YACHT'S SAILING BOATS
BY THE EARL OF PEMBROKE AND MONTGOMERY
'Why in the world do not yachting people make more use of their
sailing boats?' I have often thought, while gazing on a bright breezy
morning at some great steam yacht, capable of carrying one or more
fine sailing boats, and presently observing her owners and their
guests, all arrayed in faultless yachting costume, departing for the
shore in their steam launch to spend their time pottering about some
dull and dirty little seaport town, when they might, some or all of
them, be enjoying the most glorious sail, with who knows what
possibilities in the way of fishing thrown in. Even landing and
putting off to the ship become a pleasure when they are done under
sail instead of steam or oars. I have had many an interesting and
exhilarating day's sailing which has been made up entirely of trips
between the yacht and the shore with passengers, luggage, provisions,
telegrams, and what not. Yet, though in these days large yachts may be
numbered by the hundred, and many of them carry fine sailing boats, I
can count on the fingers of one hand the vessels I happen to have met
which both carry and habitually use a sailing boat for the purposes of
cruising, landing, and fishing. It is really very curious; and I can
only account for it by supposing that many people who go to sea in
large yachts do not know how much amusement there is to be got out of
such a boat, and the ease and nicety with which she can be handled.
For when there is any wind at all a sailing cutter can land anywhere
where it is safe to take a steam launch, and with a little practice it
is as easy to take her alongside a ship's ladder as a six-oared gig.
And when a yacht is on a cruise, moving daily from port to port, a
sailing cutter takes considerably less time to get ready than a steam
launch. Anywhere on the coast she can generally be carried in the
davits with her mast stepped and rigged, so that there is nothing to
do but to lower the ballast into her and loose the sails, and she is
ready to start. Of course there are places and days when the steam
launch is of use and the sailing boat is not; but they are not so
numerous as one might suppose. One year when, after a severe illness,
I spent all the spring and early summer cruising in the Mediterranean,
and the autumn on the coast of Scotland, I thought it advisable to
take a steam launch as well as my sailing cutter. I found that at the
end of this long cruise I had used her just three times. I have never
carried one since. It is not advisable on vessels of less than 400
tons (yacht measurement) to carry two such heavy boats. They are not
safe in the davits on an ocean voyage, and two of them carried inboard
completely block the deck amidships; but a yacht of 500 tons or more
can perfectly carry both, if a steam launch is considered necessary.
As for the fun to be got out of her, a good sailing boat simply
doubles the pleasure of yachting. It combines the amusement of small
yacht sailing with all the advantages and comforts of a large vessel
to sail in from port to port. When the anchor goes down, and fires are
banked or put out, your fun begins rather than ends. In less than half
an hour you are off in your cutter, to sail, to fish, or to explore;
perhaps, when you are tired of sailing, to land in some snug, inviting
cove, and to feel the fascination of a ramble in strange and beautiful
ground; to sit on the hillside and watch the sun go down in glory, and
to make your way back to the ship as the rosy light dies out and the
purple hills grow black.
And the next day, let us suppose, is a fine one. Sea and sky are of a
rapturous blue, and a pleasant summer breeze is blowing in from the
sea. The great yachting question of the morning, 'What shall we do
to-day?' is scarcely debated at breakfast at all. It is pre-eminently
a day for sailing. The cutter is got ready at once, and you beat out
towards the open water. In all probability there are fish to be
caught, for you noted a quantity of birds fishing off the mouth of the
bay when you steamed in yesterday--but you really hardly care whether
there are fish or not, it is so good simply to be alive and sailing
the sea on such a day. The sun warms you through in your shirt
sleeves, the steady breeze is balmy to feel, and though it is the
coast of Scotland you are vaguely reminded of coral islands and trade
winds.
[Illustration: Whales.]
As you work out to seaward it becomes evident that you are in a fishy
sea, for the foolish confidential little guillemots and razorbills (he
that shooteth such knoweth not how to live nor the nature and object
of things) are squeaking and croaking and ducking under water all
round. And lo! close ahead appear two whales, not mere black fish
(whatever they may be), but great fellows looking 40 feet long on a
moderately calm computation, spouting and showing their black backs
at intervals. You go as close to them as they will let you and watch
with breathless fascination their oily movements so full of lazy
strength and sensuous enjoyment; and you call them bottle-noses or
finbacks or rorquals according to your individual taste and fancy; for
the scientific classification of whales is in an extraordinarily
imperfect state, and even the Encyclopædia, that settler of disputes
and averter of quarrels that no yacht should ever be without, will
give you but little assistance.
But you must tear yourself away from the whales, for half a mile to
windward there you sight a cloud of birds fishing furiously, the
gannets swooping and soaring, and then suddenly shutting their wings
and dropping in quick succession, pop, pop, pop, like bullets into the
sea; and a dense mass of gulls flying and swimming, screaming and
squattering, and flapping their wings on the surface of the water. How
a gull ever gets a living is a wonder; he seems so dainty and
hesitating and afraid to commit himself. A gannet will soar, plunge,
dive under water, and swallow half a dozen little fish while a gull is
apparently making up his mind whether it is worth while to risk
wetting his feet.
As soon as your boat will fetch, you go about and stand straight for
the birds, overhauling meanwhile the 'whiffing' or 'railing' lines
that are towing astern, to make sure that there is nothing foul, and
that there is no seaweed on your silvery spinners. You are all keen,
but not too sanguine, for there is never a certainty of catching fish
like this. Sometimes you may sail backwards and forwards till you are
sick of it through a mob of feeding seabirds, trying every sort of
bait and never getting a ghost of a bite. Either it is herring that
they are after, or else it is that the unknown big fish who are
hunting up the small fry to the birds from below will not take a bait.
You are close now, and there is a noise not unlike that of the
parrot-house in the Zoological Gardens. Mackerel is what you hope for;
gurnard you will put up with; pollack will not be caught in any
numbers so far from the shore. You shake your sails to reduce your
pace, and then, filling them again, stand straight in amongst the
screaming gulls, and as they reluctantly rise from the water and the
little guillemots squatter away and dive, you get a rapid vision of
fish shooting about near the top of the water and little tiny silver
things rippling its surface and hopping feebly above.
A moment more and the lines tauten: 'Mackerel it is, by Jingo!' and as
soon as the lines are out again and no one feels another bite, round
goes the boat again, and back through the school. So you go on,
sometimes catching them slowly and singly, sometimes two at once as
fast as the lines can be got out, until you have several dozen in the
bottom of the boat. All of a sudden the fish cease to bite and the
birds fly away. They gather again into a new cluster half a mile off,
and away you go for it as fast as you can sail, and begin catching
fish once more. Once more the fish stop biting, and the birds move
off, and you can see no more of them fishing except a very few a long
way to windward. It seems a sin to go home on such a day, and it is
too early to try for pollack with so bright a sun. But your chart
shows you a fishing-bank close to, and you have got a few herrings for
bait; so you make for this place, and get the exact spot by the
relative bearings of points and islands, and drop your anchor in
twenty fathoms.
Hardly are the lines down before it becomes evident that you are in
the right place. Whiting, haddock, and gurnard come up with rapidity,
varied by an occasional cod, skate, or bream. You have caught quite a
lot before the dog-fish set in. Then it is all over. First comes one,
then another, and then nothing else. In vain you despatch them with
knives and throw their bleeding corpses back into the sea to terrify
the rest. Dogfish have no nerves that you can work upon in this way.
The sight and smell of their murdered relations and friends only whet
their appetites and make them the more greedy. You give it up in
despair, haul your anchor up, and get under sail once more.
It is now late in the afternoon. The day has changed for the
worse--weather changes quick in these latitudes--and looks rather
wild and windy, with promise of more to come before long. But your
port is to leeward, so you need not be anxious, and you make up your
minds to fish for pollack round the headlands and the islands at the
mouth of the bay; for just before sundown is the best time of all,
especially if it is about half flood. You take a reef down in both
sails to make the boat slower and easier to handle, for you do not
want to have to devote all your attention to keeping her right side up
when you are fishing for pollack close in to the rocks. The tack is
triced up so as to let the steerer see under it; a crutch is shipped
on each side of the boat, and a couple of oars are cleared and made
ready for instant use if required. One man stands up in the bows to
look out for rocks, and also to attend to the peak halliards when
called upon; two others handle the lines on which a red or a white
india-rubber sand-eel has been substituted for the spinners; while the
steerer takes tiller in one hand and mainsheet in the other, and
concentrates all his faculties on regulating the pace of the boat, and
going as near as he can to the rocks without incurring shipwreck or
fouling the lines.
[Illustration: The swoop of the gannet.]
In this order you coast slowly along about twenty yards from the
steep cliffs, running out occasionally to avoid reefs and shoal
places, the steerer keeping the speed to something under three knots
an hour by slacking the mainsheet and spilling the sail when the wind
is abeam, and hauling it right in when it is aft, occasionally
dropping the peak as well. Every now and then, generally off a point,
you catch a fish, and when you do you go about to see if there are
more in the same place. But fish seem scarce, and the sport is rather
slow until you sail through a narrow channel between two islands. Then
in a moment there is a heavy fish on each line, and no sooner are they
hauled on board and the lines thrown out again than the same thing
happens. You have struck fish at last in earnest. While the hooks are
being disengaged up goes the peak, and you stand back close-hauled
through the narrow channel. Backwards and forwards you go, again and
again, with varying luck. Now you haul in two at a time, now you give
a groan of dismay as a monster gets off as you are in the act of
swinging him in. Sometimes the boat will not go fast enough to make
the fish bite, and there is agony of mind; sometimes it _will_ go too
fast. But on the whole the fishing is fast and furious, and you are
all wild with excitement; and then--snap goes a snooding with a
particularly big fish, and you must fish with one line till the other
is refitted. The wind heads the boat off standing back through the
channel this time; the centreboard hits a rock and bumps up into its
case; there is no harm done, but alas! the remaining line gets foul of
the rock before it can be shortened up, and snaps above the lead, and
there is nothing for it but to stand off until the tackle is repaired;
the steersman, who has to look on, grinding his teeth with impatience
as the precious moments slip away. But, though minutes seem hours, you
are soon at work again, and by the time that darkness brings the sport
to an end you have caught some four dozen fine pollack, the larger
ones 9 lb. or 10 lb. apiece. And you sail home full of that sense of
physical well-being and mental contentment that comes of a long day
spent in pure air, healthy enjoyment, and freedom from care. And,
somehow, it is not on days like these that one looks back with the
keenest sense of having wasted time.
Or imagine a morning of quite another sort. The sky is gloomy; the sun
is quite invisible; it is raining occasionally, and a strong searching
wind is blowing. The seas are running up in magnificent white masses
on the islands outside the mouth of the loch. It is too cold to sit on
deck; indeed it seems cold everywhere on board. It is impossible to do
anything with the yacht, for you want to go south, and it is evidently
blowing a gale outside from the south-west. It is the sort of day on
which, if you had no boat, and there was nothing to do on shore, you
would sit shivering most of the time below, trying to read, thinking
what a miserable business yachting is in bad weather, and feeling ill
from defective circulation. But if you have a good boat such a day has
positive charms. You and your boating pal look in each other's eyes
and say, almost in a breath, 'Let's beat out round the islands and see
what the sea is like.' Indeed you almost persuade yourselves that it
is a duty to do so with a view to the possibility of getting away
to-morrow. So your boat is hauled alongside, and a little extra
ballast is put in, and you and your mate get your oilskins, and,
dropping into her, double reef your mainsail and foresail, and shove
off. And by the time you have got your sheets trimmed, your halliards
coiled away, and everything made snug, you are already as warm as any
reasonable men can wish to be.
It is a long leg and a short one out of the harbour, and you get a
heavy puff now and again from over the high land that brings your
lee-rail level with the water, and makes you luff in a hurry. Three or
four tacks bring you to the headlands of the bay, and as you stand out
from under the weather-shore you begin to feel the real wind and sea.
There is plenty of both, and you have to do all you know with tiller
and sheet to negotiate the big seas that roll up on the weather-bow
and to keep the lee-gunwale out of the water at the same time. It is
just a little more than you can manage. A couple of steep combers
that you have to luff up to knock all the way out of the boat and make
her stagger; the next sea throws her head off the wind, while at the
same time a heavy puff forces her lee-side under water. You put the
helm down, but she has had no time to gather much way, and is slow
coming to; you are forced to let go the sheet, but she has taken a
good drop on board before she comes up, and there are more big seas
coming. 'It won't do,' you say to your mate; 'we must have another
reef in.' So you drop your peak, and wear, and run back under the
shelter of the point, and take your third reef down. Then you stand
out and try again; and it is wonderful what a difference the reduction
of canvas has made. She stands well up, and rides beautifully over the
big seas, hardly shipping a cupful of water as she rears up and lets
them pass under her. It is an art, if a simple one, steering a boat to
windward in a big sea. You have to put her almost straight at the
worst seas, and yet you must never let her lose way, or she will fall
off broadside to the sea, and perhaps be too 'sick' to come to again
in time to prevent a vicious wave from breaking on board or capsizing
her. And there are few things more exhilarating. Every big sea
successfully surmounted is a triumph in itself, and the winning of
ground to windward foot by foot against wind and sea feels like an
arduous but steadily victorious struggle against a sturdy foe.
And now you find you can weather the island, and, choosing a 'smooth,'
go about for the last time. If the seas breaking on it looked fine
from the yacht nearly three miles off, they look awe-inspiring now
close under your lee with their roar thundering in your ears. Now you
are no longer riding head first over the seas, but running free at a
slashing pace, sheet in hand, watching the sea narrowly over your
shoulder, ready to luff instantly if some specially dangerous monster
should make it necessary.
And when you are well clear of the rocks you bear up and run before
it--most glorious and exulting sensation of all. The big seas come
hissing and growling up in pursuit, and lift up her stern on high,
and the boat seems positively to fly as she tears down their steep
faces. You have to use all your strength at the tiller to keep her
straight, and your mate keeps the peak halliards in hand and lowers
the peak now and again to ease your task and avert a possible broach
to. In less than half an hour you are back on board the yacht; a
little wet, maybe, but tingling with exhilaration, and warmed through
for the rest of the day.
These are but two typical sails out of many that might be sketched,
for the variations of weather and sea and coast are nearly endless,
and the yachtsman who is a persistent boat-sailer will find his memory
stocked with glowing recollections of rapturous sails and fascinating
explorations wherever his yacht has taken him--in breezy English
waters, and on the wild west coasts of Scotland and Ireland; in Greece
and Italy, and many a pleasant land in the Mediterranean Sea; perhaps
even the Coral Islands of the South Pacific, and the wooded bays of
far New Zealand.
Of course there is a reverse side to the picture--days when storms
make sailing too dangerous to be quite pleasant, and more often, days
when want of wind makes it almost intolerably tiresome. To row, or be
rowed in, a heavy boat halfway across the Bay of Naples by night is
certainly an experience in tediousness. Though even such an ordeal as
that is not quite without its compensations. But I feel it is rash of
me to say so.
Like so many things material and other in the world we live in, every
boat is necessarily a compromise between inconsistent objects. In
building a boat you must compromise somewhere between speed and
stability, weatherliness and the advantages of light draught. And in
the case of a yacht's boat freedom of choice in design is limited by
some special considerations. She must not be too heavy to carry in the
davits; she must not exceed a certain length, say 25 feet; she must
not be too broad in the beam to be carried inboard; and her draught of
water must be somewhat shallow for the sake of convenience in
landing. Subject to these conditions, stability is, I am sure, the
object that should principally be aimed at in the construction of a
yacht's boat. The ever-present and the most serious danger of
boat-sailing is that of being overpowered by weather: that is to say,
of being overtaken by a wind so strong that the boat will not carry
any canvas sufficient to work her without instantly capsizing or
filling with water. And a very ordinary gale of wind, such as occurs
on our coasts once at least in most months of the year, will be enough
for this, and will, especially if combined with sea, so overpower any
open boat, of a size that can be carried on a yacht, that is exposed
to its full strength, that she will be unable to show any canvas to it
except just to scud before it.
I am aware that this statement will be felt a little startling,
perhaps even by some sailors; but I have tried a good many experiments
in sailing boats in rough weather, and I am sure it is true of any
boat that the yacht-owner is likely to carry.
Builders of yachts' sailing boats are not, somehow, usually very
successful in making boats 'stiff.' They will not make them flat
enough in the floor, or, if they do, do not make it the right shape.
Their idea, generally, is to build a boat that will beat boats of a
similar class in regattas, and sail fast on a fine day in the smooth
waters of a harbour; and if you allow them their own way, they will
generally provide you with a crank boat, over-masted and
over-canvassed, that may sail very fast in a light wind and smooth
water, but which will be overpowered at once in a fresh breeze and a
choppy sea. And some day, even perhaps after you have done your best
to make her more seaworthy by lightening her mast and cutting down her
canvas, you may have the mortification of seeing a fishing-boat no
larger than your own craft making a good passage and standing up like
a stake under her close-reefed sail, whilst you are unable to show a
rag to the wind without being at once overpowered. And remember that
you cannot make an open boat stiff by the simple process of loading
her with ballast, as even some sailors vainly suppose. Beyond the
amount which brings her to her best sailing trim in a good breeze, and
which experience of the boat will teach you, additional ballast hardly
makes her appreciably stiffer, and does make her very appreciably
slower. Make stability, then, your primary object, and impress on your
builder that he must not sacrifice it to speed; and that, as it is out
of the question to obtain it by means of a lead or iron keel, the
weight of such a thing in the case of a large boat being quite
prohibitory (not to speak of inconvenience in landing), he must make
her flat in the floor and give her plenty of beam.
With the same object in mind, her spread of canvas should be moderate
but sufficient, and her masts and spars no heavier than is really
necessary. These are generally quite needlessly stout. If the mast is
strong enough to capsize the boat without breaking, it is as strong as
it need be; anything beyond this merely means additional topweight,
decreasing the stability of the boat, and doing no service. A very
light mast, if properly stayed by a couple of wire shrouds on each
side, will stand an immense strain.
It is a disputable question whether such a boat should be a lifeboat.
The air-tight compartments, usually made of copper, certainly add to
her weight, and, some say, make her less stiff. On the other hand, it
is pleasant to feel that your boat is unsinkable, and that if you
knock a hole through her bottom with a rock, or ship an unlucky sea,
she will not go down. But if you decide, as I should do, on a
lifeboat, be sure that she really is one, and that her air-tight
compartments are large enough to float her with ballast and crew on
board. A 25-ft. cutter, such as is built by White of Cowes, will carry
more than half a ton of ballast and half a dozen people quite
comfortably when she is full of water. But I have seen small
steam-launches, nominally lifeboats, that would undoubtedly, with
their engines and boilers on board, sink like stones if they were
filled with water.
Wooden air-tight compartments are lighter than copper tanks, but they
are apt to warp and become leaky. Twenty-two years ago, in New
Zealand, I had a lifeboat sailing-cutter sent out to me by long sea
that I had had built for me in England. As soon as she arrived I took
a friend out for a sail on a rough day and filled her with water, just
to show him her marvellous properties. The result was ignominious. The
water-tight (!) compartments filled, and we drifted helplessly home,
thanking the Fates that we had nothing but water ballast on board.
The shape of the stern is another point on which opinions may
reasonably differ. There is much to be said in favour of a boat being
sharp at both ends. A sharp stern is undoubtedly safer when running
through broken water or before a heavy sea, and when a boat 'squats'
in running before a strong wind it does not drag dead water behind it,
and makes a cleaner wake. But unless increased length can be given to
the boat it diminishes stiffness. The square-sterned boat carries her
bearings farther aft, and so, if both are of the same length, the
square-sterned boat, other things being equal, will be the stiffest of
the two. But if you decide for a square stern let the boat have a fine
run aft, and let the square surface of the stern be small and well up
out of the water.
Any sort of a counter is an abomination, dangerous to a boat in a
sea-way.
She should have a good side; that is, a high side above water. It adds
to her stability, as well as making her much drier. If her side is
rather low, washboards fixed along the top of the gunwale will be
found advantageous in rough weather. She should be higher out of water
at both ends than amidships, and the line of her rail should describe
a graceful curve from bow to stern. A boat that looks quite level from
end to end is generally a poor sea-boat, and, if her bottom
corresponds with her top, a bad steerer besides.
I think she should certainly have a centreboard. Several of the
smartest yachts' cutters use instead a half-moon-shaped keel of
galvanised iron, clamped on to the keel of the boat. I cannot see that
this contrivance, which makes a boat useless for anything but
deep-water sailing, has any advantages of its own over a centreboard,
and its disadvantages are serious. It makes it impossible to beach the
boat, or to attempt any landing-place when the water may be shallow,
and whenever the boat runs aground or hits a rock, as she is sure to
do sometimes when fishing or exploring, it is nearly certain to get
broken or bent; and whenever it is left behind, a boat of this kind
will cease to be very weatherly, and may even miss stays. Moreover, it
must be rather an awkward thing to put on and take off when the boat
is in the davits.
[Illustration: 'Black Pearl's' cutter, midship section.]
A wooden false keel of more graduated shape, deep in the middle and
tapering to nothing at the ends, is a better contrivance, but it is
open to some of the same objections about landing, in a minor degree.
It is hardly necessary at the present day to combat the prejudice
against centreboards. But for many years there was a curious dislike
and distrust of them among British boat-sailers and builders. They
were excluded altogether from most regattas; and not one in twenty of
the boats that would have been vastly improved by them were ever
fitted with them. They were regarded, for some mysterious reason, as
unseaworthy, unsportsmanlike, and unfair; and when the average boating
man found his craft beaten out of sight in going to windward by a
centreboard boat, he considered the discovery that she had a
centreboard a satisfactory explanation of his defeat, and seldom drew
the further conclusion that a centreboard was an excellent thing.
And yet, after nearly twenty-five years' experience of them, I have
never been able to discover what the objections to them are. The case
of the centreboard is said to get in the way; but unless you want to
load your whole boat with very bulky cargo, I am unable to conceive
what it can get in the way of. And the merits of a centreboard are
many and obvious. It enables you to combine the advantages of deep and
shallow draught. You can run your boat up on a beach, and be holding
your own to windward against a deep-keeled yacht ten minutes
afterwards. It makes the most ordinary boat weatherly, smart, and
handy to steer. It gives you timely warning of shallow water, and the
only result of its touching the bottom or striking a rock is to send
it up into its case. I have never had my centreboard either bent or
broken by such contact. But it is well to have it lowered on a chain
or wire rather than on an iron shank, with a joint or two near the
handle, as in most of White's boats. Because when the centreboard hits
the bottom and is forced up into the case, these joints will double up
inside the case, and the solid part of the shank be driven through the
top of it; which would be unpleasant for anyone who happened to be
sitting there.
A centreboard, except in so far as its weight makes ballast, does not
make a boat stiffer, as the uninitiated often suppose, but in the case
of a broad, shallow boat, rather the reverse, as it prevents her from
being blown away to leeward. And in a boat such as is being here
considered, it should not be too heavy for one man to haul up. It
should be made of a thin sheet of galvanised iron.
As regards her rig, nothing is really so handy and capable as the
cutter, or, to speak more accurately, the sloop rig; consisting of
mainsail and foresail, as ordinary working canvas. I prefer the sloop
rig of a single foresail on a short iron bumpkin, to the end of which
the forestay is attached, to the cutter rig of staysail and jib with a
regular bowsprit; for a bowsprit is an awkward thing in rounding to
and coming alongside a ship, under all sorts of conditions of wind and
tide, and a second head-sail gives you more gear to attend to when you
are single-handed. And on a boat of this size a single foresail is not
too large to be easily handled.
What makes this rig so suitable for the peculiar and varied purposes
of a yacht's boat is, that, with mainsheet and peak halliards kept in
hand, it gives such absolute control over the pace and direction of
the boat at a moment's notice. In whiffing round the rocks after
pollack, for instance, in a flawy wind, by lowering and raising the
peak, and easing off and hauling in the mainsheet, it is easy to
maintain a perfectly level pace of two or three knots. In a squall, or
in going alongside a ship or a landing-place, the peak can be dropped
and the boat eased or checked at once without becoming unsailable.
This constitutes, in my opinion, a very important advantage over the
standing lugsail, of which, of course, the peak cannot be lowered. A
downhaul should be attached to the end of the gaff, as the peak will
not always drop when the wind is pressing the sail against the topping
lift.
[Illustration: Mainsheet on iron horse.]
The foresheets should lead aft and be made fast round cleats or pins
within reach of the steersman for convenience when sailing
single-handed; the mainsheet should travel on an iron horse across the
stern; but care should be taken that the shackle, A, that attaches
the block to the horse, should be of a size and shape that will not
jam when the block hangs down loosely, and perhaps takes a turn, as it
may in going about. One squally day this year, the writer, who had
always wondered how people could be so foolish as to get drowned
through their mainsheets being foul, found himself, after going about,
with the lower block of his mainsheet twisted and jammed under the
horse, at such an angle that the sheet would not run: while, to make
the mischief complete, the tiller was jammed by the block as well, so
that he could neither luff nor ease the sheet.
[Illustration: Sail-plan, 'Black Pearl's' cutter.]
A jackyard topsail that requires no topmast can be set, and a
spinnaker will be found very useful for running in light weather. A
bowsprit can also be run out and a jib set; but this will probably be
found to upset the balance of sail on the centreboard, and make her
carry lee-helm, in which case it will be of no use.
If a standing lugsail is preferred, the peak should be cut high, and
the long yard should be as light as is consistent with the necessary
strength. I can see no advantage over the cutter mainsail, except that
the halliards are rather simpler. Old sailors and fishermen will tell
you that a boat with a yard is always stiffer than one with a gaff.
With a dipping lug, such as fishermen use, or a balance lug, this
seems not improbable, as in these rigs a considerable part of the yard
and sail is to windward or in front of the mast; but with a standing
lugsail, which, if it has a boom, is practically identical in shape
with a cutter's mainsail, it is hard to believe that there is much in
it--the peak halliards can hardly make much difference.
A balance lug, however excellent for racing or for fine-weather
sailing in protected waters, is unsuited for the varied purposes of a
yacht's cutter, and the rough experiences to which she will be
exposed. For it is not possible either to lower the peak, or to trice
up the tack, or to brail up the sail by means of the topping-lift, and
in a squall it is not unlikely to jam against the mast and refuse to
come down.
Though the yawl may not be quite so handy as the cutter-rig in the
matter of instantaneous control of pace and direction--for there is
the mizzen as well as the mainsail to think about--it has certain
special and important advantages of its own. When it is necessary to
shorten sail, to strike the mizzen is equivalent to taking a reef in
the mainsail without any of the difficulty and delay involved in that
operation; or you can lower the mainsail and reef it at leisure whilst
you sail under foresail and mizzen. To lower the mainsail of a cutter
in order to reef it involves losing way and falling off to leeward.
Moreover, whether the sail be up or down, it is much easier to take
reefs down on the main-boom of a yawl, which is well inside the boat,
than on that of a cutter, which is right out over the stern. To haul
down and secure the earing on the main-boom of a cutter when she is
plunging in a sea-way and burying her rail with the force of the wind
is a difficult and even dangerous operation, which is not unlikely to
end, if you are not careful, in your finding yourself in the sea and
your boat careering gaily away without you.
The tiller of a yawl must be shaped or placed so that the mizzen-mast
does not get in its way; there are several ways of contriving this. A
yoke with lines does not give sufficient power, unless so large as to
be inconvenient.
[Illustration: 'Aline's' cutter (Colonel Gamble).]
The amount of ballast required will depend somewhat on the shape of
the boat, but about 11 cwt. will probably be found to be about the
right amount for a 25-ft. boat with three or four men on board under
ordinary circumstances. When there is a very strong wind and fewer
hands on board, an extra 2 cwt. or 3 cwt. may be added. But much extra
ballast makes a boat slow--much more so, oddly enough, than the same
amount of weight in people--without adding very much to her stability.
Blocks of lead about 1/2 cwt. each make the best ballast. These should
be cast so as to fit two long boxes along the floor on each side of
the keel in the centre of the boat. But it is well to have some of the
ballast in the form of shot-bags weighing about 40 lbs. each, which
can be placed further aft and shifted about as required.
Water ballast is unsatisfactory. Its bulk is not the only objection.
Its specific gravity is so small that it will not make a boat stiff,
and so even a boat that has no water-tight compartments will be safer
in a strong wind with lead or iron ballast. A lifeboat that will float
3/4 ton of lead or iron is, of course, much more so.
I give here dimensions, drawings, and diagrams of two typical yachts'
sailing boats, well suited for knocking about in all sorts of weather,
one belonging to the writer, the other to Colonel Gamble of the
'Aline.' The former, the 'Black Pearl's' cutter, is a 25-ft. lifeboat,
with copper air-tanks, built by Messrs. Fay & Co., from a design of T.
Soper's, with a centreboard, and sloop-rigged. She has a high side,
and a good deal of shear, while her forefoot is somewhat cut away. She
is fairly fast, and weatherly, fairly stiff, and a beautiful sea-boat.
She carries usually 11 cwt. of ballast, occasionally as much as 14
cwt.
[Illustration: s.s. 'Aline's' lifeboat (Colonel Gamble, C.B.)]
Colonel Gamble's boat is a 22-ft. lifeboat, with wooden air-tight
compartments, of the Lamb & White pattern, built by Hansen & Sons. She
has no centreboard, but a 9-in. wooden false keel, deepest in the
middle, and tapering to nothing at the ends, is screwed on to her
keel. She carries a standing lug mainsail, and a foresail. The peak of
her lugsail is cut very high, and her mast, yard, and boom are very
light and workmanlike. Her side and ends are less high out of the
water, and she is in every way a smaller boat than the 'Black Pearl's'
cutter, and probably less of a boat in a sea-way: but she can sail
round the latter in a light wind, and in a strong one is very nearly
as fast, and stands up like a stake. The reader will please to notice
the flatness of her floor in the drawing of her midship section on p.
207. She has been, I believe, very successful in races against boats
of her class, showing that speed and stability are not quite so
incompatible as they are sometimes supposed to be. She carries usually
about 9 cwt. of ballast in shot-bags, and when full of water will
float 4 in. clear of the sea, with that ballast and four men on board.
'BLACK PEARL'S' CUTTER | 'ALINE'S' CUTTER
ft. in. | ft. in.
Length 25 0 | Length 22 0
Beam 7 1 | Beam 6 3
Depth amidships from | Depth inside 2 7
gunwale to outside | Depth of keel from outside
garboard 3 2-3/4 | garboard 3-1/2
Depth of keel from outside | Depth of additional false
of garboard 5-1/4 | keel 9
Draught of water with | Draught of water with
11 cwt. of ballast and | 9 cwt. of ballast and
crew 2 0-1/2 | crew 1 10
Draught with centreboard | Ditto with false keel
down 5 0 | added 2 7
|
|
_Sail plan_ |
|
Length of mast from |
step to hounds 16 0 | _Sail plan_
Ditto from step to |
masthead 19 7 | Length of mast 14 0
Length of main-boom 20 4 | Length of main-boom 16 9
Length of gaff 11 3 | Length of yard 19 0
It does not come within the scope of this chapter to give a full and
elementary manual of the art of boat-sailing. Descriptions of the
thousand and one things belonging to a yacht and the sailing of her,
a glossary of nautical terms and their meaning, and a full account of
the art of sailing are given in another portion of this work. The
leading principles of boat-sailing are the same as those for sailing a
larger vessel. The gear of a boat, as far as it goes, is identical,
and the knots, bends, and hitches that are most used are common to
both. I need not, therefore, describe them, nor waste space by
repetition in giving such elementary directions as that a boat should
be luffed in a squall, or in explaining what is meant by 'gybing' a
boat or 'putting her about.' But there are some things in the art of
sailing that have a special application to open boats, so perhaps I
may be allowed, even at the cost of an occasional repetition of what
has been said elsewhere, to give a few hints and directions, based
upon practical experience, as to the handling of a boat, together with
some of the simple rules that experience has taught me are the most
important to remember, even though some of these may seem to be of a
very elementary character.
[Illustration: Earl of Pembroke's 'Black Pearl's' cutter.]
The yachtsman who is inexperienced, or much out of practice in the
management of a boat, had far better take a sailor or a couple of
sailors with him. By observing what they do he will learn or remember
how to do things properly, and the tiro will pick up in a day or two,
from watching an expert, many things that he would take long to learn
for himself. Indeed, I think that in dangerous weather it is always as
well to have a seaman on board. He will be unnecessary, probably, if
nothing happens--that is to say, if nothing carries away or gets
jammed; but it is just on such days that things do happen, and it is
in such emergencies that the difference between a sailor and an
ordinary amateur becomes widest. A good sailor has some resource for
almost everything that can happen, and if one thing will not do he
tries something else. Even if the amateur is as quick to know what
should be done, he is usually far slower and more clumsy in the doing
of it. Suppose, to take a very simple instance, the peak halliards
carry away. How many amateurs are there who could make a long splice
and re-reeve them with reasonable expedition? In a tumble of a sea,
with a lee shore imminent, the mere reeving of them, if no splice is
required, will very likely bother him considerably.
Still no one will ever be a passable boat-sailer, or will ever enjoy
boat-sailing as it can be enjoyed, until he learns to dispense with
professional assistance and to manage his boat single-handed if
necessary. So, when he has learnt with his eyes, as far as a man can,
how things should be done, other than steering and giving orders, let
him go out alone or with an amateur like himself and learn his
business. Let him choose a fine day and sail away if possible out of
sight of the most powerful glasses on his ship, and then deliberately
and of set purpose practise everything essential that is comprised in
the art of boat-sailing. He will instantly discover that between
knowing how things are done and doing them there is an extraordinary
difference, and he will find himself curiously awkward in doing what
he has seen his men do a hundred times. He will make acquaintance with
the malign tendency of all ropes to get foul of each other, and the
strange law that whenever you are trying to put something right on a
boat something else always goes wrong. When he first tries to reef his
sails--he will do it at anchor if he is wise--he will find that the
foretack is horribly inconvenient to get at, and that the foresail
will keep running up the stay and muffling his head, while the
main-boom seems to be possessed by a devil and tries to push him
overboard whichever side of it he gets. When he gets under way again
he finds that he has got the anchor-line foul of the foresheets, and
while he is clearing these and re-reeving them through their
fairleads, a puff of wind knocks the boat nearly flat and sends him
scrambling aft to the tiller and the mainsheet. He will bruise his
shins and bark his knuckles all manner of ways--he hardly knows how;
he will get hot and blown, and go near to tumbling overboard in the
violence of his exertions; he will do things and he will forget to do
things that it will make him blush in bed to remember afterwards. But
let him not feel too deeply humiliated. For even experienced sailors
will make the most monstrous blunders in a boat when they are strange
to her, and to boatwork; and he will find that his awkwardness seems
to vanish miraculously after a few lessons, and it will not be long
before he has the satisfaction of feeling that he can handle his boat
as well as any man on the ship.
It is foolish to go far, and especially far to leeward, when there is
every appearance of bad weather coming on, and a low glass. You may do
it many times with impunity, but some day you are sure to get caught,
and the consequences may be serious. Remember that you are always
liable to meet with an amount of wind that your boat will not be able
to bear under the shortest canvas that you can work her with. Many
people do not realise this; and indeed it requires some powers of
imagination, when a boat is standing stiffly up under her full canvas
in a good breeze, to realise that in a few hours, or even minutes,
there may come an amount of wind which will make it impossible to keep
her lee-rail out of the water even with close-reefed sails and sheets
flying loose. But a few rough and unpleasant experiences will soon
convince the young boat-sailer of the fact, and teach him that a boat
has no business to be out in a gale of wind, and that when he is
caught in one the thing to do, if it is possible, is to gain shelter
at once. If he sails much he will come across plenty of bad weather
without courting it, and when he does he will probably meet it with
more coolness and confidence if he is free from the depressing
sensation that the scrape into which he has got himself, and perhaps
others as well, is entirely due to his own wanton folly.
It is always best, if possible, to reef down and make everything snug
before the squall or storm comes upon you; but you cannot be
continually reefing down for every threatening cloud, so this is not
always practicable. When the wind has become too strong for the sail
you are carrying, you will have to act according to circumstances. It
is not always wise to attempt to reef at once. There may not be
sea-room enough to lower down the sails to reef them, and to attempt
to reef a cutter's mainsail in a squall when she is nearly
overpowered by wind is extremely dangerous. For the sheet must be
hauled right in, and cannot be eased while the earing is being made
fast. It is better under such circumstances to lower your peak
altogether, taking up any slack in the topping-lift so as to support
the boom. This will ease the boat immensely, and gives you a capital
leg-of-mutton sail. Possibly this will be a sufficient reduction, and
you may stand on under this canvas until you get shelter, or sea-room
to reef in, or there comes a lull in the squall. If it is not, and the
boat is still overpowered, haul down the foresail as well and double
reef it, and when it is set again you can, if you have then got
sea-room, take down the reefs in your mainsail, keeping the peak down
all the time.
There are generally three reefs in a cutter's mainsail. If when these
are taken down you have still too much canvas, let the throat run
down, and lash the jaws of the gaff down to the boom. It is well to
have a line of reef points running from the throat of the mainsail to
the cringle of the third reef on the after-leach to make this
arrangement snug. It is then called a balance reef.
Most boats will stand rather more wind when it is on the beam than
they will when they are close hauled. For while they do not feel it
quite so hard, it is easier to keep good way on, and you can spill the
sails by slacking the sheets as much as you like without fear of
losing it. So that in smooth water you will be as safe in a blow with
the wind abeam as you are when sailing close to it and luffing up into
the puffs. But a beam sea is the most dangerous sea of all, and when
it is heavy you must always be ready either to luff up towards it, or
to keep right away before it, as may be best. But if you do the former
be careful not to have too much way on, or you will run your boat's
nose right into the sea. If your course gives you a dangerous beam sea
the best plan is to keep your luff until your port is well to leeward,
and then up helm and run for it.
In running before a strong wind and a dangerous sea do not attempt to
carry much sail. It is a common belief among the inexperienced,
founded upon nautical literature absorbed in youth, and even amongst
some who ought to know better, that you must carry plenty of sail in
order to run away from the sea and avoid being pooped. But, in the
first place, you cannot run away from the sea, which travels more than
twice as fast as any boat can sail, and a press of canvas which buries
the boat's stern as it drags her through the water increases the
danger of being pooped. Moreover, it makes her harder to steer, and
increases the much greater risks of broaching to or running the boat
under water in those desperate rushes on the steep front of the big
seas, which are at once the danger and the delight of running before a
wind. So far from its being desirable to emulate the pace of the sea,
the sooner the wave passes the boat, and the shorter, therefore, these
rushes are, the less is the danger.
I learned this once by experience. Many years ago, on the coast of New
Zealand, I was caught out at sea by a gale of wind in a 13-ft. sailing
dinghy, and had to run home before it in a short, dangerous, rapidly
rising sea. The little boat tore before the wind under a reefed
mainsail and jib, running her nose and stern alternately level with
the water, until it became evident that we should be swamped in a few
minutes. I ordered the man who was with me to haul down the sail. The
moment he did so the little boat, which was sharp at both ends and was
steered with an oar, began to ride the seas like a duck, and we ran
home before the gale with ease and safety under a bare stick and a
fragment of head-sail.
A boat with a sharp stern, steered with an oar, has a great advantage
under such circumstances. For the rudder is sometimes right out of the
water and useless; and though the water of a great wave does not
really move forward with the wave as it appears to do, the breaking
top of it does, and when the rudder is in this water, which is going
faster than the boat, it is useless for the moment. It is well to have
a place for a crutch in the gunwale far aft, so that an oar can be
used to steer with if necessary.
There is generally less wind under the shelter or lee of the land.
But this is not always the case, and the most experienced seaman
cannot always foretell whether this will be so or not. Sometimes the
wind seems to belong to the land, and there may be little or none of
it out at sea. Under high land--cliffs or mountains--you may lose the
wind altogether; you may find it blowing in occasional baffling puffs
of great violence and uncertain direction, or you may find it blowing
much harder, not in puffs merely but altogether. It is not an uncommon
experience, especially in the Mediterranean, to run down a coast
before a fresh breeze, and to find a perfect tornado blowing when you
turn a corner and luff up under the land. This is one of nature's
paradoxes--one of the undoubted facts that one occasionally meets
which seem opposed to all reason and probability. I do not know how
far it has ever been scientifically explained.
Some places where there is high land seem to brew their own wind. Loch
Scavaig, in Skye, under the Coolin hills, is an instance of this. It
may be fine and almost calm outside, but as you sail into its gloomy
waters you may find a perfect tempest blowing in or out. It staggers
one to think what it must be like in a real gale of wind.
In Carlingford Lough, Ireland, last autumn, when there was but a
fine-weather breeze blowing outside, the puffs off the mountain on the
south of the lough took the form of a succession of regular
waterspouts, any one of which would have twisted the mast out of the
boat or capsized her if it had struck her. We kept as far to leeward
as we could, and most of them died away before they crossed our track,
but they felt very uncanny.
Speaking generally, high land is always dangerous for boat-sailing, as
well as trying to the temper. On a day when there is nothing but a
fine-weather breeze elsewhere, under high land you are liable to get
puffs as violent while they last as a gale of wind. It is as though
the hills bottled up and concentrated the wind, so that when it is let
loose it comes with double force; and these puffs are specially
dangerous to a boat apart from their force: first, because the angle
at which they will strike is so uncertain, and secondly, because,
coming from above and striking downwards, a boat does not relieve the
pressure on her sails by heeling over as she does when the wind blows
horizontally along the water. This is the reason why you will probably
find that the squalls that go nearest capsizing your boat are not
those that you have seen tearing towards you turning the water into
smoke as they come, violent as these may be, but those which you have
hardly seen a sign of on the water at all, and which strike the sails
with a downward blow straight from the mountain side. The Sound of
Raasay, outside Portree Harbour, when a westerly wind is blowing over
the tremendous cliffs of Skye, is a fine place for the study of these
phenomena.
When the wind is blowing up or down a channel with high land on either
hand, the fiercest puffs will be near the sides which seem to
concentrate the wind, and the safest place will be the middle of the
channel. One day, in Loch Scavaig, beating out of that inferno of
furious winds against the usual succession of tearing puffs, with
double-reefed sails and all passengers down in the bottom of the boat,
I stood rather far over one tack under the high mountain on the west
side. Just as I was preparing to go about a furious blast struck the
boat like a cannon-shot. I thrust the helm down, letting fly the
mainsheet. The foresheet fortunately carried away of itself, but for a
few seconds a volume of water poured over the rail, and I thought we
should go over or fill. A minute later, as we were standing off on the
other tack, setting things to rights and pruning our ruffled plumes,
my coxswain, a most excellent boat-sailer but a man of a somewhat
sardonic humour, remarked grimly, 'I should think that would be a
lesson to you in future not to stand over too far under high land.' It
has been.
Here follow a few of the things which it is well to remember when
boat-sailing, whether you are acting as captain or crew, or both in
one.
As soon as your sails are set and properly trimmed, coil away the ends
of all your halliards, topping-lift, &c., in the bottom of the boat,
capsizing the coil after you have made it so that the part of the rope
that has to go up first becomes uppermost, and so will not get foul
when the halliards are let go.
See that all your blocks are clear. A reef pendant (earing) getting
drawn into the mainsheet block, or a bit of bunting or spunyarn into
the block of the peak halliards, may easily cause an accident.
[Illustration: The squall in Loch Scavaig, Skye.]
See that boathooks, oars, and crutches are all ready for use if
required.
Never make fast your sheets in any way that can possibly jam, or that
a single pull will not set free. The same is advisable with your
halliards also.
Always see that your mainsheet is clear, and that it cannot get foul
of anything in running out. The most favoured lady passenger should
not be allowed to put her feet on it.
When you have passengers on board in dangerous, squally weather, try
to get them to sit down in the bottom of the boat. It adds greatly to
stability, besides getting them out of the way. But if there is much
water in the boat already, they may require some persuasion.
Always carry an anchor or grapple and a line to attach to it, and see
that both are ready for instant use if you are likely to want them.
The anchor for a 25-ft. boat should weigh about 30 lbs. If it is
heavier it will tax your wind severely to get it up quickly in deep
water.
[Illustration: 'Excuse me.']
Always carry a knife. A sheath-knife is best: there is no difficulty
about opening it when fingers are cold, and it will not shut on them
when you are using it.
Always carry a pocket-compass in case of fog.
In what is called a temperate climate always carry oilskins and a
sou'wester.
Always carry some spare rope, particularly odds and ends of small
rope; you may always want it for something. Your spinnaker gear will
probably do at a pinch to replace a broken halliard or sheet.
When you are exploring and have ladies on board, do not forget to
take a landing-board.
Always carry some water and biscuits when you may be out many hours.
Always have the centreboard down in coming alongside a ship. The boat
will answer her helm better and steer more accurately with the
centreboard down, as the wind and sea cannot push her about on the
surface.
If it is ever necessary to leave your boat untended, take great care
that she can neither damage herself nor get adrift when the tide
rises. Nothing will make you feel so intolerably foolish as to come
back and find your boat damaged or gone, perhaps still in sight
bobbing away without you. The writer was once left stranded on a small
island in the Hauraki Gulf, New Zealand, owing to his man having
considered a round stone a suitable object to make a boat fast to.
[Illustration: Self-unmoored.]
Keep out of the way of steamers and big ships when you can, even when
by the rule of the road it is their business to keep out of yours.
They will probably expect you to keep clear of them, and, when in
narrow waters, are justified in doing so.
[Illustration: Never 'moon.']
Finally, never 'moon,' or think about such things as politics,
philosophy, or people, when boat-sailing. Frivolous conversation on
subjects unconnected with the boat or the weather should be sternly
discouraged in any but the most familiar waters and the finest of
weather. Distraction is a real danger in boat-sailing, and is probably
the commonest cause of fatal accidents. The attention of the
boat-sailer should always be concentrated on his business. He has
plenty to attend to and think about. He must always have an eye on his
sails, and at the same time must keep watching the wind on the water
before it reaches him, and the general appearance of the weather. And
in spite of these preoccupations he should be continually noting the
features of the coast. If he is leaving a place to which he is going
to return, he should be constantly taking note of the relative
bearings of rocks and headlands by which to remember the proper
channel when he comes back, not forgetting that the state of the tide
will be different, and carefully observing, therefore, if the tide is
low, the position of rocks and shoals that may be submerged on his
return, or if it is near high water, the bearing of places which his
chart tells him will have to be avoided when the tide is out. In
short, it is an engrossing occupation, permitting of no distraction,
except perhaps fish, and even _then_ one man must continue to give his
attention almost entirely to the boat. There is a time for all
things, and the man who wants to talk or to read his book in the boat
has no business there. Shelley used to read, it is true, and he was an
ardent boat-sailer. But Shelley's case is a bad one to quote as an
example, for his boat-sailing came to an unlucky end, and we shall
never know now how much or how little that little volume of poetry had
to do with it.
I have said a good deal in these pages of the dangers of boat-sailing.
It has been necessary to insist upon them, because the price of safety
in boat-sailing is eternal vigilance and a little knowledge. The
careless man may drown himself any day, and there is no saying what
mess the complete duffer may not get into. But given the habit of
carefulness, which soon becomes instinctive and unconscious, together
with a little experience, and a moderate amount of prudence as regards
weather, and boat-sailing is certainly not a dangerous sport as sports
go.
[Illustration: There is no place like home.]