Anna Elisabeth

Anna Elisabeth

Tekening Amals

all canoe photos courtesy Harold Potts

Harold Potts sent me a couple of photos of his

skin on frame canoes which intrigued me, and I wrote back requesting he respond with his design brief and a bit of his passion. I give you Howards response:

Thomas,

I'm glad that I have sparked your interest in my canoes.  Boat
building can be a solitary activity much of the time, and it's often a
hit-and-miss process communicating to others what is behind the process,
so I'm happy to send you details of my work.

As regards photos I have a collection running into several hundred,
so choosing what to send is not easy. There is also the limitation in
the size of the packet of information that can be sent at one time to
consider.  In view of this it is often the case that physical
transmission is the quickest when large amounts are involved - say a CD
or memory stick. [ It's been remarked that transmission by carrier
pigeon can still a viable alternative depending on the amount of data
and the point to point locations ].

Regarding who and what I am:  I am a professional engineer, who
retired early in 1991.  Part of my career was spent in naval
engineering.  At the outset of my retirement I started building model
ships - an activity I still indulge in from time to time.  This led to
aiding a friend in design and construction of model yachts -
specifically in the US One meter class.  This in turn led me on to the
realization that now that computation costs about one thousandth what it
did 40 years ago, the time had come to introduce mathematics into hull
design.  Over the last 15 years or so I have been engaged in this
process.   Basically it solves the age-old problem of drawing hull lines
which can be accurately and simply reproduced, as well as ensuring that
the lines are " fair " - that is do not incorporated wiggles in the surface.

Having been part of the design and construction process, it was a
natural transition to start building small boats.  Being Canadian it was
natural to choose to build a canoe.  My first attempt was in 2006 and I
started building a double-skinned monocoque of my own design of 3 meters
length in my garage.  Like many first attempts it ended in disaster.  In
2008 I had the opportunity to rent my own workshop, and since June of
last year I have built 3 skin-on-frame canoes - each one different from
the other, and all to my own design.

The first boat was put in the water this year.  It appears in the bottom photo
, and shows a friend paddling.  You will note the almost flat sheer
line.  It is constructed of ash wood and covered with treated hemp
cloth.  Note also the series of bumps on the hull surface - these are
the lashings which hold the stringers and frames together.  My later
boats use less material in the lashings and are therefore less
prominent.  This canoe - called " Little Bear " weighs 50 lb.

The prior photo shows " Little Bear " alongside the next build
which I refer to as " Archie ".  Little Bear has the solid plywood
floor, and Archie the lathe floor.  The name Archie refers to how the
hull is constructed:  each stringer is a circular arc.  Archie also has
a more pronounced sheer line than Little Bear.

The second photo shows Archie in the showroom along with some manufactured
kayaks.  And the first photo shows Archie under construction - specifically
with the gunwale strap being glued in place.  The third boat [ a photo
of which you already have ] - provisionally named " Sparrow ", after a
sparrow flew into the shop and perched on it - good omen I think.  She
is also designed using circular arc stringers and has a prominent sheer
and what I think is a natty bow/stern profile.  The main difference that
Sparrow has is the use of circular section stringers - the others use a
square-section.  To incorporate a square stringer it is necessary to
twist it between the main section and the bow/stern positions, so that
one side of the stringer remains tangential to the hull surface.  Use of
circular sections obviates this and makes for easier construction.

Each of the 3 canoes is 14 ft overall length, and their weight is
progressively less each time.  Sparrow's frame is at present 30lb, but
the finished boat will be maybe 5lb heavier.  This ensures that old
codgers like me can handle them fairly easily.  They have good secondary
stability and are intended for recreational use on lakes, and would not
do well in most river settings due to the hemp covering.  Being wood and
canvas they are not exactly maintenance free, but will appeal to lovers
of wooden craft, free of synthetic material, and incorporating no metal
except bronze pad-eyes.

My latest design uses a parametric function for mainframe and
stem/stern profiles which is the result of about 15 years research into
the problem of hull form mathematics.  Using these forms, stringers are
deployed between them according to a simple formula:  recall that 3
defined points in 3-space will define both a plane and a circular arc in
that plane.  So, defining points on the stem and stern post as well as
on the main frame will define a circular arc to which the stringer is
bent.  Another design feature is that all the stringers on one side lie
in parallel planes.  The form of the sections, or ribs, is therefore the
resultant of the stringer configuration.  The diagram I sent you last
time illustrates this and  also demonstrates that a fair shape results.

I hope this answers some of you questions.  Please feel free to stay
in touch.

Best Regards,

Hal Potts.

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Jigsaw

Jigsaw's progenitors in La Rocque harbor c.1890's

Jigsaw's original rig and later adaptation

Her hull lines as taken off The Volunteer by Mike Harrison with help from Alan Buchanan, Mike Jackson and Russell Wyness from Jackson's Yacht Services while lying at the quay in St. Aubin on the Gulf of Saint-Malo.

Jigsaw



All images courtesy Mike Harrison

While researching lug sails I ran across an image of this little gem and was immediately struck by that stunning topsail. I managed to contact her owner Mike Harrison and get some background. Launched in 1992, Jigsaw is a replica of a Jersey Oyster skiff, traditionally built of pine on oak. She was built to lines taken off a Jersey La Rocque spritsail cutter, The Volunteer, built 1889, by Mike and some friends. She's only 13' with a 5' beam and draws 21". The original boats were rigged double masted with a standing lug but Mike opted for a single mast standing lug with a jib forward. Initially he found the boat the boat a bit sluggish in light air, and after much experimentation solved the problem by adding that beautiful topsail, and reports her performance greatly improved.
There is a more detailed article on Jigsaw in the April 2007 issue of Classic Boat magazine. Initial contact with Mike was through the Woodenboat Forum. Much thanks to Mike and his daughter Phillipa for their ready assistance.

Oyster stuffing, anyone? Happy Thanksgiving.

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I like water.  Big surprise there, I'm sure most people like water, especially sailors. Water floats our boats, after all.  It does other less important stuff, too-- Makes forests grow, produces food, and carves gigantic tourist attractions out in the boonies for our amusement. Water makes the ice in highballs, it is the primary constituent of beer and wine, and if you lose the corkscrew over the side, you can actually survive by drinking straight water until you reach civilization again. Great stuff.

Sailors have an interesting relationship with water.  We prefer to skim over the top, and get cranky when our boats submerge. We throw large quantities of money into building a nice hull to keep the water out, then turn around and drill holes in it to let the water back in. We love the refreshing calm of a nice quiet anchorage, and the adrenaline charge of a boisterous bay or mountain lake. Water outside the boat, good.  Water inside the boat, bad, unless it's in a tank.  If the tank is full, good.  If the full tank is connected to the head, bad.

Most people never give water a second though beyond turning a faucet or flushing the john, but anyone commanding  a vessel interacts with water in a rather fundamental way. It's part of the magic of sailing.

The interface between water and not water is an interesting place. I am spending a lot of time trying to master that interface, because I'm always poking and prodding the nooks and crannies of my local lake. I don't know why, but for me the fascination is not necessarily sailing from Point A to Point B, (notwithstanding all the coolness that entails), but the slow unveiling of a small cove's nether regions. Or even approaching a dock, or trying not to run over some dingleberry swimming by the launch ramp. To me the thinner the water, the the more jagged the interface, the more challenging the approach, the more fun.

Indulge me in a Melon Farmer digression for a minute. I get to play with the interface even when I'm not sailing, because I live in an orchard. Every two weeks during the summer I have to irrigate.  The Water District tells me when the water is coming, and at the appointed time I wander through the trees to open six valves. When the water arrives, it's a force to be reckoned with. A typical irrigation brings enough water to cover most of my land with a foot of water; if I don't manage it, it manages me and I end up watering the driveway, the road, the neighborhood, half a mile of dirt road. Over the years I've gotten pretty good at managing water on my land-- I built berms and spillways, and can snap the whip and make the beast go where I want it.  Unless a gopher has decided to drill through one of my berms, in which case a few panicked minutes with a shovel usually finds me standing triumphant, albeit mud-spattered and sweaty.  I employ five cats to deal with the gophers, but sometimes they slack off.

When I first moved to Arizona, I decided to build an underground greenhouse.  It's not as silly as it might sound-- My plan was to use the earth to moderate some of the fierce heat of the summer. So I dug a huge hole by hand in the side yard, a hexagon 15 feet across and six feet deep. (I like digging holes, okay?) The neighbors would come by to check on the progress and scratch their heads over the nut digging an underground greenhouse. My project was going well until I had a berm break one day.  A big berm break. I watched probably two thousand gallons of water, leaves, grapefruit, cat poop, bugs, and god knows what else pour into my greenhouse until I had a nice little inland sea going. Oops.

I gave up on the underground greenhouse idea after a couple of repeat gopher-induced floods. Three dump trucks of dirt later, the hole was filled in. The neighbors were confused. They asked my why I filled the huge hole up.  "because it's done," I replied,  as if I were stating the obvious.  The neighbors backed away slowly.

A word of advice: Don't  build an underground anything on the same land you flood irrigate. Trust me on that.

Anyway, sailing is kind of the same thing (except there are fewer dead bugs and grapefruit). You have to manage water.  Lots of water. Fail to manage water, and it doesn't matter how well you've set the sails. Managing water means not letting too much of it into your boat, of course, but also making sure that you actually have water where you need it, and gently interacting with those places lacking water.  Any schlub can throw a bunch of fenders over the rub rail, and blast away with the engine when coming in for a landing.  To me, a big part of being a sailor is being able to do the same without needing fenders.  or even an engine (when I'm feeling frisky). 

I'm still working on it.  I hardly ever have to pull thorns out of the hull any more. And I still buy epoxy in little tubes, from Home Depot. So I must be doing something right.

Comment (1)

Webb Chiles, author of several books on his sailing adventures may be best known to my readers for his near circumnavigation in an open Drascombe Lugger, chronicled in The Open Boat and which I wrote about here. Webb is an intelligent and gifted writer, poet and photographer, and you can access much of his work at his website. Webb has the laudable distinction of making several of his books available in PDF for free download. Others may be accessed via my amazon bookstore in the sidebar. Today he graciously sent me a heads up about this latest post in his Journal:



Evanston: fools

Monday, November 23, 2009

I seldom read sailing books any more; but recently a small boat sailor and reader of this journal generously sent me a copy of A VOYAGE OF PLEASURE: the Log of Bernard Gilboy’s Transpacific Cruise in the Boat, “Pacific” 1882-1883.

I had read this slight volume of only 64 pages several decades ago. Naturally I had forgotten many details and found interest and pleasure in rereading it, particularly from the perspective of greater years and experience.

In 1876 Alfred Johnson made the first solo Atlantic crossing in a 20’ dory, sailing from Gloucester, Massachusetts, to Abercastle, Wales, in just under two months, with a brief stop in Nova Scotia.

Johnson named his boat, CENTENNIAL, and said his voyage was to commemorate the nation’s first hundred years.

When I completed my first circumnavigation in 1976, a journalist wanted me to claim that I had done so to honor the Bicentennial. As readers of STORM PASSAGE know, this was not true and I refused.

Inspired by Johnson, Bernard Gilboy, a professional seaman, had an 18‘ schooner built in San Francisco specifically for his voyage at a cost of $400. He considered this the smallest boat capable of holding provisions for the five months he thought his non-stop passage would take.

Her length of 18‘ and beam of 6‘ were almost identical to those of my open boat, CHIDIOCK TICHBORNE; but the PACIFIC had a keel and a draft of 2‘ 6”, as apposed to unballasted CHIDIOCK TICHBORNE’s 12” draft with her centerboard up and 4‘ with it down.

Gilboy somehow squeezed into his craft: “14 ten-gallon casks, read more...


Thanks, Webb.

Bernard Gilboy's story is also featured in Bill Longyard's 'A Speck on the Sea'. Bill's book is available from both the SCA Bookstore and my booklist.

Is anyone competent enough to comment on this rig?

Thanks, Webb.

originally posted on 70.8%

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We've noticed over the years that a remarkable number of our readers seem to share passions or professions, things that—on the surface anyway—seem unrelated to sailing and boats.

Early on we noticed a high percentage of our contributors were teachers or professors. We can see how teaching and small-boat sailing might complement each other. Sailors and teachers probably share a love of learning. Teachers have summer breaks for trailersailing and probably don't make enough to own a mega-yacht, even if they wanted one.

A lot of you are pilots and engineers, and with the similarity in physics and the challenges involved this didn't surprise us. You're also a bright bunch.

What did surprise us a bit was discovering how many of you ride motorcycles. More than a few of you have mentioned a two-wheeled passion. Is it the freedom? The sensation of flying—the wind in your hair? As motorcycle legend Walt Healy is supposed to have said, "Only a biker knows why a dog sticks his head out the car window." Maybe sailors know too?

Is it a coincidence that Bob Hicks, publisher of Messing About in Boats, is a die-hard bike racer who used to publish motorcycle magazines, and Bob Bitchin', publisher of Lats & Atts, former life involved bikes and bikers that ran the gamut? We think not. So we shouldn't have been surprised when regular contributor and Editor-at-Large, Larry Brown sent us excerpts from a new book he's working on about the advantages and allure of motorcycles.

When we discussed all of this with Larry, he mentioned a related editorial he'd written for his regional newspaper column. We've pasted it below.—Eds

Something too huge to explain and too small to comment on…

A good life is full of passions.  I’ve been blessed with more passions than hours to pursue them all, which makes me a very lucky man.  Then, to balance the passions, you need quiet for reflection.  The shower is perfect for this… the heat pounds into your back;  a persistent hiss sets up a meditative dial-tone to blur the passing time.  I get at least half my newspaper columns right there where ideas rise up like steam into a mind blank from sleep.

So with summer coming up fast, this morning’s steam whispered of motorcycles and sailboats.  As passions go, these seem about as divergent as they can be, so I meditated on that… first alone, now with you.

If you want to grow up to be an old biker, the secret is to never let something even begin to happen that you don’t want.  I particularly don’t want to be run flat by some idiot driving an SUV while talking on the phone.  Black may project menace and gravitas but yellow gets seen, so I ride something red and wear something yellow. The reward for all this prudence is the sensation of flying in two dimensions.  And since there’s nothing dreamy about it, you’re absolutely present in the moment, which is another reward.

Whereas you drive the bike, in sailing, the boat takes you.  That doesn’t mean you’re not at the helm, but you can walk around in a boat, even lie down.  The first time I crossed Buzzard’s Bay almost 30 years ago, it was March… cold and blustery.  But I’d just gotten this 14 foot cabin sloop with a reputation for long passages. So I put some tea to boil on the gimbaled stove and snuggled into the windward berth for a nap, leaving Puffin (that was her name) to sail on her own with a balanced trim and a lashed tiller.  Tea takes a while with a can of Sterno beneath it, and I fell asleep before the whistle woke me up.  Sitting up, I watched the waves roll by my window and was happier than I’d been in a long time.

On a bike, you’re a hawk… on a boat, you’re a dolphin.  Big bike – or big boat –probably you can only afford to be one of these.  Small bike… small boat… and you get both.   Since I get over 80 miles per gallon on my bike, I fill up for about three bucks.  I’ve figured out how to ride through most of the winter (scooters are drier and warmer than cycles are) so now my primary vehicle has only two wheels.  Once I used to drive to work; now I fly.

When you’ve ridden to your destination, you get off.  When you’ve sailed to your destination, you just might want to stay right where you are – wherever that is.  You cook a dinner that would barely please a cub scout on land, but it’s delicious in a cockpit while the sun goes down.  If you’re lucky, your bladder gets you up in the middle of the night when the wind is still. The moon lays down a platinum trail across the water that a spirit could walk upon but not a man.  This, you realize, is what God is doing with the world when no one is looking.

If you’re lucky, someone you love is next to you and your two heads are sticking out the hatch to see it.  Either way, you take a deep breath and when you let it out, your whole soul pours out like smoke, across water, up the slopes of distant hills and away.  Then, in an instant, it snaps back inside your body like a rubber band, leaving you stunned and silent – knowing something too huge to explain and too small to mention has just happened to you, and changed you for the better.
 
Lawrence Brown of Hyannis teaches humanities at Cape Cod Academy in Osterville.  His column appears every Friday.  Reach him at 508-771-5096.

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Arrival at Javea

the ramp

Departure

During the first night out, Onawind's rudder was damaged,

causing some distress,

but successfully replaced using an oar.

The wind picks up and Ben shakes out a reef.

And is sailing in earnest.

The approach to Ibiza


These still's are video captures by Thomas Armstrong, original materials courtesy Ben Crenshaw

Onawind Blue is a Gavin Atkin design, a light trow built by Ben Crawshaw in Tarragona, Catalonia, Spain. She carries a balanced lug yawl rig and is inspired by British workboat history, but as with all of Gavin's designs, adapted for modern materials and building techniques. Ben's build and subsequent adventures are chronicled on his weblog, The Invisible Workshop. This summer Ben and Onawind cruised from Javea to Ibiza and back again. Ben was able to chronicle his journey on video and has assembled six episodes documenting the trip. Having viewed four of these serially posted episodes, I am compelled to write about them and share my impressions, as I feel they are exceptional.

Watching these short vignettes of the cruise I was entranced. There is a mystical and slightly surreal quality to them, an intimacy which pulls the viewer into another world, the world of the mythic voyage. The mood is set early and enhanced by the mesmerizing and slightly eerie music of Mónica Oca. The somber tone of her piece contrasts sharply with the bright sunlit Mediteranean Sea. Ben has, for me at least, managed with simple and spare means to raise the cruising documentary to the level of art. I hope you will enjoy them as much as I am.

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We just started carrying this new title:

Here's a gorgeous, high-quality photo book--perfect for the coffee table and for inspiration, design ideas, etc. All along the northeast coast, from Newport to Nova Scotia, there are charming harbors that beckon you with names such as Sorrento, Friendship, Rogue Bluffs, Seal Cove, Fishers Landing, and Birch Harbor. Dinghies are a mainstay of these harbors. These small boats, including prams, skiffs, and tenders, can be very rudimentary in their design or works of exceptional craftsmanship...Paired with quotations from great thinkers, and the short story "Rowboat" from author Peter H. Spectre, the photographs in Afloat on the Tide offer a reflective journey through the strikingly beautiful world of small wooden craft. 200 Color plates. Paperback. 208 pages. 8.5 x 8.5" $29.95   Click here to order.

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Now, I'm not some kind of hairy-giant-supersailor. Compared to anyone likely to read this, I'm a noob.  I am in the early stages of learning how to navigate my tiny vessel while avoiding serious consequences like sinking, lawyers, drowning, setting the marina on fire, etc. I am stumbling along like everyone else, learning as I go. Perhaps in a decade or so I can intone with authority on matters nautical, and pass judgment on those whose performance does not measure up to my lofty ideals.

Which makes this post a bit of a dilemma for me. On one hand, what the heck do I know?  On the other hand, well, I just can't help myself sometimes.  So here we go.

Back in the day, I used to be a pilot. No, I was not Chuck Yeager or anything remotely resembling him, but I used to fly around Northern California in small rented planes, going after the $200 cheeseburger, and taking various hot women for plane rides.  The ladies were generally unimpressed (with one exception, who currently happens to be the lovely Admiral), but I did learn some things about personal responsibility.  My flight instructor, a great fellow named Rodney Janssen, had a mantra that he drilled into my brain at every opportunity: Aviate, Navigate, Communicate. Aviate meant fly the damn airplane--  Everything else is secondary to that. Once you've taken care of Aviating, Navigate-- Stay found, and know where you're going. Once you've taken care of those two things, then you can jabber on the radio, or Communicate. Rodney used to pound that mantra into me so much that I began adding stuff to it-- Aviate, Navigate, Communicate, Flaggelate, and Fornicate!  Only once did Rodney threaten to forcibly eject me from the Cessna at 8,000 feet.

Anyway, even I was eventually able to understand the point that Rodney was making.  It boils down to the concept of the "Pilot In Command". This is a term with both documentary and legal implications, as in "The Pilot In Command was eating strawberries off the ample cleavage of the female passenger when the aircraft impacted the bridge", or, more commonly,  per FAR (Federal Aviation Regulations) part 1.1:

Pilot in command means the person who:

(1) Has final authority and responsibility for the operation and safety of the flight;

(2) Has been designated as pilot in command before or during the flight; and

(3) Holds the appropriate category, class, and type rating, if appropriate, for the conduct of the flight.

Any pilot will tell you that being alone in an airplane up in the sky is special. Your skills, and the continued structural integrity of the aircraft are the only thing keeping you alive.  99.99999% of the time you can relax and enjoy the scenery.  The other 0.000001% of the time you're landing in the Hudson, praise Sully. But bottom line, It's all you, Bud.  If you screw up, panic, or suddenly forget how to fly the airplane, you'll be the first person to arrive at the scene of the crash.  If you get confused in your navigation, you run out of gas halfway to Hawaii. If you get attacked by demons and start speaking in tongues, the FAA will want to talk to you after you blunder through their airspace singing to Beelzebub.  Nobody is going to help you-- No matter what deity happens to be your Copilot. It's you, and nobody else. From the moment you untie the airplane to the moment you reattach the tethers, you hold your fate in your hands.

Now, I know you hold your fate in your hands when you are doing lots of other things, like driving a car, riding a bicycle, making explosives, bungee jumping, asking girls on dates, etc.  But there is a whole different thing about decisions made in the air compared to, say, decisions about whether to have another helping of bacon.

Which brings me to sailing. It seems to me that some people should not be allowed to take a watercraft any further offshore than they are able to swim.

Venturing forth on the sea has traditionally been an awesome way for one to inadvertently remove oneself from the gene pool. Since the first flea-infested caveman sailed a log over the horizon to his doom, sailors have been discovering that the sea can be dangerous. I learned this fairly early on: In the Navy, I once rode a frigate between two typhoons in the South China Sea. I remember green water above the bridge, which itself was 60 feet above the waterline. The seas carried away some external fire hoses, and tore a hydrant off the fore deck.  We had a geyser there for a while before Damage Control could locate the valve to shut it off. When things settled down, we discovered the superstructure had cracked for about 12 feet at the deck line, from the impact of seas. This on a warship, built to take battle damage. That experience told me things about the power of the sea that a childhood spent watching breakers land on Fort Cronkhite Beach only hinted at. Later in my life, exploring San Francisco Bay in various boats and  sea kayaks provided further lessons on the sea. I've never survived the Perfect Storm, but I don't need to.  I get it.

When you venture out onto what is essentially a hostile environment, you need to be Pilot In Command, whether you're 6,000 feet in the air or sailing across Raccoon Straits. If you're on a boat, when things go amiss you may have more time to deal with it than the guy in the airplane, but the consequences of failing to deal with it effectively can be just as serious. Aviate, Navigate, Communicate. On the water, you need to be  a sailor.  Or you need to be back home, safe on the couch, reading Joshua Slocum.

Lots of sailing publications relate  the misadventures of various people on the water. A few years back, some guy was cruising at night in the Sea Of Cortez, and ran up on a sandbar at O-dark thirty. In his story, he relates how the first thing he did upon coming to an unexpected halt was fetch the flares and fire them off into the night.  Huh?  You just ran aground and the first thing you think of is to launch a flare? Personally, I'd be working to get the boat back in deep water, not rooting around in a locker for the flare gun. This guy was not acting like a Pilot In Command--  Instead of taking responsibility and dealing with the situation, his first reaction was to send flares into the sky in a fruitless plea for salvation from the cosmos (he was far offshore, and there was nobody but Neptune to see his pyrotechnic show).  If I remember correctly, the boat was lost, though all crew were eventually rescued.

A more recent tale recounted how a fellow was motoring along halfway to Bermuda, when a passenger noticed water in the galley sink, which was a sign that the bilge pump was working.  Without knowing the cause of the water inflow, the guy decides to issue a mayday call. Upon further investigation it was discovered that a part had broken on the engine and the water pump was transferring sea water into the boat. They shut down the engine, and the water stopped.  The mayday call was canceled, and the worst thing to come out of that was the boater had to actually use his sails to get to his destination.

Mark me as old-fashioned, but to me a mayday call is not something you just toss out in the aether.  At least the flare guy probably only annoyed a couple of seagulls-- Mayday guy probably caused adrenaline squirtage for a 400 mile radius, and possibly the mobilization of who knows how many coast guard people. To me, a mayday call should be reserved for those holy-crap-save-my-doomed-ass moments, not for "yikes, our bilge pump is running and I'm scared!".  A Pilot In Command would have figured out what the problem was before bleating for help on the radio.  Jeesh.

Parenthetically, I understand being scared.  If water was coming into my boat I'd clench up a bit too. But I submit that if you are going to take your boat across open water, to Bermuda no less, you better be prepared to deal with water coming in before you untie from the dock.  And your plan should not be to scream for help. Pilot. In. Command.

Those are just two examples, but many more can be found. I seems to me that there is a growing percentage of boaters, versus sailors, out there on the water. Remember those poor football player guys that went offshore in Florida, and got swamped and drowned?  Boaters.  They took to sea in an entirely unsuitable vessel. I'm sure the conditions were nice when they started, and if they had stayed 10 feet off the shoreline there would have been no problem, but the guy that made the choice to go offshore in that boat was not behaving like a Pilot In Command.  At the very least, he had a lack of imagination. A true sailor would recognize that the boat was unsuitable for most potential conditions; a boater just wants to go fishing. Or water-skiing. or jet-skiing. 

I enjoy walking the docks;  many of the powerboats are very swoopy and cool, but would scare the crap out of me in a seaway.  Someone thinking like a  Pilot In Command would  decide not to go to sea on anything that might capsize if hit by a wave in the wrong place.

While waiting for a launch at the lake one blustery day, I watched a bass boat get  pooped as it was being put in the water.  The boat did not ship too much water, but conditions were such that it could have, and possibly sunk at the ramp.  That would have been embarrassing, but what it the same thing happened out in the middle of the lake?  When it was my turn to go I was a little nervous, but had my daggerboard cranked down immediately after being cast off, and when I put the main up I had already put two reefs in while in the parking lot.  My sailboat, I submit, was much better suited for  the conditions than a bass boat.  Personally, I would never have launched in any kind of powerboat in those conditions. But that fisherman, plus several others, went out on the lake that day. I think I was being a good Pilot In Command by (a) having a seaworthy boat, and (b) taking protective precautions before launching.  The other guys, not so much, in my opinion.

So I guess what I'm grousing about is that too many people seem to be unprepared to go to sea-- They don't understand the potential hazard, or don't care.  They chose unsuitable craft, or don't understand how to manage an appropriate boat.  And when something goes wrong, they bleat for help on the radio.  They Communicate, but fail on the rest of Rodney's mantra.   I fear that we are going to see an increasing number of mishaps befalling such people.  It's kind of like all the fat yuppies riding motorcycles you see nowadays-- Lots more people are doing it, with a corresponding rise in the number of people plowing into the sides of minivans.  How many of the people buying sailboats are actually sailors, and how many will activate their EPIRB when the head gets clogged?

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We're hard at work on what will be our 61st issue--that means we've officially been at this for 10 years now. Should be a great issue. Some of the articles featured include: • Burton Blais on cruising the Thousand Islands in his Sea Pearl • Scruffie Marine's Stornaway and Secret 20 • Story of the first ever Columbia 150 sailing rally • A Philip Teece story about a strange little island • Larry Brown on a life sailing • Paul Butler on building lighter and stronger • The next installment of the Howard Rice interview • A look back at 12 production boats that especially impressed us over the years. And lots more...

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For those of you who are unfamiliar with the TV showAmerica's Funniest Home Videos, it's a long-running (20 years) American program in which people send in their home movies for comedic effect. Each show varies, but the general theme includes a fair amount of time devoted to videos of people screwing up in assorted amusing ways. Think "hold my beer and watch this!" and you won't be too far off, though there are plenty of barfing-at-the-wedding or felling-tree-onto-the-house kinds of videos as well. Sprinkle in the obligatory cute little kid and pet videos, and you have a pretty entertaining show.

I have found AFV to be an invaluable parenting resource. My children have watched this show basically their entire lives. When one of my kids (usually a boy kid for some reason) is on the verge of doing something that will almost certainly result in serious nard damage, say riding a bike off the roof into the swimming pool, I don't pre-emptively freak out, I just calmly remind said Boy of the outcome of a similar effort by some painfully racked performer on the TV show. Invariably, said Boy reflects for a moment, then agrees to climb down off the roof and return the colander helmet to the kitchen. No nard damage whatever. It's great. No arguments, no testosterone-poisoned bravado, just a calm recognition that what seems to be a great idea may not in fact be so brilliant.

(A friend suggests that the TV show Cops might be an equally valuable resource. I think I'll save that one for when puberty happens-- in case the boys are tempted to buy wife-beater T-shirts.)

For Christmas a couple of years back,  we bought a trampoline for the kids. Now around here, parents seem to be of three distinct minds with regard to trampolines: The first group also purchases this protective net thing that wraps around the trampoline, ostensibly to prevent Junior from launching himself sideways into a fence, car, or running wood chipper. That's understandable, their kids probably have not had the training that America's Funniest Home Videos so generously provides, and are highly likely to attempt suicide if not securely contained in a circus net.

The second group is slightly less paranoid, and digs a huge hole to place the net-less trampoline at ground level. This certainly eliminates the hazard that an elevated platform presents, but does little to prevent junior from executing a flawless, low-altitude half-gainer into the patio firepit. Plus, the semi-concealed nature of the trampoline can cause issues when one is drunkenly stumbling about the backyard in the dark, buck naked in a thunderstorm. We've all been there, right?

The last group, including yours truly, simply tries to position the trampoline out in the open, where when the child turns into a misguided missile they can be reasonably sure of not landing on anything too sharp, hard, or expensive (We also try to avoid nearby power lines just in case). This category of parent is split into two sub-groups: Those with video cameras, and those who watch AFV. The people with video cameras at the ready capture hours of video showing gooberheads having painful fun with physics. They then send these videos to the producers of America's Funniest Videos, who in turn show them on the TV show. Parents like me force our kids to watch said unfortunate impromptu acrobats, thus imbibing our precious offspring with what amounts to tribal knowledge, of the non-gooberhead variety. It's like survival of the fittest by TV Training -- Darwin would be so proud.

Anyway, when I am sailing, I find myself constantly running a "what would AFV do?" subroutine in the back of my mind. Now I'm sure that everyone reading this (being a salty bunch, yarrr) has some equivalent subconscious safety program running in their minds too, but I submit that safety knowledge gleaned from a book, no matter how good that book is, is no comparison to watching some fool bust his nuts on a bow pulpit. And then laughing about it.

I know, for example , that it is never a good idea to take a flying leap for the dock as you approach. AFV has hilariously demonstrated how that can go wrong, many times. As soon as I am tempted to take such a leap, the little video shows in my reptilian fore brain and I suddenly have an attack of common sense. I veer off and try a different strategy, one that (usually) does not result in nard damage. I never learned that from K. Adlard Coles.

I know that screwing around on a wet foredeck in bare feet can result in a spectacular triple gainer, bouncing off of various boat parts, until you finish with a nice belly flop. Then you get to watch your boat sail itself over the horizon without you (the one time it sails by itself without you tending the tiller, of course). The Bluejacket's Manual has nothing to say about that, I assure you.

AFC has taught me the wisdom of approaching the dock slowly, instead of at full speed. This is one sailor who is not going to launch Grandma over the bow pulpit as we pulverize an innocent bystander's dingy under a full-sail docking maneuver.

So, I think that any serious safety-minded sailor should put away the sailing books, crack open a beer, and watch America's Funniest Home Videos. This especially applies to those of you who also own jet skis. You know who you are. Let the other guy do dumb, klutzy, or insane stuff so you don't have to, and we'll all be happier in the long run. And we won't have to use the boathook to gaff grandma out of the bay.

For the rest of you, please remember to bring the video camera, OK?  The safety of my children depends on you.

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