"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!

A New Cruising 'chute

A cruising 'chute is not, despite its name, a parachute: the flow of air is completely different. Nor is it a spinnaker, although the airflow across both is the same; that is, from luff to leech.

It's more like a large, lightweight genoa, in that it has a luff, attached at the head to a ha'lyard and at the tack to the stemhead: it is triangular, with the foot and the leech meeting at the clew, where the sheets are attached. Both sheets pass forward of all stays and of the sail's own luff-rope, and pass, outside all, to blocks on the quarters, and thence to winches on the coamings.

It's not, usually, a staysail: it carries its own luff-rope from head to tack, and is set flying.

The tack is not changed as it is with a square-sail or a spinnaker. Changing the tack of a spinnaker is a cumbersome, skilled business of moving the spinnaker boom across the foot of the sail, so that the former tack becomes the clew, and the former clew becomes the tack. This is usually done with the wind astern of the boat. The tack is changed while wearing ship (in modern speak, gybing).

To take a cruising 'chute from one tack to the other, the clew is passed forward of the sail, and sheeted down the other side of the boat. This takes fewer people and less skill than changing the tack of a spinnaker. But it can't be done head to wind: only by wearing ship.


StJohn had suggested (in conversation, as you do) that sailing Saga downwind in light airs would be easier with a cruising 'chute than with her heavy genoa. He'd drawn from his father a horror of sailing downwind under a boomed mainsail, with its attendant preventer and collapsing genoa. Both had the skill to helm goosewinged, but found it concentrated and tedious work; one can never sail in a chosen direction. 

So Julian became the proud owner of a brand-new cruising 'chute.

A sunny, calm day in November was the perfect opportunity to try out the new sail, especially since he had found a sailing Buddy attributed with some knowledge of these things.

First try, of course, with the boat secured to the pontoon.

From its bag, the sail was enclosed in a long sock, or snuffer. One end (becoming the head of the sail) was snap-shackled to the spinnaker ha'lyard, and hoisted aloft. The other end (which became the tack) was attached to a long tack-line which passed through a block at the stem-head, and then aft to the cockpit.

Aft of the pulpit, or forward?

The instructions said forward, but it didn't look right. The tack-line fouled the top of the pulpit and slid side to side across it, threatening the safety of the lights. Saga's forestay, unlike many, is 12 or 14 inches abaft the stemhead; leading the tackline abaft the pulpit placed it well forward of the forestay. The wise old buddy and the enthusiastic new skipper argued happily for a long time, over coffee. Isn't this one of the joys of cruising under sail?

Attaching the sheets exposed several dilemmas. The sheets are modern and synthetic. They are slippery blighters, and will undo almost any knot as soon as your back is turned. And they did.

It became clear, too, that if either of the sheets was allowed to slacken it would fall into the water, pass under the forefoot and slide along the keel. On the way it would snag the log impeller, the propeller and the rudder.

The sail having been hoisted, but not set, the moorings were slipped and Saga moved gently out of the marina into the flooding Crouch.

The zephyr from the South West was perfect. The snuffer was lifted and the l'ard sheet hauled. The new sail blossomed in all its glory, like a blood-red, radial-cut rose. It gave 2.5 knots through the water which, against the tide, gave less than half a knot over the ground. A few degrees of helm to windward sent Saga ferrygliding toward the moorings and the Northern bank; a few degrees to l'w'rd and she crossed to the Southern bank. An hour and a half against the flood brought the Royal Corinthian's abeam; perhaps half a mile from the marina entrance! No other test of the efficiency of this lightweight sail could have been better.

So Saga turned upstream.

The snuffer tamed the curved, turgid expanse of thin nylon in a moment. Two or three minutes later the ha'lyard was unhooked, the tack-line and the sheets coiled, and the whole thing was bundled below. The test results were improving!

By then the marina was abeam: 100 minutes against the flood and 8 with it!

By the time the main and genoa were set Saga was well into Cliff Reach: less than 1 knot through the water and 3 over the ground, with the Spring tide covering the saltings and making the channel, wide as it is, difficult to see. Bridgemarsh Island had disappeared.

Opposite Bridgemarsh marina, in Raypits Reach, Julian again brought out the 'chute while his Buddy held station in mid-stream. The ha'lyard worked perfectly but, by the time he'd reeved the tack-line the ha'lyard was three times 'round the forestay. As he attached the sheets they wriggled themselves into every possible wrong arrangement.
It's surprisingly difficult. whilst standing on a squirelly foredeck, surrounded by a network of lines, sheets and tacks, even to see where they are, let alone see where to reeve them.
And then the whole assembly tucked itself neatly around the wrong side of the forestay, and the boat had to be gybed twice to coax it back.

But finally it was done. The genoa was rolled away, and the 'chute liberated from its snuffer. Blanketed by the main, it sagged into the water.

Then, main handed and zipped away, the cruising 'chute showed its real value. A broad reach along Easter Reach and a fine (too fine!) reach along Cliff Reach brought the marina abeam once more.

The engine started at the first touch of the button, the snuffer doused the 'chute without a hitch and Julian slid Saga into her berth with millimetric precision.

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.).