at a greater strength.
Do what you can to lessen weather helm. It’s a good feeling to be in decent control of your boat in heavy wind. And I’ll tell you what — I won’t mention your weather helm to anyone if you don’t mention my maiden aunt.
Today’s Thought
It would have been as though he were in a boat of stone with masts of steel, sails of lead, ropes of iron, the devil at the helm, the wrath of God for a breeze, and hell for his destination.
—Emory A. Storrs
Tailpiece
“The doctor said I’d be on my feet in two weeks.”
“Was he right?”
“Yeah, I had to sell my car yesterday.”
May 24, 2009
Separated by a war
I DREAMED LAST NIGHT of a two-and-sixpenny tin of Tate & Lyle’s golden syrup. It was among the meager stores in the little air-raid shelter my dad built in our back yard in Plymouth, a corrugated-iron Anderson shelter that smelled of damp earth and cat’s pee. I don’t know why I remember the golden syrup (or its price) except that it tasted good on a slice of bread and butter.
My mother and I were the only ones in the shelter one night when a German bomb exploded in the road outside our house and blew the roof off. My dad was absent, as usual. He was in the Royal Navy, guarding a convoy of ships on that dreadful run through the Arctic Ocean to Murmansk, the back door to Russia, and fighting German U-boats.
I saw very little of my dad during the five years of that war. He would come home on leave for a couple of days sometimes and then disappear again back to sea. He was a stranger to me, and he hardly ever spoke of his war experiences, even years afterward.
We were bombed out again in Birkenhead, where we had gone to visit friends, and my dad was with us this time. I was about four years old, and my mother had put me to bed upstairs while the adults sat around the fire and chatted downstairs. For some reason, my mother felt uneasy and after a while she fetched me downstairs with the adults again, and sat me in her lap.
When the bomb fell on the army barracks across the road, a great Whoosh! came down the chimney, blowing smoke and soot everywhere. A small piece of the glass from which my mother had been drinking embedded itself in my cheek and I started bleeding profusely.
I remember that the floorboards were sticking up at odd angles. The strange silence that followed the explosion was eventually broken by my dad. “Everybody OK?” he asked.
It seemed that we were, so he led us out of the darkened house, picking his way carefully through rooms lit by flickering orange flames from the burning barracks. Outside, in the cold street, the contorted bodies of several dead soldiers were silhouetted high over my head in the telephone wires.
My mother suddenly remembered that her purse with her money and our ration books was upstairs in the bedroom and she darted back into the house. My dad tried to stop her, but he was too late. She returned quickly with her precious purse and the news that a large, heavy wardrobe had fallen over the bed I was sleeping in before she came to collect me.
My dad carried me down the street to the communal air-raid shelter, where a nurse made a great fuss about the little wound in my cheek and we all hunkered down for the night while the bombs went on exploding all around us.
I was never close to my dad in my adult life. It was too late. The connection just wasn’t there. He has been dead for many years now, but I think of him on days like Memorial Day and Remembrance Day and Armistice Day, and often wonder how things might have been if a war hadn’t come between us.
Today’s Thought
Humanity should question itself, once more, about the absurd and always unfair phenomenon of war, on whose stage of death and pain only remains standing the negotiating table that could have and should have prevented it.
—Pope John Paul II
My mother and I were the only ones in the shelter one night when a German bomb exploded in the road outside our house and blew the roof off. My dad was absent, as usual. He was in the Royal Navy, guarding a convoy of ships on that dreadful run through the Arctic Ocean to Murmansk, the back door to Russia, and fighting German U-boats.
I saw very little of my dad during the five years of that war. He would come home on leave for a couple of days sometimes and then disappear again back to sea. He was a stranger to me, and he hardly ever spoke of his war experiences, even years afterward.
We were bombed out again in Birkenhead, where we had gone to visit friends, and my dad was with us this time. I was about four years old, and my mother had put me to bed upstairs while the adults sat around the fire and chatted downstairs. For some reason, my mother felt uneasy and after a while she fetched me downstairs with the adults again, and sat me in her lap.
When the bomb fell on the army barracks across the road, a great Whoosh! came down the chimney, blowing smoke and soot everywhere. A small piece of the glass from which my mother had been drinking embedded itself in my cheek and I started bleeding profusely.
I remember that the floorboards were sticking up at odd angles. The strange silence that followed the explosion was eventually broken by my dad. “Everybody OK?” he asked.
It seemed that we were, so he led us out of the darkened house, picking his way carefully through rooms lit by flickering orange flames from the burning barracks. Outside, in the cold street, the contorted bodies of several dead soldiers were silhouetted high over my head in the telephone wires.
My mother suddenly remembered that her purse with her money and our ration books was upstairs in the bedroom and she darted back into the house. My dad tried to stop her, but he was too late. She returned quickly with her precious purse and the news that a large, heavy wardrobe had fallen over the bed I was sleeping in before she came to collect me.
My dad carried me down the street to the communal air-raid shelter, where a nurse made a great fuss about the little wound in my cheek and we all hunkered down for the night while the bombs went on exploding all around us.
I was never close to my dad in my adult life. It was too late. The connection just wasn’t there. He has been dead for many years now, but I think of him on days like Memorial Day and Remembrance Day and Armistice Day, and often wonder how things might have been if a war hadn’t come between us.
Today’s Thought
Humanity should question itself, once more, about the absurd and always unfair phenomenon of war, on whose stage of death and pain only remains standing the negotiating table that could have and should have prevented it.
—Pope John Paul II
May 22, 2009
A battle of conscience
IT’S A PARADOX that the best time of the year for sailing is also the best time of the year for varnishing. You can either varnish or you can sail, but if you have any willpower at all--if you want to show that you’re a real man, (even if you’re a woman)--you will deny yourself the hedonistic pleasure of sailing, and pick up the varnish brush. You know it must be done. You know exactly what will happen if you neglect your varnish.
Now, a little varnished teak on deck sets a boat off. It gives her the warm glow of a cherished object and it tempers the pale, sterile plasticity of fiberglass. But too much teak on deck is madness. It’s murder on the varnisher and the bank balance. Too much brightwork, to put it bluntly is a sign of poor judgment on behalf of the designer and the owner.
Nevertheless, if you maintain the seal, varnish can last indefinitely, says author Don Casey in his book Sailboat Refinishing (International Marine).
“Besides avoiding moisture penetration at nicks and scratches, you must protect against surface erosion by periodically applying a fresh top coat. Exposed exterior varnish should be recoated at least annually in northern climes, every six months in the tropics. Scrub the varnish to remove all traces of grease and dirt, then sand the surface with 180-grit paper (or scuff it with bronze wool) and lay on a new finish coat.”
There. It’s so easy. Now you know what you really should be doing. If you have any conscience at all, you will hate yourself next time you’re out sailing instead of varnishing.
Today’s Thought
The New England conscience ... does not stop you from doing what you shouldn’t—it just stops you from enjoying it.
—Cleveland Amory, New York, 5 May 80
Tailpiece
“Ah, monsieur, so you ’ave climb ze Matterhorn, eh? Zat is a foot to be proud of.”
“You mean feat, don’t you?”
“Ah, m’sieur climb it twice already?”
Now, a little varnished teak on deck sets a boat off. It gives her the warm glow of a cherished object and it tempers the pale, sterile plasticity of fiberglass. But too much teak on deck is madness. It’s murder on the varnisher and the bank balance. Too much brightwork, to put it bluntly is a sign of poor judgment on behalf of the designer and the owner.
Nevertheless, if you maintain the seal, varnish can last indefinitely, says author Don Casey in his book Sailboat Refinishing (International Marine).
“Besides avoiding moisture penetration at nicks and scratches, you must protect against surface erosion by periodically applying a fresh top coat. Exposed exterior varnish should be recoated at least annually in northern climes, every six months in the tropics. Scrub the varnish to remove all traces of grease and dirt, then sand the surface with 180-grit paper (or scuff it with bronze wool) and lay on a new finish coat.”
There. It’s so easy. Now you know what you really should be doing. If you have any conscience at all, you will hate yourself next time you’re out sailing instead of varnishing.
Today’s Thought
The New England conscience ... does not stop you from doing what you shouldn’t—it just stops you from enjoying it.
—Cleveland Amory, New York, 5 May 80
Tailpiece
“Ah, monsieur, so you ’ave climb ze Matterhorn, eh? Zat is a foot to be proud of.”
“You mean feat, don’t you?”
“Ah, m’sieur climb it twice already?”
May 20, 2009
One mile per pebble
SOME WHILE AGO I read in a magazine that the newest speed/distance log is totally electronic. Apparently, it measures speed by counting passing water molecules or something. It doesn’t sound like something I would trust. I prefer good solid mechanical logs. I can see how they work, and might even be able to fix one if it went wrong.
Old Vitruvius had the right idea way back in the year 20 BC. He describes it in his magnum opus, De Architectura.
His distance log consists of an axle carried through the side of the ship with a four-foot-diameter paddle wheel striking the water. The inboard end is attached to three drums, hundreds of cogs, and a store of smooth round pebbles.
“Thus,” said Vitruvius, “when a ship is moving, whether under oars or sail, the paddles on the wheel will strike the resisting water, and being driven forcibly backward will revolve the wheel, and the wheel as it revolves will turn the axle and the axle will turn the drum.
“The tooth of the first drum in every revolution strikes and moves one of the teeth in the second drum. And so, when, by the action of the paddles, the wheel has revolved four hundred times, it will, by the pressure of the cog at the side of the vertical drum, move the horizontal drum on one point.
“As often, therefore, as the horizontal drum in its course brings a pebble to an opening, it will let it drop through the pipe. Thus, by sound and by number (of the pebbles that have dropped) the length of the voyage in miles will be shown.”
As I write this, astronauts are walking in space, fixing the ailing Hubble telescope. It’s fascinating to think that 2,029 years ago, Vitruvius’s clunky distance log was one of the most advanced scientific instruments the world had ever known.
Today’s Thought
We have become a people unable to comprehend the technology we invent.
—Association of American Colleges, NY Times 11 Feb 85
Tailpiece
“Was it very crowded at Fred’s stag party?”
“Not under my table.”
Old Vitruvius had the right idea way back in the year 20 BC. He describes it in his magnum opus, De Architectura.
His distance log consists of an axle carried through the side of the ship with a four-foot-diameter paddle wheel striking the water. The inboard end is attached to three drums, hundreds of cogs, and a store of smooth round pebbles.
“Thus,” said Vitruvius, “when a ship is moving, whether under oars or sail, the paddles on the wheel will strike the resisting water, and being driven forcibly backward will revolve the wheel, and the wheel as it revolves will turn the axle and the axle will turn the drum.
“The tooth of the first drum in every revolution strikes and moves one of the teeth in the second drum. And so, when, by the action of the paddles, the wheel has revolved four hundred times, it will, by the pressure of the cog at the side of the vertical drum, move the horizontal drum on one point.
“As often, therefore, as the horizontal drum in its course brings a pebble to an opening, it will let it drop through the pipe. Thus, by sound and by number (of the pebbles that have dropped) the length of the voyage in miles will be shown.”
As I write this, astronauts are walking in space, fixing the ailing Hubble telescope. It’s fascinating to think that 2,029 years ago, Vitruvius’s clunky distance log was one of the most advanced scientific instruments the world had ever known.
Today’s Thought
We have become a people unable to comprehend the technology we invent.
—Association of American Colleges, NY Times 11 Feb 85
Tailpiece
“Was it very crowded at Fred’s stag party?”
“Not under my table.”
May 17, 2009
Top up your black box
DID YOU KNOW there’s a black box on your boat? It’s invisible, but it’s one of the most important pieces of safety equipment aboard. It stores the points you earn for being a good sailor. And when you’re in trouble—when being a good sailor just isn’t enough—those points can save your boat and your life.
Once you know about the black box, you understand why some yachts sink in gales and some survive. Landlubbers talk about good luck; sailors know there’s no such thing. You have to earn your luck.
Every time you inspect the rigging, you earn a point that goes into the black box. Every time you check the running lights, you earn a point. Every time you take the bearing of an approaching steamer, every time you change the fuel filters … you get the idea.
When the weather turn unexpectedly bad, or during other moments of stress and danger when human skill and effort can accomplish no more, the points are cashed in as protection. They withdraw themselves, as needed, to ensure your survival.
Boats with no points in the black box frequently don’t survive. Landlubbers call these boats unlucky. But we know better.
(For more on this subject, click on Black Blox Theory over there on the right.)
Todays’ Thought
We must believe in luck. For how else can we explain the success of those we don’t like?
—Jean Cocteau
Tailpiece
“How was that gorgeous young secretary you took out last night?”
“Oh, not so good.”
“Jeez, you always were lucky.”
Once you know about the black box, you understand why some yachts sink in gales and some survive. Landlubbers talk about good luck; sailors know there’s no such thing. You have to earn your luck.
Every time you inspect the rigging, you earn a point that goes into the black box. Every time you check the running lights, you earn a point. Every time you take the bearing of an approaching steamer, every time you change the fuel filters … you get the idea.
When the weather turn unexpectedly bad, or during other moments of stress and danger when human skill and effort can accomplish no more, the points are cashed in as protection. They withdraw themselves, as needed, to ensure your survival.
Boats with no points in the black box frequently don’t survive. Landlubbers call these boats unlucky. But we know better.
(For more on this subject, click on Black Blox Theory over there on the right.)
Todays’ Thought
We must believe in luck. For how else can we explain the success of those we don’t like?
—Jean Cocteau
Tailpiece
“How was that gorgeous young secretary you took out last night?”
“Oh, not so good.”
“Jeez, you always were lucky.”
May 14, 2009
Sailing’s biggest problem
I SOMETIMES WONDER how much more popular sailing would be if it weren’t for seasickness. It’s a great pity that such a satisfying and enjoyable sport should make people physically ill. It’s not surprising that many people, after experiencing their first bout of seasickness, firmly put aside any thoughts they may have had about taking up yachting, and devote themselves instead to golf, table tennis, and crocheting little socks for newborn babies.
On the other hand, there are many people like me who go sailing despite a tendency to suffer seasickness. We have convinced ourselves (perhaps without much evidence) that the pleasures of sailing overcome the miseries of hanging over the side and puking.
Although it’s a disease of the mind, rather than the stomach, there should be no shame in suffering seasickness. Almost everyone will become sick if conditions are rough enough. Even in normal weather, 60 percent of people cast adrift in small inflatable liferafts succumb to seasickness. So the rather regrettable fact is that it’s more normal to be seasick than not.
The cause of all this misery is understood to be a conflict between what your eye sees and your inner ear “feels.” The inner ear is the balance organ, of course. When you’re down below, and no horizon is visible, your inner ear senses that your body is dropping through space as the boat falls off a wave. But your eyes say no, hang on, we’re not moving relative to anything we can see in the cabin.
So your confused brain sets up a little boxing ring with Eyes in one corner and Inner Ear in the other and lets them fight it out. Skin, meanwhile, loses pallor and becomes damp and cool. Legs, intuitively fearing the outcome of this fight, become a little wobbly. And finally, Stomach, noting no real progress in the ring, takes things into its own hands, as it were, and says it’s obvious that something’s radically wrong, and if you guys can’t figure it out then maybe I’ve been fed some poison. I don’t want to be the fall guy. I don’t want to be blamed after all this is over, so I’m going to throw up everything I’ve eaten in the last 12 hours. And I’m going to do it now, right now.
As a matter of fact, scientists don’t yet have a logical explanation for the nausea and vomiting. I have considered explaining it to them, but you know how they sneer when an outsider tries to tell them anything. I see no good reason why I should suffer such rejection. Maybe they’ll work it out for themselves in a century or two.
Today’s Thought
Money does not buy happiness but it does allow one to be seasick in finer surroundings.
—Dave Martin
Tailpiece
“Why are you looking so gloomy?”
“My wife just had a daughter.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I was hoping for a son to help with the washing up.”
On the other hand, there are many people like me who go sailing despite a tendency to suffer seasickness. We have convinced ourselves (perhaps without much evidence) that the pleasures of sailing overcome the miseries of hanging over the side and puking.
Although it’s a disease of the mind, rather than the stomach, there should be no shame in suffering seasickness. Almost everyone will become sick if conditions are rough enough. Even in normal weather, 60 percent of people cast adrift in small inflatable liferafts succumb to seasickness. So the rather regrettable fact is that it’s more normal to be seasick than not.
The cause of all this misery is understood to be a conflict between what your eye sees and your inner ear “feels.” The inner ear is the balance organ, of course. When you’re down below, and no horizon is visible, your inner ear senses that your body is dropping through space as the boat falls off a wave. But your eyes say no, hang on, we’re not moving relative to anything we can see in the cabin.
So your confused brain sets up a little boxing ring with Eyes in one corner and Inner Ear in the other and lets them fight it out. Skin, meanwhile, loses pallor and becomes damp and cool. Legs, intuitively fearing the outcome of this fight, become a little wobbly. And finally, Stomach, noting no real progress in the ring, takes things into its own hands, as it were, and says it’s obvious that something’s radically wrong, and if you guys can’t figure it out then maybe I’ve been fed some poison. I don’t want to be the fall guy. I don’t want to be blamed after all this is over, so I’m going to throw up everything I’ve eaten in the last 12 hours. And I’m going to do it now, right now.
As a matter of fact, scientists don’t yet have a logical explanation for the nausea and vomiting. I have considered explaining it to them, but you know how they sneer when an outsider tries to tell them anything. I see no good reason why I should suffer such rejection. Maybe they’ll work it out for themselves in a century or two.
Today’s Thought
Money does not buy happiness but it does allow one to be seasick in finer surroundings.
—Dave Martin
Tailpiece
“Why are you looking so gloomy?”
“My wife just had a daughter.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I was hoping for a son to help with the washing up.”
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