'New Moon'

 New Moon is a smart-looking boat,  and it’s owners are a lovely couple.

It’s kept moored in a tidy circular creek near Bottisham Lock,  and brought upriver to The Plough for hirers to board.

At The Plough it shares a mooring with Rosie,  Princess Charlotte and a couple more of Peter’s boats.   Not always a comfortable association but it works most of the time.

A year or so ago the old man had given Gary his card.   They’d chatted amicably for a few minutes and the old man had thought no more of it.

Then,  a week or two ago,  Gary had ‘phoned to talk about handing over the boat and training the hirers.

Owning a boat which you hire out is at first exciting,  but,  like all jobs,  it can become tedious.

The old man went on board at 1000 and was shown ‘the ropes’.   The multi-fuel stove in the lounge and the diesel-powered heater are very promising for chilly evenings on the fens.

The dining area seats four cozily around the table,  where the old man settled himself with a book from the well-stocked shelf.

The galley is a dream,  even for a culinary dunce like the old man.   An electric fridge,  a gas hob and oven,  pumped hot and cold water at the sink.

The heads are definitely not a perforated plank across the bowsprit;   Instead,  a sparkling electric macerated system.   The shower is pumped and,  as always,  the sump is pumped over side.

Right aft is a big double bed.

The hirers were late;  very late.   They’d come a long way,  and the dog had needed several comfort stops.

But,  at last,  the old man came into his own.   With the boat under way,  and the crew capable,  his job was delightful and easy.   Even the gongoozlers at the lock had no complaints.

The old man loves narrow boats.

They are perfectly designed for their original job of carrying goods along the canals and through the narrows.

When the rivers,  and then the canals,  were the highways of England boats up to 70ft long (but only 7ft wide) could be drawn by two galloping horses and carry 30 or 40 passengers,  or several tons of goods at  over 10mph from city to city across the country.

Forrester wrote vividly of a dash from Gloucester to London in less than 2 days,  horses changed every 20 miles or so.

Now,  passengers travel as tourists,  not traders,  and the narrowboats no longer carry sharp scythes to cut the tow ropes of slower boats.

Staunches were replaced by locks which,  especially the long staircase flights,  are marvels of 18th century engineering.   So easy to use if the boatman is patient.

Now of course,  the boats are powered by diesel (even electric) engines.   On the Cam even the locks are electric.

 There was a time when heads were simple.

A plank across the bows,  with circular holes.   Convenient in many ways.   Every time the ship dipped its head into the sea the fouling would be washed away,  both from the ship and,  presumably,  the men.   In those days sailors were almost all men.

These days the heads are much more complicated,  and they are hidden away in a tiny cubby hole below decks.

At home,  you press the button,  or the handle,  and your drinking water flushes away your waste.   On board,  you need to open seacocks,  move the lever,  operate the pump,  move the lever again,  pump again.

At home,  the system rarely blocks.   If it does,  you call a plumber and she sorts it out.   On board,   almost anything will block the heads;  the mantra has it "if you haven't eaten it,  don't put it down the heads".   The worst culprits are 'wet wipe' type things;  because they are made of cotton (or similar) they don't disintegrate in water or in the pump.   They wrap themselves around the valves,

 and they get trapped in the limescale in the pipes.   The pipes are narrower than those at home and they get blocked.

The 'limescale' is interesting (to a chemist!).   Human urine contains urate ions;  being associated with hydrogen,  sodium and potassium ions they stay dissolved.   Sea water contains calcium ions.   When urine mixes with sea water the calcium ions and urate ions combine to form calcium urate,  which is insoluble;  if left for any time in the waste pipes it precipitates on the walls of the waste pipes and gradually narrows them.   Over time the waste pipes become too narrow to pass anything that is not liquid.   Especially 'wet wipe' type things.   Less pleasant stuff,  too.

One answer,  of course is to flush properly.   The problem is partly that noise carries very well throughout a boat;  everyone can hear you pumping the heads,  especially at night.   So people tend to pump two or three times and then leave it.   It also leaves most of your waste still in the waste pipes,  where it accumulates,  settles and precipitates.   If everyone pumped 25 times (the recommended procedure) everything would end up in the sea and the pipes would be cleaned out (and everyone on the boat would be wide awake!).

When the heads become blocked you don't call a marine plumber;  do they even exist?   You leave it to the skipper.   When you own your own boat (or become a skipper of Nancy Blackett) you very quickly learn to strip down the marine heads and flush out the valves and pipes.

It's a nasty job,  but someone has to do it.

Nancy Blackett on the Orwell

John Smith had made the suggestion that I take out a couple of Mates in Nancy Blackett and that we call it a refresher day.   I wasn’t sure what to make of this,  or how I should prepare for the day.

The volunteers on Wednesday included John Holmes,  Mark Taylor,  Adrian Pyke and Judy Pyke.   Brave souls.

We spent the first few hours of the day exploring the boat in detail.   We each laid hands on warps,  springs,  ha’lyards,  topping lift,  sheets,  backstays and furling lines.   We now know exactly where every line runs and what it does.

We explored below,  and we each filled,  lit and extinguished the alcohol stove;  we even made coffee!

We removed the companionway steps,  lifted the cockpit sole and explored the engine.   We now know that removing the weed filter top before closing the engine seacock will flood the boat.   We know that the engine oil level is very high,  and we know how to look at the gearbox oil level.

The one thing we didn’t do was to strip down and reassemble the heads;   I reserved that delight for myself two days later!

Still on the mooring,  we reefed the mainsail,  and shook the reefs out;  several times.

Then,  finally,  we moved out into the estuary.

Again we reefed and shook out.   We put two reefs in and shook them out.   We discovered that dancing on the quarters is OK if the topping lift is set and the mainsheet is tight;  this keeps the boom relatively still.

Then we put the boat on a mooring buoy and debriefed each other over lunch.

After lunch we each brought the boat up to the buoy,  and we each stood on the foredeck and picked up the buoy pennant.   We learned how to communicate between foredeck and helm,  and that it’s best with hand signals not words.

Then,  back at the marina,  we each brought the boat alongside and moored it.

An exhausting day,  but we all learned so much.

For Adrian and Judy this was the last and (they said!) the best day of their short holiday in Suffolk.   They weren’t able to come back on Thursday because they had to pack and travel home.

So John,  Mark and I sailed ‘round to Erwarton Bay and had lunch on the anchor.

A Daysail on the Orwell

 John Smith sent out an invitation for a Skipper and Mate to take Tim, Louise and Abigail out for a day sail on Nancy Blackett  on 3rd July.

StJohn and I responded immediately: it would be our first outing on Nancy Blackett as Skipper and Mate together and we were looking forward to it.

Then we discovered that the Pin Mill Barge Match would be held on that day, and we became both apprehensive and excited.

We pictured a dozen or more sailing barges competing for space in the estuary, with dozens more spectator boats milling around. We would need to navigate a precious, 90 year old wooden boat through it all without damage.

We imagined a thrilling sight of the Eighteenth century mingling with the Twentyfirst. Stately sailing barges mixing it with modern power boats and all ages of sailing boats. I also knew that the Dinghy Cruising Association would be in the Orwell that day.

I wrote to James Ackland, Barge Match Secretary, to ask about start times and courses, and his reply was detailed and friendly, with some very generous remarks about Nancy Blackett.

They would be going down on the same tide as us, and then returning on the same flood.

StJohn and I decided to arrive early, prepare the boat and then leave as soon as everyone else arrived. The plan was to get below Pin Mill before the start of the match, pick up a buoy and watch them go by in safety. The plan didn’t survive: do they ever?

As we tacked down past Pin Mill there was not a barge in sight: they had gone early. Instead of worrying, we engaged in friendly conversation and enjoyed the sailing.

At about noon we picked up a buoy near Levington, and had a long, lazy lunch.

A couple of cruising dinghies circled to say “hello”, then sailed off toward the Stour, where they would spend the night.

As the tide turned the barges began to trickle back in ones, twos and small groups and we watched in relaxed safety.

When we thought that the last one had returned we set the jib and staysail and sailed gently back with the tide.

Although the plan had failed the day had turned out well. It had been relaxed and convivial, and I hope that the crew enjoyed it as much as I did.

 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!

An apology

The old man has,  again,  felt the need to apologise to his students.

And,  of course,  to himself.

If he didn't make assumptions,  and rush blindly to be all-knowing,  he would check his 'facts' (or at least,  review the evidence).

He finds it difficult,  in the middle of a navigation class,  to consult reference books and websites;  it rather spoils the flow of the presentation.

But he really should not have put-down the student who raised a perfectly valid question.

They were discussing height of tide,  charted depth and depth of water.   Someone asked how depth was measured in practice and he banged on for a bit about echo-sounders,  sounding and then lead-lines.

Someone else asked whether the word 'sounding' pre-dated echo-sounders.

It flashed through the old man's mind that he was unsure,  so he glossed over the question.

A glance at Falconer's 'Dictionary of the Marine' showed that,  even in 1815,  the word 'sound' had several meanings.   His student was quite right:   'sounding the deep' had been used to mean measuring the depth of the sea since the 14th century,  even though,  at that time,  they weren't sure what 'depth'  or the 'deep' meant.

But surely they didn't use noises,  or sound,  as we do with echo-sounders,  to measure the depth?   They used lead-lines.

A glance at a dictionary of etymology solved the mystery:  'sound' has several meanings.

Yes,  it means a noise,  or making a noise.

But it also,  in olden times,  meant measuring the depth of the sea.

It became clear to the old man that he had done what many before him had done.   He had confused two meanings of the word 'sound' and then conflated them.

An echo-sounder uses sound to sound the depth:  a rather nice homographic pun:  it would be nice to think that the inventor named it deliberately.

But,  of course,  every cloud has a silver lining.

The old man spent the whole of a rainy Saturday morning exploring his dictionaries and reference  books.