Boat Buddy

A boat buddy is a wonderful thing.   In some ways.

You've bought a boat;  your pride and joy.   You've sailed a little and you've passed your Day Skipper exams.   Now you want to go to sea.
Well;  down the estuary and back.   Or upriver and back.

Let's face it,  you're a little apprehensive.   What you need is a boat buddy.   Someone with experience,  to keep you out of trouble.   Someone with compassion,  to forgive or ignore your mistakes.   Someone with patience,  to overcome your ignorance.   Someone with fortitude,  to keep you going in the darkness of fear.

The Skipper's friend had recommended his own father as just such a paragon of sailing.   The candidate buddy had been to see the yacht,  ashore in the yard;  her bottom freshly antifouled,  her bilges cleaned,  one or two seacocks jammed,  her engine untried;  and had admired her (a wise and politic move from a buddy hoping to sail with a doting new skipper.   In this case,  the admiration was genuine;   this buddy has no concept of dissimulation or ingratiation;  friendly social discourse is a stranger to him.).

Woodwork and Boats

Jeremy Broun is a woodworker,  guitar maker,  musician,  writer and all-round good egg:  generous with his time and advice.

His blog cites his work and his thoughts,  and goes into some detail about his approach to woodworking and to life.

He has a YouTube channel with many videos devoted to woodworking and to his slightly off-beat approach.

Of particular interest is his design for a tiny electric catamaran,  for pottering quietly on the River Avon and the Kennet and Avon canal,  and which fits entirely inside his Smart car!   It would be equally delightful on any canal or quiet river in the country.   Perhaps not the tidal Clyde.

Electric boat engines have come a long way since the Thames launches of the mid 19th Century.   Agate herself has a Torqeedo which fits onto the standard outboard motor pad,  and has been used on both Welkin and her tender.   More modern motors,  carrying GPS,  have the ability to hold the boat within a foot or two of a specified position,  and can be controlled by a smart 'phone at a distance.

Skipper,  Torqeedo and tender

People worry about the range of an electric boat more than they worry about the range of a petrol or diesel boat.   The power density of a battery is far lower than the same weight or volume of petrol or diesel,  and batteries take much longer to refill than do petrol tanks.

But,  as with all things,  range is inversely proportional to speed.   The faster you go,  the less distance you'll cover on one filling.   The slower you go,  the longer the pleasure will last.

A year or two ago StJohn and his Dad turned up at West Mersea on a cold,  cloudless,  windless winter morning.   It would have been a crime to have shattered the anchorage with Welkin's air-cooled,  two-stroke outboard.   Instead,  they attached the Torqeedo to the tender and,  at a silent 2 knots,  explored every square inch of every channel and creek.   You won't find a noiseless ICE!

West Mersea and the Quarters

The engine's digital display showed the speed (over the ground),  the power consumption,  the Kwh left in the battery and how much farther it would take the two intrepid navigators!   You don't get that with a petrol tank!

Many skippers had chosen that calm morning to carry out small repairs,  to whip neglected rope ends or to drink tea in the cockpit.   t/t Welkin would glide alongside and silently (and exactly) stem the tide whilst skippers and mates exchanged pleasantries.   You can't do that with a British Seagull!

The smacks lay perfectly still at their moorings as our heroes moved quietly around them,  seeing the strakes under the paintwork,  tutting at the tiny streaks of rust,  marvelling at the long bowsprits and admiring the curved,  graceful counters.   The mirror images shimmered and bobbed in the dinghy's wake,  and then relaxed into shining immobility.

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CK363 in Strood Channel

There was almost no conversation;  it might have disturbed the birds feeding in the mud,  sleeping on the water,  floating in the cold,  still air.   Certainly no need to shout.   Without hurry,  the batteries lasted all morning.

This could have been the first realization that a small boat is better than a bigger boat.
The definitive moment came a year later,  as StJohn rowed the tender through an angry,  turbulent channel in the teeth of the yachtsman's gale which had prevented him taking Welkin to sea.   He was focussed;  concentrating on the oars,  the chop,  the wind direction,  the tide and his destination.   He was the entire boat,  at one with his microcosm,  alive in the moment,  weighing and accounting every variable as it changed,  moment by moment.   Oblivious of his shipmate and of the world.

At other times StJohn is very aware of the rest of the world.   Like Jeremy,  he lives in and among the world,  carving his own niche,  creating his own wake;  sometimes across the stream,  occasionally at odds with the popular view.

You may not always agree,  but they are both worth hearing.

The Bumps

The three old men meet once a year for a very specific purpose.

John brings the rope,  Geoff carries the poles and Ian operates the machine.

It's a worrying business,  but they all take a light-hearted view;  almost as though they didn't take their work seriously.   Yet,  deep down,  they know it's important.   Without old men like these three the world might grind to a halt.

The Bumps started yesterday,  and will reach a climax on Saturday.   Proud parents from all over the world will converge on the village.   Brash Northern business men in vulgar offroaders;  arrogant Home Counties marketing men in beamers;  effusive Antipodeans in hired cars;  elaborately polite American airmen in impossibly large sedans;  they'll all bring their wives,  of course,  and the lesser siblings of the competitors.

The competition is fierce,  as befits the relations of the best brains in the country at one of the elite Universities,  but unless you do exactly as Margaret,  or Sara,  or Hilary tells you,  you won't get a parking space.   Competition on the river is fierce too (probably).   Pride amongst the parents is fierce:  never mind whether Jeremy expects to get a First:  did he win his heat?   This is the Henley of the East of England,  and frocks and suits and hats rival those near the Thames.   Corporate champagne flows at Osier Holt;  college bubbly is poured at Ditton Meadows;  Pimms is available at the banking marquee;  and those without formal invitations bring hamper and rugs,  and look for somewhere to sit and watch.   Caroline and Ray will open The Gate and let a few nice people in to watch from their field.

The village is old,  and narrow,  and crowded.   Plough Hill and Green End (the names say it all),  down to the river,  are no more than paved lanes lined with cottages and honeysuckle and roses.   There are no passing places and there is no turning circle at the end.   David is building a new house,  with its attendant lorries and machinery,  on the corner.

In an effort to ease the chaos (it can't be eliminated) the Recreation Ground is opened for parking,  for a donation of £5 per car.   Payment is made at the gate,  with more grace the smaller the car (except the American airmen,  of course,  who won't accept change for £20 notes,  despite having scraped their bottoms over the path at the entrance).   The gate is manned (?) by a coordinated rota of charming ladies and gentlemen who will morph into dragons at the slightest recalcitrance.   They'll work their socks off to make the visitors happy,  provided they do as they're told.

By Sunday it's all over.   The parents are happy (not knowing the rules,  and having seen only 100m of the river,  they have no idea whether their darlings won or lost,  but they had a lovely day out).   One college is ecstatic and jubilant (to the extent of hanging upside down from the bypass bridge to paint their name on the concrete):  the others are morose and making excuses.   The village is £1500 better off,  and the villagers are exhausted.

The three old men are happy,  too.

They worked from 10 until 1130 on Thursday morning,  and they'll do it all again next year,  deo volente.

They painted the white parking lines on the recreation ground.

Why Compost?

Why do it?  and why use it?

Compost is plant (and often animal) remains which have been eaten and digested by a range of small creatures,  such as slugs,  snails,  woodlice,  worms,  moulds and bacteria,  and then passed out as "droppings".

"Decayed",  or "rotted" means that bacteria and fungi have "eaten" the remains of the plants and left behind the undigested bits,  their droppings and their own bodies.

While these beasts are eating,  digesting and leaving their wastes,  very little is lost from your compost heap.   A little Nitrogen,  perhaps,  becomes a gas or two and escapes.   Some of the Carbon becomes Carbon Dioxide and escapes.   But most of the elements in the plant (and animal) bodies simply get formed into another compound,  and another,  and another . .

Plants need Nitrogen,  Phosphorus and Potassium (NPK) (K is the chemical symbol for Potassium),  along with many other elements,  in order to grow.   They absorb these elements,  dissolved in water,  through their roots.   Most of these elements are present in compost in forms which dissolve slowly in water.

So compost is a slow-release fertilizer.

Some of your compost is humus,  that dark jelly which glues particles of sand and clay together to make friable granules of soil;  that mysterious colloid which absorbs water like a sponge and releases it when your plants need it;  that active group of cation exchange complexes which loosely bind and release the elements which your plants need for growth;  that magical mix of macromolecules which seems to protect your plants against diseases;  that indigestible synthesis of lignins and quinoles which is stable for decades and centuries.

That very basis of a fertile soil.

But why compost?

Why not just mix the wilted weeds and waste plants into the soil of your veg patch and let them get on with it?

Why?   Because they'd suck the life (actually the Nitrogen) out of your soil,  that's why.

The dead vegetables have a Carbon to Nitrogen ratio of between 11:1 and 30:1.   The bacteria which digest (rot) them have a Carbon to Nitrogen ratio of 5:1,  so they need more Nitrogen than their food can provide.   They draw the extra from the soil around them and so,  for a while,  deplete the soil of Nitrogen.   If this happens in your veg plot,  your plants will starve.   If it happens in your compost heap,  then the rate of decay will slow down for a while.

Eventually,  of course,  the Nitrobacter and Azotobacter will get together and use Nitrogen from the air to make up the deficiency.

A compost heap is a temporal buffer to get the decay process past the short-term shortage of Nitrogen.

Weeding

Weeds are good.

You should harvest them regularly and often to feed your compost heap.

Some weeds,  like docks,  cow parsley and mallow,  have very deep tap roots which penetrate the ground much deeper than your carrots or broad beans.   These roots collect water & minerals (plant food) and bring them up to the weed leaves.   By harvesting these leaves you transfer those minerals to your compost heap and bind them into humus.   When that humus goes into your vegetable patch it holds water and releases the minerals to your vegetables.   Don't bother to dig it under:  the worms will do that for you.   At the same time they'll create tubes and channels for water and air.

If,  while harvesting your weed leaves,  you didn't pull up the roots,  that's good in two ways.   First,  you didn't damage the vegetable roots which,  inevitably,  are intertwined with the weed roots.   Second,  you'll get another crop of weed leaves to harvest in a week or so!

Eventually,  the constant harvesting of its leaves will weaken the weed and the root will come out.   That's OK:  you've loosened the soil and you won't need to dig that bit!   You've created a long,  deep hole into which your plant roots can grow easily,  that worms can move in readily and which will carry water and air deep into the soil.

Other weeds are annuals.   They have shallow roots  which pull up easily,  and they make good compost.

Now that you can see no weeds,  sharpen your hoe (Yes: give it an edge like a kitchen knife!) and slide it through the top inch or so (no deeper!) of soil every couple of days.

And the compost heap?

Find an empty patch of vegetable bed and dump your harvested weeds there.   They'll cover the soil and prevent it drying out.   As they wilt their fluids will seep into the soil and feed the soil microbes.   They'll exclude light from the soil and so,  to an extent,  suppress the growth of more weeds.   The bottom layers will moulder,  and the fungi will convert cellulose and lignin into smaller,  humic,  molecules;  micro-beasts will come up to eat the fungi and then leave their dung in the soil.   The worms will leave casts under the weed heap,  and they'll 'dig' the soil for you.

When you want to sow seeds into that patch of ground,  simply move the heap elsewhere,  and sow the seeds.

Compost

20 May 2014

A mulch of weeds and grass clippings

Compost

Bob Flowerdew is an organic gardener to be admired and respected:  he seems to take a scientific view of everything he does,  testing his hypotheses and controlling his experiments.   Sadly,  his book,  Composting,   makes the process seem very complex and very hard work.   If you want to know the details of garden compost-making;  this is the book to get.   But if you're a lazy gardener . .

If a mulch of weeds and grass,  and other organic matter,  is left on the surface of bare soil for a few weeks it starts to compost.

Humus is what the gardener wants,  and it is the main product of composting.  It absorbs water,  it releases minerals slowly so that plants can feed.  It is said to protect plants against diseases.
Composting weeds into humus can be complex or simple,  or anything between these two extremes.
Commercial composters make huge heaps with the right proportions of carbon,  nitrogen,  water and air.  Their heaps get hot,  and the thermophilic bacteria work fast to digest the complex plant molecules into humus.  The heat kills weed seeds and pathogenic bacteria,  and degrades proteins and pharmaceutical products.
Gardeners rarely achieve these efficient compost heaps.  Their heaps are smaller and cooler:  weed seeds often survive.  Some gardeners spend up to half their gardening time building (or buying) compost bins,  filling them,  mixing the contents,  turning the heaps and sieving the product.  Many of them spend hours of effort digging the resulting compost (excellent stuff!) into the veggie beds.  As they dig they destroy the mycorhiza,  kill the earthworms and damage the soil structure.

Other (busier or lazier) gardeners simply dump the weeds on an empty patch of soil and let the micro-beasts do their jobs.
Slugs and snails eat the soft leaves,  and digest the cellulose and lignin:  their droppings contain bacteria and humus.
Woodlice feed on the dead plant (and animal) remains,  digesting the cellulose and lignin and egesting humus in their droppings.
Fungi (yeasts and moulds) and Actinomycetes (filamentous bacteria) digest the lignin and cellulose of plant walls.  The less complex molecules produced are eaten (and digested) by bacteria.  The products of these digestive processes are carbon dioxide,  water,  heat and humus.

The fungi,  Actinomycetes and bacteria are eaten by rotifers and (along with large amounts of soil) by earthworms.
Three species of worms (Allolobophora longa, A. nocturna and sometimes Lumbricus terrestris) produce worm casts,  and so spread the humus on the soil surface (actually,  at the interface of weeds and soil!) while the rest spread it through the topsoil to a depth of a metre or more.

For the lazy gardener,  that 'mulch' of weeds (which prevents the soil from drying,  tends to inhibit growth of weeds and leaks a rich liquid into the soil) slowly turns into humus which the worms then 'dig' into the soil.
When the LG wants to sow seeds he simply moves the mulch to another place.

To Oban

16 August 2013

The road journey to Oban is becoming almost familiar.

The overnight stop this time was at the Loch Lomond Arms, a strong, one-time coaching inn not quite overlooking the loch. Naturally, Jane misbehaved; but, in fairness, it was mostly the fault of the fool who put the wrong address into her search chip.

Margaret loves boating, so a trip around the loch by steamer (sorry, by diesel launch) was compulsory: it was an excellent way to wind down after the road journey.

The delicious evening meal at the hotel made a perfect end for the day.

The second part of the journey was, of course, short. M was planning to stay at the Oyster Inn and arrived in time for a substantial lunch in the bar.

These sailing trips are largely about eating, aren’t they?

Oban was, as always, a little dismal; it always rains. It rained at Dunstaffnage, too, but then the anticipation and excitement of the coming voyage woke up the butterflies. The water in the anchorage was calm and grey; the boats bobbed gently at their moorings, as boats do. Overlord was at the end of a hammerhead, as far from the gates as could be, and the lady in charge wouldn’t allow entry without a substantial offering.

The chap in the Wide Mouthed Frog was a little friendlier: his coffee was good and not too expensive.

The skipper,  Tony,  and the rest of his crew (Frank,  JohnC,  JohnSc (Mate),  JohnSt,  Miggie,  Richard) arrived during the afternoon,  having met on the train from Glasgow.   The substantial offering was made,  the boat was opened up,  berths were allocated,   coffee was brewed,  menus were written,  anchorages were planned,  provisions were bought and a gourmet evening meal was cooked and eaten.

The voyage was to start tomorrow,  Sunday!

Sunday was better.   The weather continued to improve as Overlord dodged the CalMac ferries North and West through the Sound of Mull and came to a climax in Loch na Droma Buidha to the sight of sea eagles feeding and the sound of nothing.

Reprovisioning in Tobermory was a delight.   The anchorage is sheltered and the town,  seen from the boat,  is downright pretty.   It conjured wonderful memories of a previous visit,  in stv Sir Winston Churchill,  a top-sail schooner,  years before.

The voyage South was a chain of highlights punctuated by hot sunshine,  violent rainstorms,  lowering clouds and dense mists.

The anchorage at Ulva was serene,  the only sound being the splashing of salmon feeding in the farm close by.

A similar anchorage in Loch Lanatherel was equally serene,  the only sound being the drumming of continuous heavy rain on the deck and coachroof.

Loch Tarbert,  approached by a series of well-marked zigzag channels,  was magical:  as Overlord arrived the water was a glassy mirror reflecting the enclosing mountains.   As she left the next morning those same mountains poured a continuing avalanche of dense katabatic cloud down to the sea,  dissipating at the surface into misty sunshine.

At Port Ellen Overlord anchored in the middle of the bay,  sheltered in the North,  the West and the South from anything that the weather forecast threatened.   Instead,  the howling overnight Easterly bounced and dragged us 500m closer to the beach. Strangford Lough,  once she had sailed the 8 knot flood past the Tidal Power Turbine, was calm and extensive.   The mooring at Ringheddy Cruising Club was full of boats and empty of people.   Frank got lost while running ashore and was brought back to the boat by a friendly local. Carlingford Loch was empty of both boats and people:  and Frank didn’t get lost while running ashore!

If Dunstaffnage,  at the beginning of the first week,  was cold and wet, then Londonderry,  at the end of that week,  was warm and sunny.   The tide ran hard through the marina,  but Richard brought the boat neatly alongside the pontoon and stemmed the flood as the crew made fast.
Bangor was very different.   The tide was easy,  but without Tony’s skill as skipper,  and the teamwork he engendered,  the onshore wind might have taken control of Overlord.   His skill at the newly-built marina at Rathlin brought Overlord into a space too small,  and held her while the crew helped a neighbouring boat move forward on the pontoon.

Rathlin was empty and quiet and friendly,  with the peace that belongs only to island communities.
Bangor was empty and quiet with the sullen silence that only economic depression can bring.   The crew cheered itself in the Rabbit bar with more kinds of rum than they knew existed.
The cheering in Portrush was of a different kind:  with two wetwipes blocking the heads Overlord arrived in the middle of a rally of 400 Minis.

Overlord is not a plastic water-caravan,  dumpy and wide-bottomed.   She’s a sleek ocean sailor.
She tacked North-West through the Sound of Mull pointing higher and sailing faster than any other  boat around.  She sailed serenely,  with little or no wind,  into Loch na Droma Buidha and the next morning into Tobermory.   It was the same across Strangford Lough and again into Carlingford Lough.
Around the Western tip of Mull she plunged her bows into the Atlantic swell,  leapt forward off the crests and heeled to the S’Westerly breeze.
A week later,  a whole day of sailing in F7 between Carlingford Lough and Dublin saw the waterways foaming and boiling with green water in a fast,  exhilarating reach.   That final day of the voyage culminated in the 3m overfalls as she turned into Dublin Bay and fought her way up the channel alongside the ferries and cruise liners.   Alan’s calmness at the helm and the two Johns’ skill on the foredeck were inspirational.   Frank’s courage with the foresail found him trapped under wet canvas on the sole of the forepeak until he was rescued.

Through all these highlights the ones that shone most brightly were the meals.   JohnS has never cooked,  but he knows culinary skill when he tastes it;  and the crew tasted it in every anchorage.   They occasionally ate ashore,  but they always dined on board.

But only the tame harbour seal at Port Ellen tasted a Frank-caught fish.