Downhaul or tack line

Nautical nomenclature is tricky work.

Over the centuries words have changed.   Their meanings have changed and their spelling has changed.

In some ways both of these are understandable.   Until the end of the 18th century no-one really cared about spelling,  partly because so many people were uneducated and therefore illiterate.   Sadly,  despite modern education (or perhaps because of it) many people are still illiterate,  and so mis-spelling is frequent.

Changes of meaning have been more subtle and evolutionary.   “This” ship is a frigate.   If we change this structure or that shape slightly it’s still a frigate,   innit?   If the changes are over decades or centuries we forget what the original frigate was like,  so today’s frigate might be totally different.

But we know what a downhaul is.   Don't we?

A downhaul pulls something down.

Gaffs rarely need downhauls.   They are usually so massive that they come down under their own weight when the ha’lyard is eased.   Indeed,  the bigger problem is getting, and keeping them up,  and they often need two ha’lyards and several purchases.   But some lighter gaffs tend to jam at the throat saddle,  however much slush is applied,  and then a downhaul is useful.

Squaresails are no problem.   If the yards are on slides they come down under their own weight.

Furled squaressails often come down under the weight of their canvas when the buntlines and clewlines are eased.   If they do not it's because of the friction in the clewline blocks and (especially) the buntline cringles,  and a downhaul tends to damage the running rigging and the canvas.   The solution is to send someone aloft to overhaul the buntlines:  men were once cheaper than cordage.

Downhauls come into their own at the staysails.   A full-rigged ship might have as many as 10 staysails,  each hanked to a stay at roughly 45° to the deck.   The friction between those hanks and the stays is enormous,  and so it is on the hanked-on jib or genoa of a sailing yacht.

On a sailing yacht it’s normal to have a crewman stand astride the stay,  at the tack,  to pull the sail down as the ha’lyard is eased,  but on a full-rigged ship that's too arduous a task and too risky.   Up to three of those tacks are out on the bowsprit.   Many of the others are partway up a mast.

But run a line from the head of the staysail to the tack,  through a block,  and then aft along the deck and you have a downhaul on which any number of sailors can haul.   Ease the ha’lyard and haul the downhaul and the staysail bundles itself neatly at the tack of the stay.   A Swedish furl,  and it’s safe.

I sailed my West Wight Potter extensively on the East Coast:  it’s a 14 foot (4.3m) cabin cruiser.   No-one sensible wants to stand on the foredeck of a 4.3m boat to handle the foresail,  so I fitted a downhaul.

A tack-line is a line attached close to the tack of the sail to tighten the luff,  or to prevent the tack from riding up the mast or stay.

On a square-rigged ship the luff (the fore-leech) of most of the squaresails  was tightened by hauling the fore-sheet to the yard below.   The luff (or fore-leech) of the course-sail was tightened by tacking it down to the weather rail.   The luffs of the staysails were tightened by the ha’lyard hauling against a tack-line.

On a sailing dinghy the tack-line of the mainsail is often replaced with a slide on the mast into which a slider on the gooseneck fits.   The sailor puts some weight on the gooseneck to tighten the luff of the main and then locks the slider with a turnscrew.

On a bigger sailing yacht the tack-line might have a Cunningham purchase (erroneously called a ‘downhaul’) between the sail and the boom or between the boom and the deck to tighten the luff.   On even bigger yachts the luff is tightened by winding the ha’lyard around a winch. 

Foresails always have tack-lines,  but very rarely with a purchase to tighten the luff:  this is almost always done with the ha’lyard.

Folkard,  writing in 1906,  described two forms of lugsail.

The balance lug of the 19th century,  and earlier,  was what we would now call a dipping lug.   The head of the sail was bent to an asymmetric oblique yard,  the tack was tacked to the l’ward bow and the clew was attached to a sheet;  there was never a boom.   The luff was tightened (insomuch as this was necessary on a lugsail) by hauling up the yard with the ha’lyard.

The standing lug also had an asymmetric oblique yard;  its tack was tacked close to the foot of the mast,  and a sheet was attached to the clew of the sail.   There was occasionally a boom.   Again,  the luff was tightened by the ha’lyard.

Folkard also described a split-lug derived from his balance lug (our dipping lug).   The tack of the forepart of the sail was tacked down to the stemhead or the lee bow.   The tack of the after part of the sail was tacked down at the foot of the mast.   Both parts of the sail had sheets,  but neither part had a boom because the sail could be split,  or not,  at will in a few minutes by lacing or unlacing the two parts.

Toward the end of the 19th century a form of ‘balance’ lugsail was developed which had a boom along the entire foot of the sail,  from the tack to the clew.   There was a sheet at the clew or at the after end of the boom,  but clearly the tack could not be held down;  it must be free to move around the mast opposite to the clew.   A line or purchase (Folkard called it a small tackle) from the balance point of the boom to the deck,  or to the foot of the mast,  acting against the ha’lyard would keep the sail flat and obviate the need for a vang.

But is this a tack-line?  It’s a long way from the tack of the sail.   Or is it a kicking strap?   It has a very similar function and arrangement.    It’s clearly not a downhaul,  and it's certainly not a vang.

"Who pays the piper calls the tune"

The concept was very simple.

When the travelling musicians came to our village we could pay them,  or not.

If we paid them we could ask for a tune,  to which we might dance.   If others in the village wanted to listen and dance to the same tune we might let them,  or not;  it was our money.

Often we would put money into a small chest so that everyone paid the piper.

Before the author was born,  of course,  but he understands the concept:  he was once a Morrisman..

The concept was similar when the author was a young man.

If I put sixpence into the jukebox I could choose which record was played.   If you paid,  you chose.

Occasionally the local bully would intervene and,  using his superior strength and inferior sensitivity,  would wait until the sixpence was inserted and then press his predetermined button.

But we didn’t let that happen often;  if he was in the cafe we went elsewhere.   If he came in,  we went out.   The cafe proprietor (no fool!) quickly understood and banished the bully.   Henceforth,  “Who inserts the sixpence calls the tune”.

And then the author was no longer a young man.

He bought a boat.

Actually,  over the years he bought several boats;  sometimes more than one at a time.

He paid his money and bought the boat he wanted.   (or thought he wanted!)

Some were very small,  8 or 10 feet (say,  3 metres);  the biggest was 22 feet (7 metres).

He sailed on the Avon,  on the Severn Estuary,  on the Crouch and in the North Sea.   He was troubled by Authority once.   On the Avon he was asked for his river licence;  who knew?

It seemed fair.   The river needs maintenance and those who use it should pay.   The licence fee was a bit high,  he thought,  for a single use:  could he pay by the day or even by the hour?   Sadly no;  by the season.   So he didn’t go back.

No authority on the Severn,  the Crouch,  the Deben,  the Orwell or the Stour ever asked the author for a licence.   You don’t need one for the North Sea.   The author understood SOLAS,  the IRPCS and insurance (he’s taught navigation for some years).

A legacy (from M’s father) paid for a narrowboat.   A fairly cheap boat,  with ply inside rather than wood,  and with a BMC/Thorneycroft diesel under the cruising deck.   The Conservators of the River Cam demanded a licence fee which,  again,  seemed fair.   They pretended to maintain the river,  although in reality they focussed entirely on the rowers and especially on the needs of the Cambridge crews.

The concept of paying the piper and calling the tune was stretched a bit thin.   It seemed that the boatowners paid the piper to play the only tune he knew.

It rather reminded the author of the BBC.   In his youth and early middle age owning a wireless (radio),  and then a television meant that you must pay a licence fee.   This entitled you to listen to,  and watch,  the very few programmes (channels) which the BBC broadcast.   The radio listener paid the piper and listened to the only tune he played.

But the BBC licence-payer had some influence;  public opinion persuaded the BBC to broadcast the programmes which the public said it wanted.   Of course,  not all individuals of the ‘public’ agreed on what they wanted,  but the individuals had some choice,  and,  over time,  the choice broadened.

The author and M (and their sons) enjoyed the narrowboat for many years.

It was insured,  of course.

This is a scheme whereby the owner pays a company which promises to repay the cost of the boat if it’s lost,  damaged or stolen.

At least,  that’s broadly the idea.   Within certain limits the owner can pay for whatever insurance cover he thinks he needs.   The insurance company retaliates with ‘small print’:  a long list of things with which the owner must comply if he’s to get the money when the boat is lost,  damaged or stolen.   If the insurance company thinks you didn’t look after it properly,  you won’t get your money.

Imagine the piper coming to the village with a pre-prepared list of tunes.   You can pay for one,  or any;  but you must sit still and listen carefully.   If you cough,  or your stool squeaks,  you’ve broken the contract and you don’t get your tune.   Dancing is extra.   If you agreed to the contract,  that seems fair enough.

And then Authority decided that boaters were not safe.   (The people,  not the hats)

One or two boatowners had allowed gas to leak into their bilges and had blown themselves up when they lit the stove.

One or two had kept their engines running overnight,  for warmth, and had killed themselves with Carbon Monoxide.

If they don’t blow up,  or poison,  anyone else isn’t that their prerogative?

And so the Boat Safety Scheme was born.

You won’t get insurance or a river licence until your boat has passed the Boat Safety Scheme Inspection.

If you don’t get a river licence the Conservators of the River Cam will hound you for a few months and then impound your boat.

As the author types this the Boat Safety Scheme Inspector is inspecting the narrowboat.

He’s a remarkably pleasant,  affable young man *,  quite unlike the chap who came last time.

If he is the piper,  we have paid him,  whether the boat is deemed safe or not.

We have absolutely no say in the tune being played.

As an RYA instructor the author decided to use the narrowboat to teach Inland Waterways Helmsmanship.

The RYA licence fee (to be an instructor) is almost as much as the river licence (which is much more than it was because the boat is now a commercial vessel!).   This RYA licence allows the author to teach and to issue certificates.   It also covers the cost of an inspector to inspect the boat and the instructors.

We’ve seen this before,  with the BSS:  we pay the piper and the piper calls the tune.

*

He was pleasant and affable both before and after the boat passed its inspection!