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© East Coast Sailing:
Colin Jarman, Garth Cooper, Dick Holness,
Roger Gaspar.
All Rights Reserved
THE ECS BLOG
RED FACED?
There are times when you really wish you could take back what you’ve just said -
There was an interesting call one Saturday evening to the sailing barge Cambria while she was heading north across the Thames Estuary.
“Vessel proceeding ………, your steaming light is not visible,” the crisp voice on the radio said.
The radio operator on board Cambria replied cautiously: “This is the sailing barge Cambria, over.”
Back came the voice on the radio: “Your steaming light is not visible.”
The amused operator on Cambria replied carefully: “Err, we don't have an engine!”
Silence.
DISCARDED
Once I was a mighty oak standing tall in a Suffolk wood.
Young trees grew strongly in the shelter of my lee.
Young birds played in the canopy of my lower limbs.
And hid from predators where my branches intertwined.
From the top, a wise owl surveyed the meadow below.
Lovers played beneath the shade of my branches on a summer’s day.
Then one day man came with determination.
A cut across my trunk brought me crashing to the ground.
Branches shattered and the little birds fled.
The wise owl watched with sadness from a neighbouring bough.
I was dragged away with the smell of diesel fumes choking my pores.
I was cut to pieces.
My bark was removed and my once proud trunk quartered.
My newly exposed heartwood shivered in the early spring wind.
I sat waiting for the next chapter.
Hope was raised.
Another man came and inspected me.
Gentle hands were rubbed along my flanks.
My straight and clear grain was prized.
And into smaller pieces I was cut.
Piece by piece I was placed into darkness.
Water boiled at my feet.
And steam cleared my pores.
Suddenly into the light and from hand to hand.
I was placed into a boat and twisted and pushed.
I was bent to the curve of the hull.
And roughly forced from straight to curve.
I could take it no more.
That prized straight grain was straight no more.
And asked to do things it had never done.
So – snap – my sinews broke.
Now in pieces, I was parted.
My longer cousin was placed aside.
But I was thrown onto the ground.
Where I lay.
Once more, hope was raised.
I was retrieved, but no.
Into a pot of liquid with heavy metals.
Round and round I dizzily spun.
And was removed and shaken.
Now that is over, I lie back down on the ground.
No longer little birds play in my boughs.
Nor lovers shelter under my canopy.
Discarded.
© Roger Gaspar
TATTY HATS
How do you know when to replace your hat? I mean, look at the one is this photo – should it be replaced yet? It’s clearly done, and is probably still doing, sterling service. It has protected the owner’s head come rain, come shine and certainly come antifouling. I’ll bet it’s also saved its owner from a good few cuts and scrapes to his head, too.
But when will it reach the end? When will it be due for burial at sea – perhaps even a funeral pyre aboard a specially constructed small boat, sent off from the shore with a following breeze. Just how do you decide that the end has come?
It can’t only be because you’re given a clear path to the bar when you wear it into the yacht club. Nor can it be just because your wife refuses to walk anywhere near you when you’re wearing it. And definitely not because your teenage daughter rolls her eyes and says “Oh Dad!!” whenever she sees your hand reaching out to lift it tenderly from the peg in the hall.
Isn’t it a decision to be made on more practical grounds? Does it still keep the weather out? (With all that paint on it, that’s going to be a near certainty.) Does it still keep the sun off? Does it save you from a dented head still? Does it still float long enough to be recovered? Now, there’s a thought.
Has anyone out there got a hat to rival this long serving stalwart?
© Colin Jarman
PASS THE HEATER
This is a frustrating time of year if you are trying to do any spar varnishing or
replacement washboard gluing in an attempt to get a head start on the fitting out
schedule. Either the temperature is so low your fingers can’t grip a brush or the
temperature is just high enough to tempt you to prise the lid off the paint tin and
begin your daubing, only to find that there’s not a snowball’s chance of the paint
going off. And as for gluing -
What you need is a heated shed and a big line of credit with the electricity company.
Even my colleague with a rather well equipped workshop and the facility to heat it
has so far only managed to clutter the place up with a sanded down boom (about 15ft
of head-
At this time of year, sailing clubs could probably make a lot of extra money by buying
in and then hiring out a very large and efficient space heater. Now, there’s a thought.
© Colin Jarman
ANOTHER YEAR, ANOTHER BOAT SHOW
It seems that everyone shares this strange feeling that the years pass ever faster as one grows older. Birthdays come and go with monotonous regularity, Christmas seems to pop up every few weeks and gosh have I really been to another London Boat Show?
Well, yes I have and, what’s more, I went twice. For a start we always try and get there on Preview Day, provided I can scrounge some free tickets, as the first day always seems the best to me – there’s a buzz about the place and all the exhibitors are all awake and alert, at least in the morning. But we always end up spending at least half the day nattering and so, as usual, I drove home thinking that I hadn’t really seen all that much.
And so I went again. Rather than drive myself and pay the (frankly disgraceful) ExCeL car parking fee again, I bagged a seat on our club coach, which cost me a tenner, so that wasn’t too bad. Now, you may be wondering (if you’ve read all the negative comments on the internet and possibly been to the Show yourself) why on earth I’d want to go again? Well, maybe I’m a bit odd, but the fact is that I really rather enjoy these shows. I know they aren’t what they used to be, I know there are few yachts there (but plenty of mobos!), and I know that better chandlery bargains might be had on the internet, but there’s no substitute for seeing the stuff in the flesh so to speak, and I always manage to have a good chat with staff on relevant stands and actually learn something.
I filled my seven hours there quite happily, bought a few bits and pieces, had a long relaxed lunch (homemade sandwiches, mind you) in the RYA Lounge (oh blessed oasis of peace) and wound up on the Imray stand just as the delightful ladies thereon raided the drinks locker concealed under the counter. Rod Heikell and wife Lu turned up too and we agreed that as Imray boss Willie Wilson was due to attend next day we might as well finish the contents of the fridge so that there would be room for him to add new supplies.
It finished a most satisfactory day, really. I dribbled over some beautiful varnished
boats (I’d never have one again); I admired those boats whose hulls come apart when
you undo some bolts; and I visited the Southerly 38 and came away reassured by the
salesman that if I were to buy one, she would hold her price. So that’s all right
then, I’ll tell the wife. I watched one of the spinnaker demonstrations; I watched
a youngster leaping about up the square-
People do grumble about the Show and some even pine for Earls Court (not me though,
what a dump), but I seem to know plenty of people who, like me, went for a good day
out and did indeed enjoy themselves. Will LIBS survive? I don’t know, but I do hope
it does in some form or other, as it always seems to me to be the turning point of
the winter – time now to get on with fitting out!
© Dick Holness
WATER INFILTRATION
I’m suffering from water infiltration. Actually, I should rephrase that, it’s not me, it’s the boat.
I know she has plenty of leaky bits, like the windows, but she is covered over with a light tarpaulin, so such known entry points are blocked. How, then, has a few cupfulls of water gathered in the sealed heads compartment and a few inches beneath the sole, amidships, in another watertight compartment?
It’s a wonder that I would rather not be wondering about.
© Colin Jarman
WIFE GOES POLE DANCING
There, that got your attention.
I reckon I frequently drive my wife up the wall, so it seems appropriate that if there’s work to do at the masthead, she’s the one who goes up there.
Well, think about it. I weigh about 175lbs, she weighs about 120lbs. It’s far easier for me to winch her up there, with me safely in the cockpit having satisfied myself that the lifting arrangements are safe, than for her to winch me up there while worrying about what she’s doing down there.
Each time we do this I remember a couple of good old boys at our cruising club. One of these ancient mariners needed to work at the masthead of his boat and got this other, equally ancient mate of his to wind him up there. No sooner had the owner reached the masthead than his mate dropped dead in the cockpit. This was a weekday, beside a fairly remote creek. Nobody about. He was up there quite a while.
Anyway, this afternoon the wifely ascent went well, as did her descent clutching the ST60 wind speed/direction masthead unit. The darned thing has been playing up all year and, having examined all the connections within the boat and found no sign of a problem, someone just had to go up there.
It’s been the direction thing that’s been misbehaving, so I wheedled the appropriate
transducer thing out of its housing and squinted at the connections. One of the solder
joints did look a bit suspect. Should I re-
Then she went up the pole again. I did puff a bit this time, had a couple of rests and left her part way there, so to speak. But we got all the way in the end and, what’s more, the problem seems to be cured at last.
So, chaps, if your missus is lighter than you, don’t be greedy and hog all those
trips up the mast, try a bit of role reversal, it peps up life aboard no end.
© Dick
Holness
