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Gallery: Five of Coastal Deserts, Baha Mexico
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The Ideal State of Momo
Lola & Jana hoist the flag
of the Kingdom of Nate
at Beveridge ReefWe are a proud democracy on board Momo -- not the kind that my own country has devolved into, plagued by sloppy elections and inane discussions about the President's place of birth, but in a much purer sense going back to the political philosophy of the ancient Greeks: serving a good life for the good of the whole. And that indeed is the State of Our Ship, which should not be confused with the Plato’s Ship of State. Philosopher Kings are sexy, but a monarchy we are not, no matter how enlightened (or sexy). We have evolved into our own kind of republicanism (I refer here to a type of polity, not to the American species of elephants). Some might think we don't fly the American flag out of political protest (we are US Coast Guard registered vessel, but our citizens are American, Canadian, and Mexican), but really it's just that we believe in letting our own freak flag fly. In fact, we’re more like the Swiss mercenaries who served the Renaissance kings of France—political loyalties be damned, we’ll take on the most daring of campaigns (as long as we don’t get hurt). It’s probably no coincidence that our 8-year-old citizen has declared Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner as our anthem and plays it every chance she gets. Last year at Beveridge Reef we planted a flag and established the short-lived Kingdom of Nate, ruled by a 9-year old absentee monarch from South Carolina. His Majesty’s politics are unfamiliar to us, but who cares? We stood guard by that flag with honor and pride, at least until the tide came up and the Kingdom of Nate slipped beneath the waves.
When we’re not in the service of foreign sovereigns, we're happily minding our own business and floating from one island to the next. We've taken the notion of self-sufficiency even further by printing our own money. Having your own currency is useful: Momo Money gets me foot massages and reading sessions. But it goes both ways, because all the citizens on Momo have Momo Money, so upon demand the ruling class must also reciprocate by allowing the non-voting citizens to exchange their money for ice cream and movies.
Democracy is much easier to manage, of course, in a polity of four rather than 300 million, and our State is more modern than the Platonic or Aristotelian view of the world -- we have no slaves (though we’re trying to teach our children to serve coffee in bed), and we’re products of the post-suffragist era, which makes my voice equal to my man's. Sure, we have our moments of strife, and at times I'm not sure democracy is all it's cracked up to be. I admit, at times I can relate to the 43rd US President who, speaking of the United States government, said "If this were a dictatorship, it would be a heck of a lot easier...just so long as I'm the dictator.” But his example serves also as a warning to me, showing how easily a (un)Philosopher King can sail his Ship of State onto the rocks--something that the Demokratic Republik of Momo wants desperately to avoid.
Sometimes it would be easier if we'd just follow traditional rules about who's the boss. On most other sailboats, the roles of Captain and First Mate are rigidly established, almost always along traditional gendered lines. On those vessels, discussions about sail configuration or navigation don’t take place. There's comfort in that, to be sure: one strong voice of authority reduces any chance of misunderstandings, announces quick decisions, and is able to see that directions are followed efficiently. "Starboard tack? OK!" "Bring in the sails? Ay-ay, Cap’n!" No one says, “Do you really think so?” Or: “Well, I was rather thinking that another strategy might be altogether more effective.” Or: “Let’s take a poll.” There's a reason that some of the best captains of ships have historically been some of the strictest; nobody would describe Captain James Cook, for instance, as touchy-feely. The problem we have, however, is that neither Bernie nor I want to be bossed around, so we've slipped into our own style of how to do things. Sometimes he's right, more often I am. Usually it doesn't matter. We always get there one way or another, however unorthodox our methods. I'm not sure either of us would have cut the muster on Captain Cook's ship, but we do just fine on Momo.
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Fiji -- Celebrating Taxes on Koro Island
Turns out that what Mele called a “celebration” was actually a kind of school tax day. It was one of three annual events by which the villagers raised funds – the other “celebrations” were for the church and the village. They are spaced evenly throughout the year and unfold more or less the same way. Needless to say, the fact that the villagers could turn such fund raising for essential services into a joyous occasion piqued my curiosity, for I've never found paying taxes particularly delightful.
The school needed $13,000 Fijian dollars this year for supplies and infrastructure (the teachers themselves are paid by the central government). This burden was to be shared by the villagers, who were divided along family lines into five groups (one for each teacher), each group made up of twenty-six “men,” each of whom was obligated to pay $100 – a significant sum in this subsistence village economy.
The day of the “celebration,” people began showing up at the school at around 11:00 – things really should have gotten underway at 10:00, but, as Mele explained, we were operating on Fiji time. Written on the blackboard was a table that listed how much money needed to be raised, along with the names of the five teachers, each of whom represented a different group.
Meanwhile, our daughters, Lola and Jana, had brought a dozen or so hermit crabs up from the water’s edge, carrying them in their little plastic green bucket. They were surrounded by school kids in blue uniforms, as if those kids had never seen a hermit crab before. Later on the rugby field, the kids played tag and Red Rover, among other things.
“What happens if you don’t raise all the money?” I asked the woman beside me.
“Well, I guess we will have to do this again -- maybe.” It is difficult to get a definitive answer about anything from anybody.
“What happens if one of the men doesn’t pay his hundred dollars?”
“Nothing,” she said. Then she added: “He will feel shy, he will feel bad. When someone asks him whether he paid, he won’t be able to say ‘yes.’”
“Everybody in the villages knows who has paid and who hasn’t?”
“Yes,” she said.
“No one knocking on their doors?” asked Michelle.
“Nooooo,” she said, wide-eyed. “They all pay.”
After the results were tallied, the head teacher gave a small speech.
“She isn’t supposed to talk,” said the woman, “The head of the committee is supposed to talk, because the committee deals with the money.”
But nobody from the committee ever did talk, and no one seemed to care. Then, for the first time acting in concert, the villagers broke into harmonized song; the song first recounted a tale about some visitors who came through the pass in the reef to see the village and then made an extended comparison between a ripe fruit and a ripe woman. Some one told us it was the song of Nabuna Village.
We left around 3:30 – we had been drinking kava since we arrived. The villagers still came and went; some of them partying well past midnight.
Drinking kava, chatting with friends, singing songs – this certainly didn't feel like taxes. For us, taxes are about filling out forms under duress and reluctantly handing over money to distant and anonymous bureaucrats. But here on Koro Island, where the nexus between the money paid and the benefits reaped is immediate and personal, the financial obligation did not seem like such a burden. Indeed, the obligation to put money into the communal pot was a great reason to come together and have fun.
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International Women's Day Then and Now: Women Rocking the World in Their Own Way
This month I’m thinking of all the women in my life, because March 8 was, after all, International Women's Day and this is, by extension, International Women's Month. The idea itself dates back to 1910. Its historical roots lay in the socialist movement of the late 19th century, and the international celebration of women was first put forth by German Socialist Clara Zetkin, a fervent fighter for workers' and women's rights in late 19th and early 20th century Europe. Zetkin started out as a member of the Socialist Democratic Party in Germany Germany Russia
But this is not about German politics or history or revolution. This is about how, from all the chaos of the early 20th century, a legacy was born for women. And so, I suggest, even if you don't agree with the politics of Clara Zetkin, you might agree that she was remarkable for her time.
And certainly you’d agree that the women who surround you today are remarkable, too.
Which leads me to reflect on women who have put meaning into my life. They are not necessarily rebelling in the streets or founding political parties. But they are doing things that are nonetheless worth mentioning here.
Laura shares her fondness for diving with her husband, and so they decided to sail the Pacific in search of some of the world’s greatest dive spots. Somewhere between re-rigging, painting, canvaswork, provisioning and in all other ways outfitting their Fantasia 35, Gunner Too, Laura learned how to sail – and sail well. Along the way they met us, and, over several months’ worth of meals and adventures and animated conversation, a permanent friendship formed. Laura’s eyes light up when you ask her about fishing with her dad. And don’t get her started on lures. "Originally I had a mackerel lure with a wire leader on the line which was hit -- but that fish got away,” she recalls when I ask her about one particularly large wahoo she caught in the Marquesas while her husband
was rigging the anchor to the bow in anticipation of landfall after a twenty-eight day passage. “Right afterwards, I tied a black rapala on the line, and that is what this wahoo was caught with -- we had to turn back out to sea in order to give us time to land the monster before we reached the harbor.” No girl woops a wahoo like Laura. But she’s not just a fisher and diver. She can bleed an engine and serve up mouth-watering sushi all in an afternoon. Not to mention change the oil, take apart a winch, reef down sails, and manhandle any fish who happens to take an interest in her carefully chosen lure. 
There's adventurous Arran, calm Nelia, fearless Angie. There are many, many other women I’d love to mention here, in fact – sailors, teachers, artists, writers, divers, doctors, dentists, psychologists, computer scientists, musicians, engineers, mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, lovers, friends, captains, admirals, mates, crew – but this post has to stop somewhere, and I must send my daughters off to school now, so that they too might grow and impact the world, in their own fabulous way.
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Landfall at Pebble Beach (2006)
Weather interrupts our passage from Juan de Fuca to San Diego and we find ourselves anchored just beyond the kelp in the wealthy shadow of the Pebble Beach golf course. Coming off the sea, one never knows how the natives will react. Familiar with how they guard the beaches on Long Island, we half expect a greeting of dimpled artillery launched from the 7th hole – we’re well within range. But a swimmer on a surfboard, elderly and fit, assures us that we can safely go ashore and even (carefully) walk the links. So we do, landing at the Stillwater Yacht Club and entering a world as foreign to us as a Mexican fishing camp on the Baja. Our ragged shore party soon finds itself among people like we’ve never seen before: women – thin and exquisite, glowing with a moonlight pallor that is almost frightening; and men (equally exquisite) – coiffed, manicured, and perfumed, their faces lit orange by artificial tans. As we wander the grounds and marvel at the price of T-shirts in the pro shop, the faces are welcoming and pretend not to notice our faded clothes, gritty fingernails, and dearth of fashion accessories. Our walk to Carmel along 17-Mile-Drive, a road wholly unsuited to pedestrians, takes us past houses with names – Wit’s End, Pinewood Edge, Lucky Strike – and we witness a parade of fenders and chrome as impressive as the diamonds in the resort’s gift shop. We pick up the Carmel Pine Cone and read the police blotter for light entertainment (we’re used to Baltimore). Back at The Lodge, the doorman invites us in to peek at a wedding; on the lawn we see the happy couple exchanging vows with our boat, Momo, perfectly at ease in the background. Later, aboard another boat, we meet a resident who offers the use of his Mercedes SUV so we can tour the landscape. We decline the offer, but change our minds the next day, only to learn that he’s left for his Nevada ranch with his dogs. When we leave Pebble Beach, we take with us an unexpected fondness for this place, and steel ourselves for San Diego.
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Palmerston Island, between yesterday and tomorrow
We sailed to Palmerston Atoll from Rarotonga, and were glad to see the low lying main island after three days of a hard breeze and a lumpy sea. As we neared the reef, I radioed Palmerston Administration and was instructed to follow two men in the skiff to a mooring ball: "Look for the two dark skinned men with great big smiles." Sure enough, we were expertly showed to a mooring ball by Edward and Simon Marsters, two brothers who were to be our hosts.
The Marsters Dynasty
Only members of the Marsters family are allowed to live on Palmerston. The island residents share the main island as their home, each family branch living in one section. They have divided up the other smaller islands in the atoll; asking permission to visit or camp on an island that “belongs” to a different family is expected and honored by all. The families share the fishing grounds. And there is a loose rotation system about greeting the arriving boats. A few days into our visit, I asked Edward how it is decided which family hosts which guests, and he responded, "whoever gets there first," but there was a sly smile on his face, and we could tell that he was in part telling the truth but also maintaining a bit of the Marsters myth and mystery.
Indeed, the stories abound regarding the families arguing over visiting yachts. It's a bit of an exaggeration, of course: in reality, they maintain a kind of rotation system that seems to work. But the myth of the families warring over their guests underlies some of the deeper troubles this island has faced in its short history. Rivalry between the families has always existed, and violence has been a traditional method of solving conflict. At various points throughout the twentieth century, Palmerston has faced the worrisome trend of declining population. Illiteracy has always plagued the residents. And certain opportunities like the one presented by the recent debacle over the Marsters Dream -- a Norwegian fishing vessel that the islanders were to utilize and share for the benefit and profit of all -- have been squandered in the past due to an inability to get past personal differences.
Looking Forward
Given a difficult and isolated history, the balance that Palmerston is working towards today is remarkable. Palmerston is in fact a social experiment in the works. Aside from the church one would expect to find in the center of the island, Palmerston boasts a school house for its current sixteen pupils, a central administration, and an internet connection and phone. But it is not blindly marching toward modernization. The islanders have discussed satellite television, for example, and, for the present, have decided against it. Indeed, the Palmerston islanders cling to their historical roots, maintain a strict Christian belief system, and still settle island matters through the traditional Island Council, which consists of the two eldest members of each family branch. Since no Polynesians were living here when William Marsters arrived, they are the only island in the Cooks which has never operated under traditional Polynesian system of Ariki (chiefs) and are immensely proud of their independence and self-governing spirit.
This independent spirit is central to the Palmerston psyche, and, with a degree of effort and determination, to its governing structure as well. Unlike the other outlying Cook Islands, Palmerston has almost all of its government "departments" under its own control. Health, Education, Energy, and Agriculture come under the Palmerston Administration, whereas these departments are managed by the central government in Rarotonga for the other Cook Islands. The Island Secretary, Tere Marsters, proudly described the modernizing process of Palmerston's infrastructure to us. Mostly, he emphasized how this affords them a sense of control over their future. At the very heart of the Palmerston way of life there is an inherent balance between past and future. They modernize in order to remain independent, and their independence allows them to maintain their traditional customs, and a certain distance from mainstream society. We spent an afternoon at the home of Tere and his wife,Yvonne, whiling away hours discussing the benefits and pitfalls of 21st century technological advancements.
A Balancing Act
I was struck by the similarity in the choices we make raising our children aboard a sailboat. Take satellite communications, for example. Tere himself can imagine how this might be simultaneously useful and harmful to the island ways. On Momo, we've been running away from the pernicious effects of marketing all these years, while simultaneously utilizing the best of modern technology to get us around the world. The Palmerston residents' isolated lives are not unlike ours in some ways: they make choices that benefit their population, and at the same time they keep at bay those elements of mainstream society that they deem ill-suited to their lifestyle.
We came to see Tere and Yvonne Marsters as the embodiment of the balance between tradition and modernity. Educated in New Zealand and Australia, Tere devotes his time to making Palmerston what he believes it should be. Besides serving as Island Secretary, Tere is also acting minister in the island's church when the Reverend Matakere is away. Tere is keen to bring Palmerston under a modern vision of efficiency and independence but is cautious in his efforts, noting how in the past Palmerston has seen "modern, educated" people come in with big ideas that simply do not work.
Meanwhile, Yvonne teaches many youngsters who are the first in their families to read properly. Rules of fairness and nonviolence dominate her lessons (three children were suspended for fighting while we were there). Her commitment to progress in Palmerston is palpable. In the classroom, a world map dominates one corner, showing the vessels and people the children of this island have met over the years. Yvonne considers this contact vital to broadening the students' minds. Yet moving forward does not mean abandoning the island's traditions. Indeed, the school curriculum is a strictly Christian-based program, based on individual learning tracks for home-schooled children. The dual themes of safeguarding their history while also taking responsibility for their own destiny is a constant theme on this island, one that people like Tere and Yvonne Marsters believe to the bottom of their Palmerston souls.
Global Interactions
One of the most fascinating things about Palmerston is their relationship to sailing vessels like us. From their earliest days, the people of Palmerston relied on trading with passing yachts, and this custom continues today. We made contact in Rarotonga with some of the Marsters family and delivered boxes of fresh produce and newly issued passports; others coming after us were bringing a shipment of handheld VHFs and other supplies. Since the supply vessel comes around only a few times a year, the people welcome yachts that can bring them items from the "main" island. But their very dependence on small vessels like ours affords them the independence that they so avidly seek to maintain. This is counter-intuitive at first: you'd think that their reliance on the delivery of goods from outsiders would put them at a disadvantage.
But there's a balance in this too, just like everything else on this island: by maintaining the trading tradition they proudly attribute to their “father,” William Marsters himself, the people of Palmerston remain who they are, and stop the tide of tourism. They compare themselves to other Cook Islands where an airstrip has brought hotels and organized tours, and dread the day this might occur on their island.
Indeed, the Cook Islands has the highest tourist-to-islander ratio of the South Pacific islands, according to our Moon Handbook: tourists outnumber residents 4:1 every year, compared to 2:1 in Fiji, 3:1 in Samoa, and 1:4 in Tonga. But the people of Palmerston wish to keep those crowds on Rarotonga, Aitutaki and even faraway Manihiki, where an airstrip brings visitors to its pearl farms every week. Not that the Palmerstonians don't benefit from being within 300 miles from the "main island.” Everyone we met proudly displayed months worth of pizza, ice cream, and other snacks from “Raro,” deep frozen in several freezers – they don’t romanticize a life of fish and coconut alone. But on the whole, they prefer to keep the concentration of consumer society on the main island, and they clearly do not want conventional tourism to find its way to their island. The much debated airstrip would provide emergency medical care, of course, but it would also unleash a tide of tourism that they prefer to live without. For the most part, the people of Palmerston feel that their relationship with the fifty or so yachts that stop in each year provides them exactly what they need: necessary supplies, and contact with the outside world, on their own terms.
And so we learned that the tradition of "hosting" visiting yachts has many benefits for the Palmerston islanders and fits precisely with who they imagine themselves to be. Their legendary hospitality is deeply rooted in the importance of meaningful individual contact. The cultural exchange that transpires on a very personal level each time they meet a passing yacht is something they prefer to serving large groups of tourists. The idea of turning Palmerston into one more island with resort accommodations is abhorrent to some of them. Cooking up a fabulous parrotfish feast for visiting yachties comes naturally; becoming part of the service industry would not. As one proud Marsters put it: "I don't want to clean a toilet in a hotel; that's beneath my dignity."
As a boat benefitting from the Palmerstonn tradition, we relished our time there. Our hosts, Edward and Simon and Shirley Marsters, insisted on sharing their recently delivered cabbage and tomatoes with us during our time there, cooking up one delicious meal after another. Shirley baked us fresh bread almost every day. On several occasions, they baked parrotfish in the traditional umu oven, served with their home recipe of salt-water and coconut milk brine.
Our daughters played with the children of Palmerston, exploring the pathways and beaches of the small main island every day. One day, Bernie and I went fishing on the reef with the men, while our young daughters stayed on the island with Shirley. Sunday dinner was a big event, as we were joined by the family Elder Taepae and his daughter Marama (who, along with Yvonne, teaches at the school). We ate fish, chicken, and a Palmerston specialty of tropic bird (they call it the "Bosun Bird" and are one of the few islands who eat it). We did our best to reciprocate throughout the week, bringing coffee cake and hot sauce, dried fruits and more hot sauce, leaving some musical instruments for the Youth Group, and participating in a sewing project with the school children.
On our final day in Palmerston, our new friends came to Momo to share one last coffee. Six young children scampered around on deck while we swapped a few more stories with the adults below. Finally, they all piled into their skiff once more and waved enthusiastically as they swerved away. Those great grins will stay with us for a long time.
You cannot help but notice that this place is a world apart, and you cannot help but hope it remains that way. But it is not isolated and backward, not by any means. Literacy rates are up; family feuds are down. And, unlike many of the other Cook Islands whose populations are slowly diminishing, the population of Palmerston has in recent years stabilized and even increased (the current number of permanent residents is somewhere around 70, although it fluctuates due to extended stays in Rarotonga and mission work abroad).
An Island unto Itself
The balance here is both remarkable and tenuous. But make no mistake: this is not an island caught between past and future; it is, rather, positioning itself there with great effort. I wondered as we sailed away how the island will look in ten years, hoping with all my heart that they win the battle against the airstrip. What the future holds is anyone's guess, but the people of Palmerston are doing their best to ensure that they guide themselves there.
(This story appears in the April 2010 issue of Blue Water Sailing magazine.)
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Seven Things...
Our Momo Blog recieved a nod for a BEAUTIFUL BLOGGER AWARD last month by the remarkable Martha Williams, who's not only an excellent writer but also a sailor, diver, mother, humorist, and too many other things to mention here; you just gotta go to her website and visit a while.
We regrettably must admit, however, that this award is undeserved, because we sometimes forget to blog altogether. But we're HERE and we are happy if you are HERE too! And here's our lovely award:
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Thanks, Martha!! (yes, go read her blog now!)
The award comes with a suggestion that we share seven things with our readers about ourselves, and that we then suggest other blogs for this mighty accolade. So here goes...
Here are seven other blogs worth checking out, and certainly worthyof the BEAUTIFUL BLOGGER AWARD:
Women and Cruising
Advice, Resources, and Inspiration for Women Cruisers
The Peregrine Sea
Featuring Tim Robison's gorgeous photography
S/V Totem
A family of sailors, presently eating their way through French Polynesia, one baguette and pompelmousse at a time
Jason Rose, S/V Bodhran
A blog about one man's adventures from the Pacific Northwest to the South Pacific
Atom Voyages
James and Mei adventuring around the globe on a Pearson Triton, a boat near and dear to our hearts
Bee Elvy
Artist and musician, living on the edge in NYC, embracing transition always/all ways (so what's wrong with a little nepotism in the wonderful world of blogging?)
Wortblitze v. Flawnt
Cool stories in German. What more need we say?
And now, a little more about why we're here and what we're really doing...
We've been in New Zealand since December (09) and we're working on getting our residency sorted, because Whangarei is the perfect place from which to explore New Zealand and its surrounding waters. For the first time in eight years, we're staying put for two consecutive seasons. It's a strange feeling, but a good one too. Lola and Jana are attending Whangarei Primary School, and Bernie and Michelle are immersed in writing and editing and translating projects, all the while job-hunting to keep us in the South Pacific. The North Pacific's too cold, Australia's too big, North America is a little nuts these days, and Europe is too expensive. Yep, New Zealand suits us thoroughly, so keep your fingers crossed for Michelle's mad job-hunt and we'll keep you posted when someone decides she's just too good to pass up.
We look up from the tap-tap of fingers-on-laptops every now and then and get out and explore. This is a beautiful country. Here are some reasons why we love Northland.
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We regrettably must admit, however, that this award is undeserved, because we sometimes forget to blog altogether. But we're HERE and we are happy if you are HERE too! And here's our lovely award:
Thanks, Martha!! (yes, go read her blog now!)
The award comes with a suggestion that we share seven things with our readers about ourselves, and that we then suggest other blogs for this mighty accolade. So here goes...
- 1. "Here" for us is New Zealand these days; we're on a pile mooring in Whangarei's Town Basin -- which is, incidentally, one of the few times we've not been at anchor in eight years (once when Jana was born; once we left our boat in Skagway for an excursion to the Yukon; and a few other times when anchoring was not an option, such as Radio Bay, HI, Lahaina, HI, San Diego).
- 2. Jana now talks about "mates" and "knickers" (and is also pleased about her first loose tooth).
- 3. Lola has outgrown every pair of shoes and pants we've gotten for her in the last several months.
- 4. Both kids love the idea of school (more than the reality of getting out the door every morning), but they also feel a certain melancholy, along with their parents, that Momo is not sailing north this season.
- 5. We have discovered Whittaker's chocolate, which helps heal the hole in our hearts where Milka used to be.
- 6. Our bottom paint experiment continues: this time, we're seeing how long the ablative paint will last, since we are not moving. On the other hand, we're watching that waterline scum grow in our motionless state, but only a little, since our ablative-paint-waterline-experiment is doing quite well (forthcoming Cruising World article posted soon).
- 7. You can tell winter's almost upon us by the way our kids dress. It's really only fall here, but Lola and Jana have inherited their mother's predilection for hats and scarves. Lola believes in layers and layers of fleece. Jana, however, has declared herself a "New Zealand girl" and so skips off to school (we've still never seen her walk; she runs or skips everywhere) with hat, scarf, sweater, umbrella, and flip-flops.
Here are seven other blogs worth checking out, and certainly worthyof the BEAUTIFUL BLOGGER AWARD:
Women and Cruising
Advice, Resources, and Inspiration for Women Cruisers
The Peregrine Sea
Featuring Tim Robison's gorgeous photography
S/V Totem
A family of sailors, presently eating their way through French Polynesia, one baguette and pompelmousse at a time
Jason Rose, S/V Bodhran
A blog about one man's adventures from the Pacific Northwest to the South Pacific
Atom Voyages
James and Mei adventuring around the globe on a Pearson Triton, a boat near and dear to our hearts
Bee Elvy
Artist and musician, living on the edge in NYC, embracing transition always/all ways (so what's wrong with a little nepotism in the wonderful world of blogging?)
Wortblitze v. Flawnt
Cool stories in German. What more need we say?
And now, a little more about why we're here and what we're really doing...
We've been in New Zealand since December (09) and we're working on getting our residency sorted, because Whangarei is the perfect place from which to explore New Zealand and its surrounding waters. For the first time in eight years, we're staying put for two consecutive seasons. It's a strange feeling, but a good one too. Lola and Jana are attending Whangarei Primary School, and Bernie and Michelle are immersed in writing and editing and translating projects, all the while job-hunting to keep us in the South Pacific. The North Pacific's too cold, Australia's too big, North America is a little nuts these days, and Europe is too expensive. Yep, New Zealand suits us thoroughly, so keep your fingers crossed for Michelle's mad job-hunt and we'll keep you posted when someone decides she's just too good to pass up.
We look up from the tap-tap of fingers-on-laptops every now and then and get out and explore. This is a beautiful country. Here are some reasons why we love Northland.
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An Expression of Doubt — How can Hydrovane Self-Steering really be any good?
During the past few weeks, two different friends — one here in Whangarei, New Zealand, the other in Boston, Ma. — announced that they had purchased Hydrovane self-steering gear for their boats in preparation for off-shore cruising. I generally like to be encouraging, but news like this always makes my heart skip a beat — just before it falls into my stomach. And while I fumble for an appropriate response, the homunculus behind my eyes shakes his head and mutters: “those guys have made a big mistake.”
In the interest of full disclosure, let me be perfectly clear. I have built my own self-steering gear in the past, I've modified the one we're using now (because I like to tweak), and I have helped others get their self-steering gear under control. But I have no personal experience with a Hydrodvane. You don't see them very often compared to other kinds of systems. The only one I've ever fondled was on a Waterline 50, and the owner expressed displeasure because it didn't do the trick. The Waterline 50 is admittedly a large boat — it is heavier than Hydrovane recommends. But the makers of Hydrovane shamelessly encourage the use of their product for boats that exceed their own recommendations, noting that they "know of and even provide many installations for boats in excess of those limits." They might indeed be willing to "tell you about the many 50,000 lb. or 23,000 kg boats that also have glowing reports of their Hydrovanes," but the fellow I know clearly isn't one of them.
My skepticism arises mostly from a theoretical assessment of the gear and from an utter inability to understand how it could possibly work very well. If you want to hear about how wonderful the Hydrovane is, I refer you to their website. But much of what I've read there sounds like half-truths. Thus, for example, when you follow the link that takes you to the testimonials of "famous sailors," you'll be greeted by a photo of Jimmy Cornell's "Aventura" sporting a Hydrovane. But what they won't tell you is that Cornell currently touts the servo-pendulum by Windpilot. "I switched from Hydrovane to Windpilot," he writes, "because I felt that the Hydrovane system may not be powerful enough for a 43 ft. boat." Or perhaps Windpilot just pays him more -- who knows.
In any event, my purpose here is simply to raise a few doubts and encourage prospective buyers to perhaps think twice before spending "25-40% more than good of servo-pendulums" (for some reason, Hydrovane subscribes to the "if-you-charge-more-they-will-buy-it" philosophy) on a mechanical self-steering device that might very well prove to be a major disappointment.
Something I do know for certain is that robust and effective self-steering gear is the key to happiness. I know this from our own experience and from the experience of watching the tribulations of others. On our passage to Hawaii, our Sailomat servo-pendulum gear kept us on course as we bounced around in the nastiest cross swell we’ve ever experienced in forty knots of wind for days on end; meanwhile, we were in radio contact with a skipper not very far away, whose autopilot (which was supposedly more than adequate) gave up so frequently that he couldn’t get away from the wheel long enough to pee. Another skipper we know on a Valiant 50 from our stay Mexico experienced a thirty-knot blow as a "survival storm" because his autopilot couldn’t do the job. For a short-handed crew, decent self-steering gear – whether it’s a mechanical windvane or an autopilot – makes the difference between heaven and hell.
With respect to mechanical windvanes, there are a number of ways to skin this cat. Most crews rely on servo-pendulum gear. Ours is made by Sailomat, but Monitor is the most common, and there are other manufacturers as well – Aries, Windpilot, Cape Horn, Fleming, Voyager. While we might debate their finer differences, in principle they work the same. A windvane is positioned so that when the boat is on course, the vane is vertical. When the boat veers off course, the shift in the apparent angle of the wind causes the windvane to deflect. The deflecting windvane turns a balanced oar that is in the water. As the oar presents a face to the water rushing past the boat, it is forced to swing like a pendulum. The energy from this swing is transmitted by lines and blocks to the boat’s steering system – either to the wheel or to the tiller – and the boat is brought back on course. Servo-pendulums are not practical for all boats, particularly those that rely on hydraulic steering instead of cables or those with a center cockpit. But there are also other kinds of windvane devices that by-pass most the boat’s steering system and effect the rudder more directly. They use a windvane to deflect a trim tab on the boat’s rudder, which in turn causes the rudder to swing. In all these cases, the power of the wind (which is quite weak) mechanically adjusts the gear so that it harnesses the power of the water (which is immense) to steer the boat.
The Hydrovane, on the other hand, relies solely on the power of the wind to steer the boat. And unless that little magical box which links the windvane to the rudder somehow manages to transcend the laws of thermodynamics, that power isn't very much. This is why the key to the Hydrovane's successful operation is balance. As the manufacturer points out, “the trim of the sails and balance of the boat determine how well the Hydrovane can do its job.” And under the "causes of poor performance," the makers list an “unbalanced boat” (they suggest retuning the rig, changing the rake or position of the mast, cutting the boom — that's some pretty drastic surgery); “unbalanced sails”; “baggy sails”; and a “main rudder locked on the centerline” instead of in the “balanced position” (this a draws attention to the fact that fiddling with the Hydrovane to set one’s course also requires fiddling with the main rudder).
Now, I have no doubt that the Hydrovane will steer a nicely balanced boat, but that isn’t saying much, because a nicely balanced boat virtually steers itself. Anyone who has struggled with a wheel or tiller to counter weather-helm knows that a balanced boat is easier to steer than an unbalanced one – this applies equally to biological, electronic, or mechanical pilots. Our youngest daughter can steer the boat in perfect conditions; when the sea picks up and conditions get gusty, we let someone else take the wheel. The measure of an effective pilot is not its performance under “balanced” conditions, but “unbalanced” conditions. And on a boat that is being smacked around by waves, conditions can change from “balanced” to “unbalanced” in a heartbeat – the key is having a pilot with the strength to get the boat back on course and “balanced” again.
Let me reiterate this point with another quote from the makers of Hydrovane. They say that a "perfectly balanced" boat "leaves a lot less work for the Hydrovane to do — or put another way: makes the Hydrovane's rudder much more effective." But the logic of this statement is faulty; it really works the other way around: because the Hydrovane is not very effective, it cannot do a lot of work, so the boat must be perfectly balanced.
Another way the manufacturers turn vice into virtue is when they stress that you can use the Hydrovane and an autopilot at the same time, something that they point out you can't do with a servo-pendulum gear.
Sure, it is true that you cannot use your autopilot and a servo-pendulum gear at the same time. But the more important point is that you don't have to. And what the makers of Hydrovane construe here as a virtue (namely that the Hydrovane and autopilot can work together) is in fact a pretty way to dress up a liability: in fact, the Hydrovane needs an effective autopilot in adverse conditions. Again, they note that an autopilot is "comforting to use in storms when uncertain -- [it] can [be] turn[ed] off once control is regained." Frankly, a priority for me in bad weather is to not loose control in the first place.
As for their criticisms of more conventional servo-pendulum gear, they only make me wonder what the makers of Hydrovane are smoking. "We have too often heard owners of servo pendulums that are very proud of their units," they write, "but advise that when off the wind they only work in a minimum of 15 or 20 knots of wind – not all, but some!!" This can only be true of the most dysfunctional gear and would be evidence of serious problems. Our own gear works in pretty much any wind (on any point of sail) that is sufficient to bring boat speed up to 2.5 knots. Likewise, I wonder about their drug intake when they make the power of servo-pendulum sound like uncontrolled violence:
Damn right! We tell our kids all the time to keep their fingers away from the lines, blocks, and wheel. We also teach them to be wary of the loaded sheets and winches. There are a lot of forces at play on a sailboat, especially in nasty weather. But when I look out at our servo-pendulum gear as it navigates our vessel safely through a gale, I don't see violence but grace, and I feel for it a fondness that approaches true love.
P.S.
The best book I have ever read on self-steering gear for sailboats is Bill Belcher's Wind-Vane Self-Steering![]()
. Belcher examines an number of different types of mechanical windvanes. His theoretical discussions are incredibly clear. He provides an honest appraisal (untainted by any affiliation with a specific product) of the capabilities and limitations of such gear. And the whole point of the book to help readers construct devices of their own — the book includes detailed plans for a number of different types of gear. Given the outrageous price of self-steering gear, it is reassuring that anyone with moderate skills can make a decent and effective self-steering device for, say, five-hundred dollars. I believe the book is out-of-print, so it may be hard to find. But it's worth looking for.![]()
In the interest of full disclosure, let me be perfectly clear. I have built my own self-steering gear in the past, I've modified the one we're using now (because I like to tweak), and I have helped others get their self-steering gear under control. But I have no personal experience with a Hydrodvane. You don't see them very often compared to other kinds of systems. The only one I've ever fondled was on a Waterline 50, and the owner expressed displeasure because it didn't do the trick. The Waterline 50 is admittedly a large boat — it is heavier than Hydrovane recommends. But the makers of Hydrovane shamelessly encourage the use of their product for boats that exceed their own recommendations, noting that they "know of and even provide many installations for boats in excess of those limits." They might indeed be willing to "tell you about the many 50,000 lb. or 23,000 kg boats that also have glowing reports of their Hydrovanes," but the fellow I know clearly isn't one of them.
My skepticism arises mostly from a theoretical assessment of the gear and from an utter inability to understand how it could possibly work very well. If you want to hear about how wonderful the Hydrovane is, I refer you to their website. But much of what I've read there sounds like half-truths. Thus, for example, when you follow the link that takes you to the testimonials of "famous sailors," you'll be greeted by a photo of Jimmy Cornell's "Aventura" sporting a Hydrovane. But what they won't tell you is that Cornell currently touts the servo-pendulum by Windpilot. "I switched from Hydrovane to Windpilot," he writes, "because I felt that the Hydrovane system may not be powerful enough for a 43 ft. boat." Or perhaps Windpilot just pays him more -- who knows.
In any event, my purpose here is simply to raise a few doubts and encourage prospective buyers to perhaps think twice before spending "25-40% more than good of servo-pendulums" (for some reason, Hydrovane subscribes to the "if-you-charge-more-they-will-buy-it" philosophy) on a mechanical self-steering device that might very well prove to be a major disappointment.
Something I do know for certain is that robust and effective self-steering gear is the key to happiness. I know this from our own experience and from the experience of watching the tribulations of others. On our passage to Hawaii, our Sailomat servo-pendulum gear kept us on course as we bounced around in the nastiest cross swell we’ve ever experienced in forty knots of wind for days on end; meanwhile, we were in radio contact with a skipper not very far away, whose autopilot (which was supposedly more than adequate) gave up so frequently that he couldn’t get away from the wheel long enough to pee. Another skipper we know on a Valiant 50 from our stay Mexico experienced a thirty-knot blow as a "survival storm" because his autopilot couldn’t do the job. For a short-handed crew, decent self-steering gear – whether it’s a mechanical windvane or an autopilot – makes the difference between heaven and hell.
With respect to mechanical windvanes, there are a number of ways to skin this cat. Most crews rely on servo-pendulum gear. Ours is made by Sailomat, but Monitor is the most common, and there are other manufacturers as well – Aries, Windpilot, Cape Horn, Fleming, Voyager. While we might debate their finer differences, in principle they work the same. A windvane is positioned so that when the boat is on course, the vane is vertical. When the boat veers off course, the shift in the apparent angle of the wind causes the windvane to deflect. The deflecting windvane turns a balanced oar that is in the water. As the oar presents a face to the water rushing past the boat, it is forced to swing like a pendulum. The energy from this swing is transmitted by lines and blocks to the boat’s steering system – either to the wheel or to the tiller – and the boat is brought back on course. Servo-pendulums are not practical for all boats, particularly those that rely on hydraulic steering instead of cables or those with a center cockpit. But there are also other kinds of windvane devices that by-pass most the boat’s steering system and effect the rudder more directly. They use a windvane to deflect a trim tab on the boat’s rudder, which in turn causes the rudder to swing. In all these cases, the power of the wind (which is quite weak) mechanically adjusts the gear so that it harnesses the power of the water (which is immense) to steer the boat.
The Hydrovane, on the other hand, relies solely on the power of the wind to steer the boat. And unless that little magical box which links the windvane to the rudder somehow manages to transcend the laws of thermodynamics, that power isn't very much. This is why the key to the Hydrovane's successful operation is balance. As the manufacturer points out, “the trim of the sails and balance of the boat determine how well the Hydrovane can do its job.” And under the "causes of poor performance," the makers list an “unbalanced boat” (they suggest retuning the rig, changing the rake or position of the mast, cutting the boom — that's some pretty drastic surgery); “unbalanced sails”; “baggy sails”; and a “main rudder locked on the centerline” instead of in the “balanced position” (this a draws attention to the fact that fiddling with the Hydrovane to set one’s course also requires fiddling with the main rudder).
Now, I have no doubt that the Hydrovane will steer a nicely balanced boat, but that isn’t saying much, because a nicely balanced boat virtually steers itself. Anyone who has struggled with a wheel or tiller to counter weather-helm knows that a balanced boat is easier to steer than an unbalanced one – this applies equally to biological, electronic, or mechanical pilots. Our youngest daughter can steer the boat in perfect conditions; when the sea picks up and conditions get gusty, we let someone else take the wheel. The measure of an effective pilot is not its performance under “balanced” conditions, but “unbalanced” conditions. And on a boat that is being smacked around by waves, conditions can change from “balanced” to “unbalanced” in a heartbeat – the key is having a pilot with the strength to get the boat back on course and “balanced” again.
Let me reiterate this point with another quote from the makers of Hydrovane. They say that a "perfectly balanced" boat "leaves a lot less work for the Hydrovane to do — or put another way: makes the Hydrovane's rudder much more effective." But the logic of this statement is faulty; it really works the other way around: because the Hydrovane is not very effective, it cannot do a lot of work, so the boat must be perfectly balanced.
Another way the manufacturers turn vice into virtue is when they stress that you can use the Hydrovane and an autopilot at the same time, something that they point out you can't do with a servo-pendulum gear.
In major storms many have used this technique [that is, using an autopilot in tandem with the Hydrovane] when the Hydrovane appears to be challenged to the maximum and needs all the help it can get. That is often the case in the early hours of a storm when the seas are square and chaotic. Once the storm has blown for a while and the seas become more regular then the autopilot can be turned off.
Sure, it is true that you cannot use your autopilot and a servo-pendulum gear at the same time. But the more important point is that you don't have to. And what the makers of Hydrovane construe here as a virtue (namely that the Hydrovane and autopilot can work together) is in fact a pretty way to dress up a liability: in fact, the Hydrovane needs an effective autopilot in adverse conditions. Again, they note that an autopilot is "comforting to use in storms when uncertain -- [it] can [be] turn[ed] off once control is regained." Frankly, a priority for me in bad weather is to not loose control in the first place.
As for their criticisms of more conventional servo-pendulum gear, they only make me wonder what the makers of Hydrovane are smoking. "We have too often heard owners of servo pendulums that are very proud of their units," they write, "but advise that when off the wind they only work in a minimum of 15 or 20 knots of wind – not all, but some!!" This can only be true of the most dysfunctional gear and would be evidence of serious problems. Our own gear works in pretty much any wind (on any point of sail) that is sufficient to bring boat speed up to 2.5 knots. Likewise, I wonder about their drug intake when they make the power of servo-pendulum sound like uncontrolled violence:
If you have ever had the chance to see a servo pendulum operating in bad weather you would better appreciate where that comment about its power comes from. Its activity can be described as perhaps violent as it wrenches the wheel/tiller from one course to the next. One certainly wants to stay clear of that section of the cockpit.
Damn right! We tell our kids all the time to keep their fingers away from the lines, blocks, and wheel. We also teach them to be wary of the loaded sheets and winches. There are a lot of forces at play on a sailboat, especially in nasty weather. But when I look out at our servo-pendulum gear as it navigates our vessel safely through a gale, I don't see violence but grace, and I feel for it a fondness that approaches true love.
P.S.
The best book I have ever read on self-steering gear for sailboats is Bill Belcher's Wind-Vane Self-Steering
. Belcher examines an number of different types of mechanical windvanes. His theoretical discussions are incredibly clear. He provides an honest appraisal (untainted by any affiliation with a specific product) of the capabilities and limitations of such gear. And the whole point of the book to help readers construct devices of their own — the book includes detailed plans for a number of different types of gear. Given the outrageous price of self-steering gear, it is reassuring that anyone with moderate skills can make a decent and effective self-steering device for, say, five-hundred dollars. I believe the book is out-of-print, so it may be hard to find. But it's worth looking for.
↧
Addendum to: An Expression of Doubt — How can Hydrovane Self-Steering really be any good?
I’ve written this post as an addendum to my earlier piece, An Expression of Doubt – How can Hydrovane Self-Steering be any good? in part because someone questioned whether it was fair for me to criticize a product with which I have no experience. And in principle I wholeheartedly agree. Yet in my defense, I made it clear I had no personal experience a Hydrovane. I confessed that I could not understand how it could work very well. The questions I raised were based not on pure speculation but on the promotional material of the product itself – they are the kinds of questions that I would like to have resolved before I would purchase such a unit.
But I do so much prefer talking about stuff I really know about, so I’m taking a different approach this time. I’m revisiting the Hydrovane promotional material again, but this time I'm looking at the way it represents its primary rival, namely servo-pendulum self-steering gear. Hydrovane makes some rather grandiose claims about its superiority vis-à-vis servo-pendulum gear, but they are based on gross misrepresentations which bring up basic issues of credibility.
A major claim that they make repeatedly is that servo-pendulum gear doesn’t work well in light air. They say, for example, "we have too often heard owners of servo pendulums that are very proud of their units but advise that they only work, when off the wind, in a minimum of 15 or 20 knots of wind!!" But this can hardly be true, or at the very least it is the product of extremely selective hearing. If the servo-pendulum is set up correctly, it should not require any more wind to steer the boat than a Hydrovane. In fact, the windvane on a servo-pendulum actually does less work than the windvane on a Hydrovane. On the Hydrovane, the windvane has to turn a rudder – a rudder that’s smaller than the boat’s own rudder, but which is nonetheless much larger than the steering oar of a servo-pendulum gear. After all, this rudder is steering the boat. On a servo-pendulum gear, the function of a windvane isn’t to steer the boat but to turn a small, balanced oar, which in turn harnesses the power of the water rushing past the boat. In effect, the windvane on a servo-pendulum only needs enough wind to send a signal to the steering oar; the windvane on the Hydrovane needs to get all of its power to steer the boat from the wind. Indeed, this is why the windvane on a Hydrovane is significantly bigger than on a servo-pendulum gear.
A boat with a servo-pendulum needs to be moving through the water for the gear to work. I would estimate that once our boat reaches, say, 2 ½ knots, the gear can steer the vessel without any problems. I can imagine that a Hydrovane might be able to steer a boat that is moving slower than this, though this would also mean that there was very little wind. But a more likely scenario would feature a boat sailing dead down wind in light conditions. The faster the boat moves, the less apparent wind is experienced by the boat and by the windvane. In such conditions, a servo-pendulum will have plenty of power to steer the boat – the tricky part is having enough wind to send a signal to the steering oar (sometimes we’ll increase the area of our vane by clipping on a piece of cardboard). But I imagine that the Hydrovane would have an even more difficult time, for it needs the wind not only to send a signal but also to power the rudder.
Another point the manufacturers of Hydrovane repeatedly stress when comparing their windvane with servo-pendulums is that their unit has “very little friction” and thus performs better in light air. They add, too, that if there is any “excess friction in the system - stiff rudder, arduous connecting lines” then the servo-pendulum unit suffers all the more. This is most certainly true – but it is also misleading and largely irrelevant. To meaningfully discuss of the role of “friction” in a servo-pendulum system, one must distinguish between that part of the system powered by the wind and that part powered by the water. If anything, the part of the servo-pendulum system powered by the wind should generate less friction than the hydrovane – it performs less work. The part of the system that is powered by water – from the lines through the blocks, to the tiller/ wheel, from the wheel, to the cables, to the rudder – obviously generates a lot more friction than the Hydrovane. But it shouldn’t matter. Given the amount of power generated by the oar in the water, that friction should be easily overcome. If “excess friction in the system - stiff rudder, arduous connecting lines” – is really limiting the effectiveness of the gear, then something is seriously wrong.
A third misleading point made by Hydrovane is that “all servo pendulum systems, when matched against a Hydrovane, are comparatively unsophisticated. Once engaged they do a meandering sort of course correction without any means of tuning or straightening its course.” Frankly, this assertion is so divorced from reality that I hardly know what to make of it. The manufacturer at this point in its promotion is really trying to emphasize Hydrovane’s own “sensitivity adjustment” of its vane axis and its three different “rudder settings.” To set up a striking contrast, the manufacturer wants you to imagine that its servo-pendulum rival has “no means of tuning.” How ridiculous. Our Sailomat (which like all decent servo-pendulum gear begins with a sophisticated geometry) can be “tuned” (from the top down) as follows: changeable windvane sizes, moveable counterweight, adjustable windvane lever arm, adjustable push rod, adjustable lever arm at the steering oar, selection of line attachment points at the pendulum, a wide range of block configurations for the lines, adjustable lines for balancing the helm. Some of these things are adjusted when one sets up the gear; others can be used to adjust the gear for different sailing conditions. I will concede the point that “all servo pendulum system lack this [namely Hydrovane’s specific vane axis] adjustability for sensitivity,” but we are talking about different kinds of systems here. Kinda like criticizing an orange for not having apple seeds.
A fourth misleading point made by Hydrovane pertains to the way the boat’s rudder is utilized by the Hydrovane and by a servo-pendulum unit. The Hydrovane needs to set the main rudder in a certain position that balances the boat so that its own auxiliary rudder is effective. The manufacturers then criticize the servo- pendulum system because it cannot balance the rudder in the same way, but they misrepresent the way the system actually works:
Hydrovane wants you to believe that a servo-system oversteers because it cannot balance the rudder. But in fact, trimming the lines that connect the servo-pendulum to the wheel/ tiller – that is to say, balancing the rudder – is a critical part of properly setting a servo-pendulum gear for the sailing conditions. The rudder is trimmed to balance the boat, neutralizing weather or lee helm, and the lines to the gear are trimmed so that the gear is a neutral position. The servo-pendulum then steers the boat by moving the rudder in relation to this “balanced” position. What Hydrovane has done here is to describe the wrong way to use a servo-pendulum unit and then criticized its operation. They might as well be telling you that shoes don’t protect your feet because you wear them on your hands.
And this misrepresentation leads nicely to the next one, in which servo-pendulum gear is portrayed like some kind of savage brute. The passage is worth quoting at length:
Now, I actually have seen our servo-pendulum operating in bad weather. And I never noticed that it “wrenches the wheel/tiller from one course to the next.” Properly trimmed, it ticks gently back and forth, keeping the boat on course. But when boat get smacked or falls of a wave, and veers in the wrong direction, the servo-pendulum shows its strength, vigorously spinning the wheel to bring the boat back on course, making good use of the boat’s own rudder – an athlete to be sure. At this point, I imagine the Hydrovane would be calling out for help from the autopilot (although I confess I wouldn’t know, because I’ve never used one).
I'll close with final quote from Hydrovane's website that attempts to portray a stark contrast between the pathetic inadequacy of servo-pendulum steering gear and the magnificent superiority of the Hydrovane:
Guilty of a bit of hyperbole? You betcha!! I can almost hear maniacal laughter.
![]()
But I do so much prefer talking about stuff I really know about, so I’m taking a different approach this time. I’m revisiting the Hydrovane promotional material again, but this time I'm looking at the way it represents its primary rival, namely servo-pendulum self-steering gear. Hydrovane makes some rather grandiose claims about its superiority vis-à-vis servo-pendulum gear, but they are based on gross misrepresentations which bring up basic issues of credibility.
A major claim that they make repeatedly is that servo-pendulum gear doesn’t work well in light air. They say, for example, "we have too often heard owners of servo pendulums that are very proud of their units but advise that they only work, when off the wind, in a minimum of 15 or 20 knots of wind!!" But this can hardly be true, or at the very least it is the product of extremely selective hearing. If the servo-pendulum is set up correctly, it should not require any more wind to steer the boat than a Hydrovane. In fact, the windvane on a servo-pendulum actually does less work than the windvane on a Hydrovane. On the Hydrovane, the windvane has to turn a rudder – a rudder that’s smaller than the boat’s own rudder, but which is nonetheless much larger than the steering oar of a servo-pendulum gear. After all, this rudder is steering the boat. On a servo-pendulum gear, the function of a windvane isn’t to steer the boat but to turn a small, balanced oar, which in turn harnesses the power of the water rushing past the boat. In effect, the windvane on a servo-pendulum only needs enough wind to send a signal to the steering oar; the windvane on the Hydrovane needs to get all of its power to steer the boat from the wind. Indeed, this is why the windvane on a Hydrovane is significantly bigger than on a servo-pendulum gear.
A boat with a servo-pendulum needs to be moving through the water for the gear to work. I would estimate that once our boat reaches, say, 2 ½ knots, the gear can steer the vessel without any problems. I can imagine that a Hydrovane might be able to steer a boat that is moving slower than this, though this would also mean that there was very little wind. But a more likely scenario would feature a boat sailing dead down wind in light conditions. The faster the boat moves, the less apparent wind is experienced by the boat and by the windvane. In such conditions, a servo-pendulum will have plenty of power to steer the boat – the tricky part is having enough wind to send a signal to the steering oar (sometimes we’ll increase the area of our vane by clipping on a piece of cardboard). But I imagine that the Hydrovane would have an even more difficult time, for it needs the wind not only to send a signal but also to power the rudder.
Another point the manufacturers of Hydrovane repeatedly stress when comparing their windvane with servo-pendulums is that their unit has “very little friction” and thus performs better in light air. They add, too, that if there is any “excess friction in the system - stiff rudder, arduous connecting lines” then the servo-pendulum unit suffers all the more. This is most certainly true – but it is also misleading and largely irrelevant. To meaningfully discuss of the role of “friction” in a servo-pendulum system, one must distinguish between that part of the system powered by the wind and that part powered by the water. If anything, the part of the servo-pendulum system powered by the wind should generate less friction than the hydrovane – it performs less work. The part of the system that is powered by water – from the lines through the blocks, to the tiller/ wheel, from the wheel, to the cables, to the rudder – obviously generates a lot more friction than the Hydrovane. But it shouldn’t matter. Given the amount of power generated by the oar in the water, that friction should be easily overcome. If “excess friction in the system - stiff rudder, arduous connecting lines” – is really limiting the effectiveness of the gear, then something is seriously wrong.
A third misleading point made by Hydrovane is that “all servo pendulum systems, when matched against a Hydrovane, are comparatively unsophisticated. Once engaged they do a meandering sort of course correction without any means of tuning or straightening its course.” Frankly, this assertion is so divorced from reality that I hardly know what to make of it. The manufacturer at this point in its promotion is really trying to emphasize Hydrovane’s own “sensitivity adjustment” of its vane axis and its three different “rudder settings.” To set up a striking contrast, the manufacturer wants you to imagine that its servo-pendulum rival has “no means of tuning.” How ridiculous. Our Sailomat (which like all decent servo-pendulum gear begins with a sophisticated geometry) can be “tuned” (from the top down) as follows: changeable windvane sizes, moveable counterweight, adjustable windvane lever arm, adjustable push rod, adjustable lever arm at the steering oar, selection of line attachment points at the pendulum, a wide range of block configurations for the lines, adjustable lines for balancing the helm. Some of these things are adjusted when one sets up the gear; others can be used to adjust the gear for different sailing conditions. I will concede the point that “all servo pendulum system lack this [namely Hydrovane’s specific vane axis] adjustability for sensitivity,” but we are talking about different kinds of systems here. Kinda like criticizing an orange for not having apple seeds.
A fourth misleading point made by Hydrovane pertains to the way the boat’s rudder is utilized by the Hydrovane and by a servo-pendulum unit. The Hydrovane needs to set the main rudder in a certain position that balances the boat so that its own auxiliary rudder is effective. The manufacturers then criticize the servo- pendulum system because it cannot balance the rudder in the same way, but they misrepresent the way the system actually works:
A servo system cannot match the configuration of locking your main rudder to render your boat perfectly balanced. … A servo pendulum system must perform a lot of steering that a Hydrovane does not have to do. … On every turn it must deal with the forces of any weather helm or lee helm – not so for an auxiliary rudder system which has no weather or lee helm to deal with as the positioning of the locked main rudder compensates for such ‘pulling’ by the positioning of the main rudder – neutralizes any weather or lee helm! … a servo pendulum can struggle with the forces of weather or lee helm on every turn. … Comparatively, a servo pendulum configuration requires a lot of extra steering.
Hydrovane wants you to believe that a servo-system oversteers because it cannot balance the rudder. But in fact, trimming the lines that connect the servo-pendulum to the wheel/ tiller – that is to say, balancing the rudder – is a critical part of properly setting a servo-pendulum gear for the sailing conditions. The rudder is trimmed to balance the boat, neutralizing weather or lee helm, and the lines to the gear are trimmed so that the gear is a neutral position. The servo-pendulum then steers the boat by moving the rudder in relation to this “balanced” position. What Hydrovane has done here is to describe the wrong way to use a servo-pendulum unit and then criticized its operation. They might as well be telling you that shoes don’t protect your feet because you wear them on your hands.
And this misrepresentation leads nicely to the next one, in which servo-pendulum gear is portrayed like some kind of savage brute. The passage is worth quoting at length:
If you have ever had the chance to see a servo pendulum operating in bad weather you would better appreciate where that comment about its power comes from. Its activity can be described as perhaps violent as it wrenches the wheel/tiller from one course to the next. One certainly wants to stay clear of that section of the cockpit. We do suggest that there is some overkill in that performance. … The comparison [between a Hydrovane and a servo pendulum] is like the difference between the less skilled hard working rookie and a skilled athlete that makes a play look so easy …
Now, I actually have seen our servo-pendulum operating in bad weather. And I never noticed that it “wrenches the wheel/tiller from one course to the next.” Properly trimmed, it ticks gently back and forth, keeping the boat on course. But when boat get smacked or falls of a wave, and veers in the wrong direction, the servo-pendulum shows its strength, vigorously spinning the wheel to bring the boat back on course, making good use of the boat’s own rudder – an athlete to be sure. At this point, I imagine the Hydrovane would be calling out for help from the autopilot (although I confess I wouldn’t know, because I’ve never used one).
I'll close with final quote from Hydrovane's website that attempts to portray a stark contrast between the pathetic inadequacy of servo-pendulum steering gear and the magnificent superiority of the Hydrovane:
A servo pendulum cannot be adjusted for conditions. It cannot help but to over-steer or under-steer. The activity of the main rudder flapping back and forth exacerbates the steering difficulties of a heavy sea. If the same boat had its main rudder fixed it would be far more stable. These issues are complex and hard to understand. I am guilty of a bit of hyperbole in making my point but the concept of the stability of auxiliary rudder systems is well worth appreciating. It alone makes the auxiliary rudder concept superior to any other method of self steering. Adding to that the sophistication and the unmatched versatility of the Hydrovane..........[sic]
Guilty of a bit of hyperbole? You betcha!! I can almost hear maniacal laughter.
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Flash Fiction (May 17, 2010)
http://52250flash.wordpress.com/Michelle & her "flash partner" John Chapin launched their new project today -- "52|250 A Year of Flash." The challenge: to write one piece of fiction (250 words or less) every week for one year. Stories are written around a theme each week. Themes are submitted by anyone -- you, too (go to the site if you are interested). The first week's theme was "Breadfruit"
Our contributions this week are as follows.
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Our contributions this week are as follows.
A Knobby Thing
(Michelle)
She reclines in her window seat, sees the starboard prop whirring superfast, looking slo-mo. She closes her eyes and drifts back to yesterday, the last day of everything, 80-hour work-weeks, devoted dull boyfriend, pet cat (a gift) she secretly hates. She brings her thumb to teeth, gnaws where there’s nothing left to gnaw, sorrowful nails bitten down to nothing. She feels ugly but ready for anything.
The wheels touch down and she gathers her things, spits cuticle out the side of her mouth, thp. She steps out into air so hot she’s sure she’ll never be able to breathe here. Then she inhales deeply and instead of feeling oxygen hitting lungs, she tastes it -- floral and citrus, sweaty and sweet. The first breath is as miraculous and jarring as the one she took some thirty-three years back. She almost cries out, too: the punch of this new world hits her hard.
She wanders along Main Street, spots the trademarked arches garish and gold against this landscape, jutting up amongst dusty buildings and peeling paint -- an echo of her old world. She longs for its familiar cool, then spies a small market across the street. Locals laugh, handle fruits she's never seen or heard of. She goes to the first long table, eyeballs a knobby thing, large and green, asks a dark woman with droopy breasts and happy eyes, "Quest-ce que c'est?" The woman answers, "Breadfruit, love." She picks it up, smiles, thinks she'll give it a try.
_______
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A story they might tell
(Bernie)
To save our small South Pacific island from the rising tides of global warming, our ancestors turned to Google and the sacred breadfruit tree. From Google they got the names – thousands upon thousands – which they compiled in lists. From the tree, they plucked the breadfruit, which they shaped as human heads, inlaid with pretty stones and shells, drawing upon each a corporate logo or a flag, and inscribing a name: a captain of industry, finance or government. Streaked with war paint and chanting loudly, they split the fruit open with their clubs, boiled it in water, and then picked the meat clean with their forks. And in time zones far, far away, the bankers, executives, and demagogues suddenly began to disappear, vanishing from beneath their silken sheets, evaporating in the business class compartments of jet liners, the back seats of chauffeur-driven limousines, and behind the protective cordons of security teams. There was much weeping from laser-corrected eyes and gnashing of orthodontured teeth. And as if our ancestors had jammed the trunk of a coconut tree between the spokes of a giant bicycle wheel, the industrial gyroscope came to an abrupt halt, flinging millions upon millions of bodies into the oceans and into space. Years later, we still marvel at the sparkling night sky, following with our eyes the moving points of light as the debris of capitalism reenters the atmosphere and burns. We tell stories, like this one, drink kava, and eat well, for the breadfruit tree is bountiful.
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Flash Fiction (May 24, 2010)
This week's theme was "Fancy Me." You'll find more stories at http://52250flash.wordpress.com/.
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From The Doctor, With Love
(Michelle)
I am tired, man, beat.
feel like a whiny kid,
are we there yet,
need to sleep!
Don’t know if I can walk
another mile, though you might talk
me into it. ’Cause though I’m
stomped and scuffed,
and have wrinkles and pocks,
you say they’re not wrinkles,
but creases and folds –
you say I have character,
you say I’m not old.
You caress me,
hold me and stroke
the soft spots between my folds.
I love how you touch me,
your hands warm on my shape,
and I know we are bonded
by more than duct tape.
Remember that dog shit?
And the chewing gum?
It’s a hazardous world, but you, old chum,
scraped and washed me clean of all
those insults, every single time.
Then came the thinning –
your hair, my sole.
We’re well suited, you and I –
Together, we’re whole.
And though you toss me
in the corner each night,
I feel a surge of affection
the next morning
as you pick me up gently again,
choose me over the Nikes, Adidas
and even those Florsheims
that your mother once bought,
back when you were jobhunting.
You look right past them,
once shiny and loud
now dusty with disuse.
I wait quietly and think,
I am here for you.
We’re both thinner, older,
greyer, slower,
but you are still you
and I am The Doctor.
And I feel it deep down,
you never say it but I know:
I am not just any old loafer.
_____________________
The Potato Head Principle
(Bernie)
Revlon’s development of the Mr. Potato Head principle for human applications had revolutionized the beauty industry, and kits were now available from a number of manufacturers. They could be bought cheaply at Costco and Sam’s Club, but you had to be wary of ones that were made in Pakistan and the Szechwan province of China, for they reportedly caused gangrene. In the mornings, Jerry would shuffle down the stairs and take his place in the greasy diner below his apartment run by the Polish lady. And carrying his breakfast, she would greet him with a different face each time – one day with eyes that were big, round and accentuated by heavy lashes, the next with glistening star-shaped pupils and no irises at all. Her nose might be flat and broad or long and thin, and sometimes it would dangle. Some mornings her ears would be pinned flat to her head, but other times she would accessorize with auricles that fanned the air. “Do you fancy me today?” she’d ask him with a smile, sometimes toothy, sometimes not. “It’s not quite right,” he’d inevitably respond, though her look quite often turned him on. They’d laugh, their flirting done with for the day. And he would polish off his eggs, sausages and toast, read the comics in the Vancouver Sun, and leave a fistful of dollars on the table. Then he’d shuffle off to work at the pickle factory, wondering whether he would recognize any of his friends.
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Cigarette Smoke in the Car
Hardly a sailing story, but that was last week's theme on the flash fiction site 52|250, and Michelle's Bedtime Story appeared there. You can read all the stories at 52|250. Here is Bedtime Story:
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Let me tell you, child, the story of how your father became your father.
Not the story of how his sperm crashed into my egg, how mad passion made a sweet sticky union that turned two into one and then in a split second became three. That is a good story, too, but this one is better.
We were driving down Highway 1, me at the wheel and him dialing the radio. Windows down, heatwave hitting us hard. Supertramp: Give a Little Bit. He turned it up, lit a cigarette, put it to my lips like he always did, his sweet salty fingers so close I wanted a nibble. When I turned my head slightly and said No he looked almost hurt. Then I said the thing I’d been hiding for two weeks: I’m pregnant. I couldn’t read his face, and the telling of this simple truth was much like the rest of our relationship: unplanned and hot. I saw the slight slump of his shoulders that accompanied his bent head, his black Oriole’s cap shielding his eyes. And then he stubbed out his Camel unfiltered, exhaled long and slow. He took the pack from his Tshirt pocket, turned it over, studied it as if it might reveal some magic wisdom: Run away! Marry her! Find another girl! Then he pulled the remaining cigarettes from the pack, and, one by one, tossed them out the window. Turned Supertramp louder, cupped his hand round my sweaty neck, and grinned.
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Up Close and Personal with Peppers
When I think back to our years sailing in Mexico and all its culinary delights, I recall with great emotion one thing: chili peppers. We spent one particularly glorious season in the Sea of Cortez, spearfishing every day for our dinner and enjoying a never-ending supply of three of my favorite things: cilantro, lime and chilis. All three go hand-in-hand, but cilantro and lime do not come in the varied and colorful forms that chilis do. And so it was with chilis that I experimented most.
In particular, I fell in love with the mild poblano that season, using it in everything from savory scones to rice pilaf to garlic-citrus mayo on baked fish. Roasted, stuffed, or made into a quick salsa, the flavorful poblano became a staple item in my repertoire. And you just can’t live in Mexico without discovering the mysteries of mole, and you can’t have mole without the poblano. But other sorts of peppers also caught my fancy back then: chipotle turned my chili con carne deep and smoky, jalapeno became a standard in my spicy tomato-corn salsa, and serranos were a must in any respectable salsa verde poured over fish tacos.
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Each of these chilis possesses varying degrees of bite, quantified by the Scoville scale, a system for measuring the piquant in pepper developed in 1912 by a chemist named Wilbur Scoville and popularized in recent years by the vast market of spicy BBQ and hot sauces, many of which boast about their Scoville score right on the bottle. Scoville developed a way to measure how many parts per million of capsaicin a pepper contains, and how much dilution is needed to drown out the heat. The pimento or pepperoncini is the mildest of all peppers, rating only 100 to 500. The poblano is also quite low, with a mere 1,000 to 1500. Next in my lineup of personal favorites comes the chipotle, which rates 2500 to 5000. The jalapeno is a bit spicier, with 5000 to 8000 as its score. And the serrano is even stronger, with a rating of 10,000 to 23,000. To keep this in perspective, let me add a few more chilis in here: cayenne pepper, or tabasco pepper is rated 30,000 to 50,000; Thai pepper or Indian pepper, 50,000 to 100,000; scotch bonnet, 100,000 to 300,000; and the champion of all when it comes to piquant, the habanero, 350,000 to 580,000. At the very top of the scale is pepper spray, which is rated at 8,600,000 to 9,100,000. You see why it’s so effective
But back to peppers, and a particular story about the serrano. The serrano figured prominently in any salsas I made in Mexico; I like them spicy. Sometimes I’d use the serrano to heighten the flavor of my creamy cilantro sauce served over grilled chicken or fish. And I always used a serrano or jalapeno for ceviche, depending on which was available in my pepper basket on that particular day.
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Ceviche deserves a discussion of its own, for it is nothing short of a delight. It is pleasing to the eye and palate, nutritious, and easy to make with whatever assortment of fresh items you have on hand. It’s the perfect meal in the tropics, because you don’t have to crank up the stove or oven. We used whatever fish we caught: grouper, mahi mahi, trigger fish, snapper. Even tuna will do (and is used in some South American cultures), but we prefer it with a firm white fish. Ceviche is made, quite simply, by marinating the fish in fresh lemon or lime juice -- which breaks down the proteins and pickles or “cooks” it without heat. Once you get your cubes of fish marinating, you start chopping veggies, and by the time you've finished chopping, you can break open the crackers or tostadas or forks and dig in. I make my ceviche with a few standard items: lime or lemon, onion, tomato, bell pepper, and fish. If I have avocado or orange, I might add it. Anything crispy will do as well: cucumber, celery, jicama. But mostly, ceviche just ain't ceviche without the right amount of kick. The serrano delivers.
We ate our way through the Sea of Cortez that season nourished some days wholly on ceviche. I linger over my memories of those meals – fresh, colorful, crispy goodness. But let me offer a word of warning here, too. Serranos are actually quite hot. You’ve heard the stories of people rubbing their eyes after chopping jalapenos? Well, serranos are even hotter than that. And I had a very close encounter with a serrano one day.
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I know what you’re thinking; using the Scoville scale, the serrano looks mild. You’re thinking that a rub with a serrano might not be such a big deal. And I agree, to some extent: while I would have preferred an intimate brush with a poblano, I am forever grateful that I was not chopping habaneros that day. But the serrano is sharp enough, and the effect is immediate. I felt the full power of those 30,000 Scoville units that day: they burned into my skin, and into my memory.
Which brings me to the central story, which I could label as Michelle’s Number One Tip for Sailing Women. Here it is, fellow travelers, in all its scorching bluntness:
Do not ever, ever chop chili peppers and then change your tampon. You do not know the meaning of HOT until you’ve done this. And I don’t mean HOT in a titillating manner. I mean HOT as in panic-producing, sweat-inducing, scream-generating spiciness. Forget that itchy-hot sensation you get when you you've just chopped chilis and you inadvertently scratch your nose. This ignites a sensation on a whole different scale. Unexpectedly intense heat of that sort in the nether-regions is, quite frankly, shocking. And embarrassing (especially if your mother-in-law is visiting).
After about an hour of rolling, clutching and hopping (one's urge to blow is just not possible in this case), things settled down. Copious amounts of aloe gel and a couple cold beers later, we were all laughing and eating ceviche. You might think I had no appetite after the Great Serrano Incident, but I do not believe in holding grudges against something so lovely as the serrano, and even though the pain still lingered, I appreciated the humorous side of the this particular fire in my loins.
I still cook with chili peppers. I chopped some jalapenos just the other day (and, no, I don't wear gloves, because I'm unteachable in that way). Burning fingers or no, I can’t help myself: despite my mishap with the serrano, I’m devoted to chilis.
Some call it love; I call it burning love.
A version of this article is out now in the August 2010 issue of Latitudes and Attitudes. Thanks to the Editors over there for putting my pepper story in the galley section of their magazine.![]()
In particular, I fell in love with the mild poblano that season, using it in everything from savory scones to rice pilaf to garlic-citrus mayo on baked fish. Roasted, stuffed, or made into a quick salsa, the flavorful poblano became a staple item in my repertoire. And you just can’t live in Mexico without discovering the mysteries of mole, and you can’t have mole without the poblano. But other sorts of peppers also caught my fancy back then: chipotle turned my chili con carne deep and smoky, jalapeno became a standard in my spicy tomato-corn salsa, and serranos were a must in any respectable salsa verde poured over fish tacos.
But back to peppers, and a particular story about the serrano. The serrano figured prominently in any salsas I made in Mexico; I like them spicy. Sometimes I’d use the serrano to heighten the flavor of my creamy cilantro sauce served over grilled chicken or fish. And I always used a serrano or jalapeno for ceviche, depending on which was available in my pepper basket on that particular day.
We ate our way through the Sea of Cortez that season nourished some days wholly on ceviche. I linger over my memories of those meals – fresh, colorful, crispy goodness. But let me offer a word of warning here, too. Serranos are actually quite hot. You’ve heard the stories of people rubbing their eyes after chopping jalapenos? Well, serranos are even hotter than that. And I had a very close encounter with a serrano one day.
Which brings me to the central story, which I could label as Michelle’s Number One Tip for Sailing Women. Here it is, fellow travelers, in all its scorching bluntness:
Do not ever, ever chop chili peppers and then change your tampon. You do not know the meaning of HOT until you’ve done this. And I don’t mean HOT in a titillating manner. I mean HOT as in panic-producing, sweat-inducing, scream-generating spiciness. Forget that itchy-hot sensation you get when you you've just chopped chilis and you inadvertently scratch your nose. This ignites a sensation on a whole different scale. Unexpectedly intense heat of that sort in the nether-regions is, quite frankly, shocking. And embarrassing (especially if your mother-in-law is visiting).
After about an hour of rolling, clutching and hopping (one's urge to blow is just not possible in this case), things settled down. Copious amounts of aloe gel and a couple cold beers later, we were all laughing and eating ceviche. You might think I had no appetite after the Great Serrano Incident, but I do not believe in holding grudges against something so lovely as the serrano, and even though the pain still lingered, I appreciated the humorous side of the this particular fire in my loins.
I still cook with chili peppers. I chopped some jalapenos just the other day (and, no, I don't wear gloves, because I'm unteachable in that way). Burning fingers or no, I can’t help myself: despite my mishap with the serrano, I’m devoted to chilis.
Some call it love; I call it burning love.
A version of this article is out now in the August 2010 issue of Latitudes and Attitudes. Thanks to the Editors over there for putting my pepper story in the galley section of their magazine.
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Debunking the Baby Myth
The real deal about sailing with kids
When we moved aboard our 1961 Pearson Triton back in 2002, the most common question we were asked was “Isn’t it hard living aboard a sailboat with a baby?” Our daughter Lola was then 8 months old, already crawling, and fast approaching that age when mobility and exploration are critical to a baby’s development. At the time it seemed like a natural progression to be moving our soon-to-be-mobile baby onto a 28-foot floating home, even as our parents imagined her crawling right off the deck. By then, our minds had long been set on the goal of setting sail with our children, our house and material goods had been sold into the caring hands of others, and Lola seemed as willing as her parents to embark on this watery path.
In short, our children treat the dangers of the sea in the same way that city-dwelling kids treat the speeding roadways that they live with every day. They are mindful of the hazards, they heed their parents’ repeated warnings, and they play close to the edge nonetheless. It’s a matter of perspective, and what you are used to. While a sidewalk marks the boundary between the safe yard and the streets of Baltimore, the lifelines, netting and harness create the necessary border between life and death on board a boat.
Brave or Crazy
The truth is, if you take your childcare as seriously as you take your safe boat handling, living on board with babies comes naturally. And if you start out from the very beginning (the earlier, the better), the changes come, well, one baby step at a time (which seems infinitely easier to me than prying a teenager away from his cell phone, X-Box, and D&D club). There are so many reasons why living on a boat is in fact quite amenable to babies: the settees are fixed places for them to pull up and toddle around; the corners are rounded and provide nice handholds; the leecloths make ready-made romper rooms. And that netting you see on baby-boats? Not only does it keep your baby on deck but it will also save numerous tools and toys from a deep-sea end. For us, less equipment for the baby means more room to travel. No stroller, no crib, no bottles of formula. We had always been pretty basic in our outlook of what we needed, and having a small baby on board further emphasized this point.
At Sea as On Land
Bernie has often mused that whatever kind of personality you were back in your shore-life, you are bound to continue to be on a boat – except that your characteristics (or quirks, as the case may be) will become more pronounced. A packrat will continue to squirrel away items in those hard-to-get-at lockers. A planner, a scheduler, a time-keeper will not shed that watch lightly, and might like to make reservations in marinas along the way, just to be on the safe side. If you once possessed a tidy kitchen and organized desktop when you were a house-dweller, you will be among the lucky ones who can locate the spare paper towels or the 9/16” wrench when you need them. If you are slightly more chaotic (and this one I can relate to, since I live with someone who is neither tidy nor a list-keeper), well, your life on board might veer towards degrees of entropy. You get the idea: there are all types out here, everyone finds their own comfort zone on board, and you can only change so much, even when you shed your shore shackles and sail off into the sunset.
A few years back, we were motoring out of Vancouver’s Fraser River at an evil morning hour, when the wind kicked up to 25 knots against the outgoing tide. This was the only occasion when both our daughters awoke throwing up, the eldest (four at the time) exclaiming with shock, “Mama, I think I have The Seasickness!” (It was, quite clearly, something mythical that she had not yet experienced first hand.) I stayed below with the girls while Bernie motored to the mouth of the river over the next several hours, and quickly abandoned any hope of keeping myself vomit-free – my shirt became a towel; my lap may just as well have been the bowl or bucket I’d perched for each of my kids. Yes, things can get messy.
Less is More
Of course, the less-is-more motto works especially well if you breastfeed your baby on board. Yes, watches can be tiring if you have to feed intermittently through the night, but the pay-off is worth it. At the risk of sounding a little too earth-mother, what better way to nurture your babies while at sea? Nature does it all: the wind pushes you along, and you don’t have to measure out formula on a heel. No diesel, no bottles. Less mess, better nutrition. What more could you ask for? With both my babies, I let nature take care of them across time zones and bodies of water and found this to be one of the most practical (and most comforting) things in the world.
With Gusto
A year later, Lola’s sister Jana made her first offshore ten-day passage (Ensenada to Puerto Vallarta, nonstop) when she was three months old, tucked gently among cushions in the leeward bunk (with Lola romping all around). I recall my only worry on that trip was what to do with the very large marlin who had become interested in our trailing lure (he threw the hook, much to our relief). We then set sail to Hawaii with a bouncy 3-year-old Lola and a 7-month old Jana, and found the three week crossing hassle-free – and no thanks to the weather either: we experienced strong tradewinds combined with a cross-swell sent our way from a gale off of California and thus sailed with 30+ knots and steep 12-15’ seas for ten days straight. But even in those conditions, sailing with a baby was easy. She ate, slept, played, cooed, and pooped. That’s pretty much what babies do, on or off a boat.
As I write, it is slightly raining and my daughters are outside, swinging on the halyards. I urge them inside; I think they will get cold. No, they declare, they are having too much fun. Lola pushes herself out as far over the water as she can, and I hear her laugh with Jana and say, “This is my best swing ever!” I smile as I remember an older cruising couple anchored nearby who recently commented about our kids’ foredeck antics, how they expressed a sense of awe and wonder at the children. How they thought them very brave. Yeah, I think to myself now: brave and crazy. And then I remember that people have said the same about their parents.
This article appears in the August 2010 issue of Blue Water Sailing. Thanks to the editors there for sharing our experiences with their readers.
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More than you wanted to know..
As if our own website doesn't offer enough of a venue for us to go on and on about ourselves...
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you can read all about Momo and her crew, distilled down to one (long) page, at Kathy Parson's Women and Cruising website.
Kathy and her team have put together an amazing project about sailing families, in which they've asked twelve sailing families to answer a set of questions about everything from safety to education to entertainment to offshore sailing. You can read about other families who were featured in weeks before us: NEW LIFE, TOTEM, MERLIN, KANDARIK, and SHANGRI LA.
And now you can read how we tackle those same questions, here.
Thanks to Kathy for this great website. Momo is very pleased to participate in this project.![]()
Kathy and her team have put together an amazing project about sailing families, in which they've asked twelve sailing families to answer a set of questions about everything from safety to education to entertainment to offshore sailing. You can read about other families who were featured in weeks before us: NEW LIFE, TOTEM, MERLIN, KANDARIK, and SHANGRI LA.
And now you can read how we tackle those same questions, here.
Thanks to Kathy for this great website. Momo is very pleased to participate in this project.
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introducing thirteen
I've been busy this month getting the first quarterly review of my flash fiction website out the door. And it's here now!
features the best of the first thirteen weeks of
In this review, you’ll find the best stories from 52|250's first quarter, plus an interview with an artist, ten new creative non-fiction stories written by our most loyal flashers, and a page where the Editors share a little more, too.
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For anyone new to these pages, perhaps you are wondering what 52|250 A Year of Flash is. It started back in May, as a way to discipline myself to write more. The idea was to produce one piece of flash fiction every week for a year: 52 weeks, 250 words each week. I mentioned the idea to my high school pal John Chapin (who also happens to be a writing instructor) who responded, “I’m in!” So we created a website, and made an announcement here and there. The first week saw 17 submissions — 17 different stories about Breadfruit. We followed that week with a new theme, Fancy Me. Next came Little Worlds... and so on. People submitted theme ideas and art, and more and more stories rolled in. Soon Walter Bjorkman joined our team and helped streamline the site and prettify the code. And we’ve been writing every week since. We’ve just published stories for Week #17: We Are Not Responsible. And this week -- Week 18 -- has everyone writing about Lucky Number.
In short, 52|250 grew almost overnight from an idea to a community. We’ve had over 70 people participate in the project, and it’s still growing. And now we are here, with our first beautiful Quarterly Review.
If you are hearing about 52|250 for the first time, feel free to wander over to our site and send in your submissions — art, themes, or flash.
And thanks for stopping by and reading thirteen. Which, this week, is my lucky number.
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features the best of the first thirteen weeks of
In this review, you’ll find the best stories from 52|250's first quarter, plus an interview with an artist, ten new creative non-fiction stories written by our most loyal flashers, and a page where the Editors share a little more, too.
In short, 52|250 grew almost overnight from an idea to a community. We’ve had over 70 people participate in the project, and it’s still growing. And now we are here, with our first beautiful Quarterly Review.
If you are hearing about 52|250 for the first time, feel free to wander over to our site and send in your submissions — art, themes, or flash.
And thanks for stopping by and reading thirteen. Which, this week, is my lucky number.
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Making the Shift from Land to Sea: Moving Aboard with Kids
For Bernie and me, the decision to leave land life was already deeply ingrained even before we became homeowners -- we bought our first boat, the one we would eventually live aboard, before we even contemplated house or kids. Then, we sold our Baltimore house and everything else we owned in July 2002 and moved with our baby Lola onto our 1961 Pearson Triton, which we had affectionately named Simplicissimus, the 'simplest of the simple.' Compared to the house we had owned, everything about the 28' Triton was on a much smaller scale. No complicated systems -- just a 3hp outboard (we had removed the old Atomic Four some years earlier), a kerosene lamp for light, and a two-burner kerosene stove which we had built into the table top.
We now live aboard a Mason 43, a boat larger than Simplicissimus in all ways (we have doors! a shower! a galley!). But starting out on the Triton was one of the best decisions we ever made. On that boat, we honed our sailing skills and learned the routines of living aboard. We loved its quirky personality, and we were in our element. When we were ready to purchase a larger boat to accommodate our growing family, we knew what we were looking for. Indeed, it has become our firm belief that starting small helps you figure out exactly what you need in a larger boat. And, psychologically, the move to a larger vessel creates a whole new positive perspective on size. Moving from house to boat is always a dramatic downsizing in your life, but going from the Triton to the Mason created the impression, at least, that we were now living in luxury. When we moved aboard Momo back in 2003, our daughter Lola, then two, announced her approval after she ran up and down the center aisle between the settees the first time: "Big boat -- I like it!" It’s all a matter of perspective.
Fitting Your Family Into Your Boat
Sharing Space, Sharing Things
The reality, of course, is that most of the space on any boat is shared space, so being comfortable with your children in close quarters is something you will have to adjust to quickly. Besides, living with a little chaos keeps you healthy. We tell ourselves that, since by the end of each day, Momo's settee and pilot berth area is cluttered with books and toys, games and puzzles. And the shell collection outside seems to grow every day, even when we haven't been to the beach. To keep a handle on the natural trend toward entropy, we maintain a few loose rules and, most important, keep in good humor. Neither adult on board Momo is a tremendous disciplinarian, but a few simple routines go a long way toward maintaining some semblance of order. The table and floor are cleared before every meal, for example (let’s face it: who would want to place their feet on play-do bits and jacks anyway?). We encourage our kids to put away one set of toys before others come out (though this rule never works with our tools, dishes, or books either, but it’s sound in principle).
Sharing this new and smaller space with your children requires a psychological adjustment, to be sure. New challenges and tensions might come with close proximity, but so does the opportunity for unity that most families come to cherish, even as the parents are tripping over the legos or wishing they hadn't surrendered their bed for an afternoon of pirate ship.
Sharing Space Beyond the Cozy Cabin
You are not limited to the space inside the boat, of course. On any boat, the cockpit becomes a back porch on which to enjoy a cool sunset beer or dinner al fresco. On Momo, the foredeck and boom serve as practice space for acrobatics, and the cabin top is the front yard where shells are collected and sorted, tea parties are organized, abstract art finds its way from brush to paper, and laundry is washed and dried. You can make good use of your entire vessel, but even more than you, your kids will see the whole boat as an adventure, if you let them, and they will learn better than any one else how to use every inch of space, inside and out.
For us, the same thing happens at anchor: your immediate space around you becomes like your front yard, and your connection to other boats in the anchorage provides you with a neighborhood. In any anchorage with a critical mass of boats, we have encountered people eager to help with each other's projects or throw together a spontaneous potluck. For kids, a visit to another boat is an open-ended adventure. Sometimes a short chat on a dinghy ride evolves into an afternoon of activity -- a coffee on board, a fishing excursion, a hike in the hills. Then of course there's the large swimming pool just off your transom, if you are in warm climates, or the beaches that beckon each afternoon. 
Shifting Your Focus: Making the World Your Home
In the end, when you move aboard, your space is expanded, not diminished. Your vessel creates your immediate personal space, however small, but the space you can explore while sailing the world is limitless. You might sleep each night in a bed that is much smaller than your king sized futon back in your house. Perhaps your children now play only steps away from you rather than in the den down the corridor or in the third floor nursery. But space ultimately has little to do with LOA or beam. This requires a monumental mind shift, of course: to imagine that your space is now larger, not smaller, than when you lived on land. But it's true. And the world opens up one hundredfold as soon as you leave your home port.This article appears in the September/October 2010 issue of Liveaboard Magazine. Thanks to the editors for sharing our stories and perspectives with their readers.
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Video -- Jana takes on our three-year-old sail.
We made this little video last January in Whangarei. An article about this sail will appear in the November issue of Blue Water Sailing (available mid-October). Once it's published, we'll post it to our blog.
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Need to Control Your Twist? Consider an Off-Center Vang
(A version of this article appeared in Good Old Boat in March/ April 2007)
When we reconfigured Momo, our Mason 43, for blue water sailing, we searched for a way to replace our 4:1 purchase vang with something more powerful. We also needed something that could act as a preventer and steady the boom. Eventually we developed a system of dual off-centered vangs which has proven robust, effective, and easy to use. In fact, these vangs turned out to be our most significant modification to the sailboat’s rig, greatly enhancing performance and safety.
The Centered Vang vs. the Off-Centered Vang
The typical sailboat features a centered vang, which is secured at the base of the mast and runs at an angle between 30 and 60 degrees to a position on the boom a few feet from the gooseneck. The vang keeps the boom down and thus controls the twist of the main, particularly when the boat heads off the wind and that function can no longer be fulfilled by the mainsheet and traveler.
Older boats like ours often employ a modest 4:1 tackle, which is barely adequate even on small boats. Skippers with deep pockets can install a masculine piece of hydraulic muscle powerful enough to move mountains but which costs more than a new a mainsail. New boats increasingly sport rigid mechanical vangs which also support the boom in lieu of the topping lift, although I don’t understand why anyone would trade the supple strength of rope for the rigid vulnerability aluminum extrusions and steel. Judging from manufacturers’ warnings and reports I’ve read from people who use them, rigid vangs seem like a heavy and expensive way to replace a fully functional topping lift with a product that offers above all the potential to break. The virtue of the centered vang lies in pulling the boom down without impinging on its freedom to swing from side to side. The boom can be sheeted to any desired position while the vang’s tension remains the same. But such convenience comes at a price. As much as half of the force applied to a centered vang does not actually pull the boom down but rather wastes itself driving the boom into the mast and stressing the gooseneck. Little can be done about that: if the boom attachment is moved forward, the downward pull of the vang increases, but leverage is lost; moving the boom attachment aft increases the vang’s leverage, but decreases the proportion of force actually used to bring the boom down.
Furthermore, giving the boom the freedom to swing is not necessarily a good thing. With any kind of seaway, particularly in light winds, the boom bounces around with a violence that benefits neither the rig nor the canvas. And the further the vessel sails downwind, the greater danger it faces from an accidental jibe. Inevitably, measures need to be taken to steady the boom.
Often, however, such measures are awkward and unsafe. One common recommendation, for instance, is to rig a preventer to the end of the boom, lead it forward to a block on the bow and bring it back to the cockpit. But that is easier said than done, especially after a jibe at night or in heavy weather. Another way to rig a preventer is to change from a centered to an off-centered vang – by releasing the bottom of the vang from its position at the base of the mast and moving it outboard so that the vang constrains the boom. But a vang that always needs to be moved from one place to another is a nuisance.
On Momo we decided to set up an off-centered vang for each side of the boat, with both sides controlled from the cockpit. Not only are these vangs more effective than a centered vang at pulling down the boom, they also act as preventers and help steady the boom in a seaway. Jibing and tacking are easy, and using the vangs and mainsheet we can secure the boom in any position we desire within seconds.
Respect the Force
Due to the difference in leverage, any tackle that controls the boom from the middle encounters substantially more force than tackle which controls the boom from the end. The forces faced by an off-centered vang, especially the shock loading from a slatting main, can overwhelm hardware, pull fittings through decks, break stanchions, and lift genoa tracks. Thus the vang’s components, especially its attachments to the boom and deck, need to be carefully considered.
On Momo we secured the vangs to the boom with a webbing strap. In fact, ever since a stainless boom attachment for our mainsheet sheared while we were motoring through a windless stretch of sloppy seas, we have used webbing straps for all of our boom attachments. They absorb shock and accommodate shifting directions of loads; they are easy to inspect and replace; and they are light and incredibly strong – the 1" wide straps we use have a working load of 3200 lbs. with a safety factor of 5:1. They are also inexpensive – after asking a boatyard crane operator where he purchased his straps, we went to the same place and discovered that they could custom-make any kind of straps we wanted at very reasonable prices. The 2' long straps we use on the boom were made by Grip-Sure Manufacturing in Richmond, B.C., and cost less than $8 each. Compare that to the $40 we might otherwise have spent for a stainless steel boom bail that, tortured by the stress of an off-center vang, would inevitably fail.
One way to assure the strength of the lower fitting is to secure the vang to the chainplates. But leading the lines fairly can prove difficult, and, for safety reasons I will explain later, we did not want vangs positioned that far forward. On Momo we secured the bottom of the vangs to two separate points aft of the chainplates, spreading the load between the midship cleat and a stanchion base. The points are 24" apart, and each is reinforced with a 4" x 6" stainless steel
backing plate.
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Each vang has a purchase of 8:1 – the same as obtained from a typical rigid vang – which generates sufficient force to pull down the boom in a strong wind. Moreover, since the off-center vang pulls the boom more or less straight down, it is more efficient than a centered vang. To gain such purchase without using excessive lengths of line or numbers of blocks, the vangs are composed of two cascading tackles. The first tackle consists of a line, the standing part of which is fixed to fiddle block. The hauling part is reeved through a block at the boom, brought down to a block at the midship cleat, and led back to the cockpit where it can be made fast. By itself, it yields a 2:1 purchase. This part of the vang bears the most load, thus the blocks and line must be sized accordingly. On our boat, we use 90mm blocks by Wichard (safe working load of 4,400 lbs.) at the boom, Schaefer’s 704-5 block (safe working load of 2,250 lbs) at the cleat, and ½" line (breaking strength of 8,500 lbs). The line must also be long enough to allow the boom to swing freely to opposite side of the boat.
The second tackle bears only half the load of the first and thus can be sized somewhat smaller. The standing part of the second tackle is fixed to a fiddle block secured to a stanchion base about 24" aft of the midship cleat. The hauling part is then reeved back and forth between the fiddle block which terminates the first tackle and the fiddle block that is secured at the stanchion base, and finally brought back to the cockpit where it can be made fast. We use Harken’s fiddle blocks 1559 and 1560 (safe working loads of 1800 lbs) and 3/8" line (breaking strength of 4,400 lbs.). By itself, this second tackle yields a purchase of 4:1. Between them, however, the two tackles yield a purchase of 8:1.
Operating the vang involves two steps. First, one makes a gross adjustment using the first tackle. Simply put, one hauls on the first tackle until the fiddle block is brought all the way up to the boom. Then one uses the second tackle to achieve the desired tension and sail shape.
Don’t Trip the Boom
The only serious danger with an off-center vang involves tripping the boom in heavy seas. If the boom digs deeply into a wave while constrained by the vang, it could very well snap. With a system like ours, the vang should retain enough elasticity to avoid such a catastrophe. Since the vang’s bottom attachments are situated aft of the chainplates, it does not actually hold the boom all the way out. The distance between the vang’s bottom attachments absorbs shock by allowing the boom to rock back and forth a little while under tension. The ropes and the webbing also stretch. Furthermore, the location of the vang’s bottom attachments also help us recover from accidental jibes. When the wind catches us aback, the boom swings inward a few feet before being stopped by the vang. In this position, the boat actually feels like it’s hove-to. It continues to make enough headway that, by putting the helm hard over, we can bring the stern through the wind again and resume our course.
During gale conditions we’ve had the boom dip lightly into the sea, but this is not something I like experimenting with. The best thing is to avoid tripping the boom at all. Reefing helps, not only by reducing heel but because each successive reef raises the end of the boom a little further from the deck (this, of course, depends upon the design of the main). Eventually, conditions might require striking the mainsail and flying a trysail without the boom.
In the absence of boom gallows, the vang can center the boom and hold it steady. In any event, even if the boom trips in the sea, the rig faces less danger from an off-center vang than from a preventer run forward from the end of boom. Whereas the vang might break the boom, the preventer might generate sufficient torque to bring down the mast.
Buy Yourself Something Nice
Building a quality robust vang is not exactly cheap. Our vangs were designed to sustain a safe working load in excess of 3000 lbs. Based on the catalog of a leading US chandlery, the blocks we used retail at around $650, although a little bit of searching can yield significantly lower prices. To that one needs to add the cost of line and other incidentals needed to secure the vang and lead the falls back to the cockpit. Still, compared to other alternatives a vang like ours is a veritable bargain and much more versatile. Forespar’s rigid mechanical vang (‘Yacht Rod’) for a boat our size retails at more than $1800, while setting up a hydraulic vang for a boat our size costs around $2800. With all the money you save, you can buy yourself something nice – perhaps a little rowing dinghy. And when you stow it on deck, shove it right against the mast, because there won’t be a centered vang to get in the way.![]()
When we reconfigured Momo, our Mason 43, for blue water sailing, we searched for a way to replace our 4:1 purchase vang with something more powerful. We also needed something that could act as a preventer and steady the boom. Eventually we developed a system of dual off-centered vangs which has proven robust, effective, and easy to use. In fact, these vangs turned out to be our most significant modification to the sailboat’s rig, greatly enhancing performance and safety.
The Centered Vang vs. the Off-Centered Vang
The typical sailboat features a centered vang, which is secured at the base of the mast and runs at an angle between 30 and 60 degrees to a position on the boom a few feet from the gooseneck. The vang keeps the boom down and thus controls the twist of the main, particularly when the boat heads off the wind and that function can no longer be fulfilled by the mainsheet and traveler.
Older boats like ours often employ a modest 4:1 tackle, which is barely adequate even on small boats. Skippers with deep pockets can install a masculine piece of hydraulic muscle powerful enough to move mountains but which costs more than a new a mainsail. New boats increasingly sport rigid mechanical vangs which also support the boom in lieu of the topping lift, although I don’t understand why anyone would trade the supple strength of rope for the rigid vulnerability aluminum extrusions and steel. Judging from manufacturers’ warnings and reports I’ve read from people who use them, rigid vangs seem like a heavy and expensive way to replace a fully functional topping lift with a product that offers above all the potential to break. The virtue of the centered vang lies in pulling the boom down without impinging on its freedom to swing from side to side. The boom can be sheeted to any desired position while the vang’s tension remains the same. But such convenience comes at a price. As much as half of the force applied to a centered vang does not actually pull the boom down but rather wastes itself driving the boom into the mast and stressing the gooseneck. Little can be done about that: if the boom attachment is moved forward, the downward pull of the vang increases, but leverage is lost; moving the boom attachment aft increases the vang’s leverage, but decreases the proportion of force actually used to bring the boom down.
Furthermore, giving the boom the freedom to swing is not necessarily a good thing. With any kind of seaway, particularly in light winds, the boom bounces around with a violence that benefits neither the rig nor the canvas. And the further the vessel sails downwind, the greater danger it faces from an accidental jibe. Inevitably, measures need to be taken to steady the boom.
Often, however, such measures are awkward and unsafe. One common recommendation, for instance, is to rig a preventer to the end of the boom, lead it forward to a block on the bow and bring it back to the cockpit. But that is easier said than done, especially after a jibe at night or in heavy weather. Another way to rig a preventer is to change from a centered to an off-centered vang – by releasing the bottom of the vang from its position at the base of the mast and moving it outboard so that the vang constrains the boom. But a vang that always needs to be moved from one place to another is a nuisance.
On Momo we decided to set up an off-centered vang for each side of the boat, with both sides controlled from the cockpit. Not only are these vangs more effective than a centered vang at pulling down the boom, they also act as preventers and help steady the boom in a seaway. Jibing and tacking are easy, and using the vangs and mainsheet we can secure the boom in any position we desire within seconds.
Respect the Force
Due to the difference in leverage, any tackle that controls the boom from the middle encounters substantially more force than tackle which controls the boom from the end. The forces faced by an off-centered vang, especially the shock loading from a slatting main, can overwhelm hardware, pull fittings through decks, break stanchions, and lift genoa tracks. Thus the vang’s components, especially its attachments to the boom and deck, need to be carefully considered.
On Momo we secured the vangs to the boom with a webbing strap. In fact, ever since a stainless boom attachment for our mainsheet sheared while we were motoring through a windless stretch of sloppy seas, we have used webbing straps for all of our boom attachments. They absorb shock and accommodate shifting directions of loads; they are easy to inspect and replace; and they are light and incredibly strong – the 1" wide straps we use have a working load of 3200 lbs. with a safety factor of 5:1. They are also inexpensive – after asking a boatyard crane operator where he purchased his straps, we went to the same place and discovered that they could custom-make any kind of straps we wanted at very reasonable prices. The 2' long straps we use on the boom were made by Grip-Sure Manufacturing in Richmond, B.C., and cost less than $8 each. Compare that to the $40 we might otherwise have spent for a stainless steel boom bail that, tortured by the stress of an off-center vang, would inevitably fail.
One way to assure the strength of the lower fitting is to secure the vang to the chainplates. But leading the lines fairly can prove difficult, and, for safety reasons I will explain later, we did not want vangs positioned that far forward. On Momo we secured the bottom of the vangs to two separate points aft of the chainplates, spreading the load between the midship cleat and a stanchion base. The points are 24" apart, and each is reinforced with a 4" x 6" stainless steel
backing plate.
The second tackle bears only half the load of the first and thus can be sized somewhat smaller. The standing part of the second tackle is fixed to a fiddle block secured to a stanchion base about 24" aft of the midship cleat. The hauling part is then reeved back and forth between the fiddle block which terminates the first tackle and the fiddle block that is secured at the stanchion base, and finally brought back to the cockpit where it can be made fast. We use Harken’s fiddle blocks 1559 and 1560 (safe working loads of 1800 lbs) and 3/8" line (breaking strength of 4,400 lbs.). By itself, this second tackle yields a purchase of 4:1. Between them, however, the two tackles yield a purchase of 8:1.
Operating the vang involves two steps. First, one makes a gross adjustment using the first tackle. Simply put, one hauls on the first tackle until the fiddle block is brought all the way up to the boom. Then one uses the second tackle to achieve the desired tension and sail shape.
Don’t Trip the Boom
The only serious danger with an off-center vang involves tripping the boom in heavy seas. If the boom digs deeply into a wave while constrained by the vang, it could very well snap. With a system like ours, the vang should retain enough elasticity to avoid such a catastrophe. Since the vang’s bottom attachments are situated aft of the chainplates, it does not actually hold the boom all the way out. The distance between the vang’s bottom attachments absorbs shock by allowing the boom to rock back and forth a little while under tension. The ropes and the webbing also stretch. Furthermore, the location of the vang’s bottom attachments also help us recover from accidental jibes. When the wind catches us aback, the boom swings inward a few feet before being stopped by the vang. In this position, the boat actually feels like it’s hove-to. It continues to make enough headway that, by putting the helm hard over, we can bring the stern through the wind again and resume our course.
During gale conditions we’ve had the boom dip lightly into the sea, but this is not something I like experimenting with. The best thing is to avoid tripping the boom at all. Reefing helps, not only by reducing heel but because each successive reef raises the end of the boom a little further from the deck (this, of course, depends upon the design of the main). Eventually, conditions might require striking the mainsail and flying a trysail without the boom.
In the absence of boom gallows, the vang can center the boom and hold it steady. In any event, even if the boom trips in the sea, the rig faces less danger from an off-center vang than from a preventer run forward from the end of boom. Whereas the vang might break the boom, the preventer might generate sufficient torque to bring down the mast.
Buy Yourself Something Nice
Building a quality robust vang is not exactly cheap. Our vangs were designed to sustain a safe working load in excess of 3000 lbs. Based on the catalog of a leading US chandlery, the blocks we used retail at around $650, although a little bit of searching can yield significantly lower prices. To that one needs to add the cost of line and other incidentals needed to secure the vang and lead the falls back to the cockpit. Still, compared to other alternatives a vang like ours is a veritable bargain and much more versatile. Forespar’s rigid mechanical vang (‘Yacht Rod’) for a boat our size retails at more than $1800, while setting up a hydraulic vang for a boat our size costs around $2800. With all the money you save, you can buy yourself something nice – perhaps a little rowing dinghy. And when you stow it on deck, shove it right against the mast, because there won’t be a centered vang to get in the way.
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The Short and Unhappy Life of Momo's "New" Mainsail
-- a version of this article appeared in Bluewater Sailing, November 2010 --
In November 2006 we installed Momo's new main, replacing one that was as old as the boat -- that is to say, over a quarter of a century. Three years (and 14,000 miles) later, that sail was trash. And though I defended it to Michelle -- whose mind is much less clouded -- at various points along the way, the fact is that the sail was never very good, tearing far too often and at the slightest provocation.
The first sign that the sail was of inferior quality was when a reefing line, hanging loosely from the reefing cringle, wore through the sail just above the boom. Which was surprising, for we don't usually consider the mere presence of reefing lines to be excessively stressful. Next, the sail began to give us problems when we reefed -- each time we reduced sail, we stood a good chance that the reefing line would cut through the sail when we drew it tight. Then the sail started to develop little holes when we straightened out the cloth. Finally, one day just before the sail's third birthday, while reefing in about 20 kts of wind, the sailcloth exploded near the reef point, producing a two-meter tear; and in the seconds following, as we lowered the flogging sail, it developed a 1.5 meter tear near the head. We cursed the decrepit sail and tried once more to repair it with our sewing machine, even though we knew there was little point. The sail had become resistant to machine repairs -- the needle did more damage than good. Indeed, by now our sail was a quilt-work of awkward hand-stitched repairs and colorful glued-on vinyl patches. Ultimately, we carried out perfunctory repairs using glue and PVC cloth, but the sail was beyond salvation.
Anchored in Fiji on the cusp of cyclone season, we knew that the sail would never survive the notorious 1000-mile passage to the safety of New Zealand. Fortunately, we still had our vintage main, crammed ignominiously into an aft locker. Welcoming it back into our lives like an old friend, we hauled it out, recommissioned it, and marveled at the quality of the ancient cloth. Life again was good.
Taking Quality for Granted
It is with some reluctance that I say that the unfortunate mainsail was made by a sailmaker in Hong Kong, in part because I don't wish to evoke any knee-jerk reactions to "cheap sails made in China." But also because the workmanship on the sail was really quite good. Moreover, in the end, this sailmaker treated us well. The real culprit was the sailcloth itself -- which was made in America.
When we originally ordered our sail, we focused on the quality of the stitching, the weight of the sailcloth, and the strength of the slides. In our experience, these were things that mattered most; after all, deteriorated stitching and broken sail-slides had accounted for most of our repairs in the past. They were also things that could be easily judged. We took the quality of the sailcloth for granted, but that was a mistake.
The quality of polyester (i.e. Dacron) sailcloth is more of an issue today than it was, say, thirty years ago. According to Dan Neri in Sail Care and Repair (Beowulf: 2002), the quality of woven polyester "is just not as good as it used to be," mostly because of a lower demand, now that racers use laminated fabric for their sails. Also, sailcloth manufacturers make different grades of sailcloth -- some of which are definitely better than others. The difference in price between the grades of cloth is significant. Our sail was made with 9.3 oz high aspect cloth manufactured by an American company; it is one of the most popular cloths used for making cruising sails and found in sail-lofts everywhere. It is not the manufacturer’s worst cloth, but it is also not their best. Their best sailcloth, made of tightly woven premium polyester costs the sailmaker about 50% more than the stuff that was used for our sail. So unless you make a point of asking for it, you're probably not going to get it.
-- Jana tears our three-year-old main to shreds --
The Blame Game
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The workmanship on the sail was good ...
With cheaper sailcloth, manufacturers rely on a relatively high resin content to maintain directional stability; that is to say, to reduce stretch. By increasing the degree of resin impregnation, they can still get the results they want while using inferior fabrics. The problem, however, is that the resin breaks down as the sail is used, and the sail quickly deteriorates. In the case of our sail, the cloth still had the stiffness of a moderately new sail, but it tore easily. Our vintage sail, on the other hand, is much more supple -- and it also has a much tighter weave.
The problem with our faulty sail was also aggravated by the fact that it was made from 'high aspect' cloth. High aspect cloth is woven so that the yarn in the 'fill' direction is especially strong. With the 'fill' oriented vertically in the sail, this type of weave helps the sail retain its shape when used on a high aspect sail. The downside is that the horizontal 'warp' is comparatively weak. Thus, while the 'fill' on our sail was still quite strong, the 'warp' threads tore like paper.
When we reported our problems to our sailmaker, they in turn contacted the sailcloth manufacturer, who suggested that the failure was due to UV-degradation. I don't doubt them, given that about 65% (but no more) of our sailing occurs during day-light hours. But when we're not sailing, the sail is protected by a thick sailcover. And our head sails -- which are as old as the boat, take more of beating, and with which we have sailed more than twice the mileage endured by our mainsail -- are in better condition than the ‘new’ main. Sure, I've spent plenty of quality time stitching them back into shape and healing minor wounds, but the cloth is still all right.
Some have suggested that the cloth came from a faulty lot. Perhaps, but we're not convinced. We've heard too many stories about short-lived sails. I recall the details about two of them: one was a sail made in New Zealand using European cloth; the other was a sail made in British Columbia (the friend who bought this sail let me tear samples of it myself). Both woeful tales were told by people who have spent more time at sea than almost anyone we know.
Even if it did come from a faulty lot, the fact that it passed quality control is probably not a mistake but good business practice. Most people don't use their sails the way we do. Fourteen-thousand miles make for a lot of trips between LA and the Channel Islands, around the Chesapeake Bay or from Newport to Block Island. Most sailors would, indeed, have been quite happy with our main. So, were the deficiencies of our main the result of a bad batch of cloth? Or is it just that, for the most part, this cloth is good enough for most types of sailing, but not the kind of stuff you’d want to hang from your spars for numerous ocean passages?
An Emotional Commitment
I should also note that even though the cloth was a disappointment (to say the least), I wouldn't necessarily say that the sail was a bad deal. Quotes we received from a top-notch American outfit to make a similar sail were five times as high. I have no doubt that they would have used better cloth, but not that much better. I know, too, that some people swear by their expensive sails. But once you’re spending that kind of money, you also have an emotional commitment to what you’ve bought (indeed, I had an emotional commitment to our inexpensive Chinese sail until it really let us down). If you really want to know what people think about their designer polyester sails, you have to ply them with drink.
Our experience with our offshore sailmaker was, in the end, quite good. Initially, we had difficulty getting anyone to respond to our emails. In fact, after the sail had been delivered, the agent in Vancouver, B.C. treated us as if we'd sailed off the edge of the earth. But eventually an agent in Hong Kong got back to us and offered us a new sail at a 40% discount. Their original proposal was to make us a sail with heavier cloth or with thicker warp threads. But we were reluctant to have a sail made from the same type of cloth as the old one. So we asked for a premium cloth, and they complied. They still had all of our measurements and digital photographs from when we placed the order three years back. They also accommodated a few minor changes and let us reuse our metal slides for a moderate discount.
Lessons Learned
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New sail on the right (courser thread);
old sail on the left
Now, as we contemplate purchasing new head sails, where does this experience leave us? Clearly, our negotiations with sailmakers will now include a discussion of sailcloth. But not all sailmakers want to have this discussion.
We would gladly buy sails again from that same sailmaker in Hong Kong, for example, but only if we could specify the cloth -- which isn't likely. Despite the fact that they used the cloth we requested to replace our mainsail, when we asked whether they could make us head sails out of that same cloth, they told us they don't buy the cloth and won't be able to offer it for our head sails.
Out of curiosity, we also checked with a second outfit in Hong Kong. But when we asked whether they could make us something from a better polyester cloth, they steered us towards a laminate, which is clearly not what we were looking for.
Another company advises on its website "that you leave the type of fabric and weight of cloth to our sail designers," to which I can only reply:you've got to be kidding! But when I contacted their nearest loft (which for us was in Australia), they told us that they stock a variety of cloths, including premium sailcloths. This sounds more like the beginning of a conversation we'd like to have.
One thing for us is certain: the next time we buy new sails, the quality of the sailcloth will be a primary concern. We'll get samples of the cloth beforehand and compare the finished product with the samples they send.
One final note: the manufacturer who made the cloth for our sail has recently changed its product line -- they now have a few more products to choose from. Whether that means that the quality of their lower-end cloth has improved is something we can't judge. But a little skepticism never hurt anyone.
Addendum
For those interested, the mainsail in question was produced by Lee Sails in Hong Kong. The cloth was "High Modulus/ High Aspect Cloth" manufactured by Challenge Sailcloth. We were happy with Lee Sails quality of workmanship, and perhaps if enough people ask they will be willing to use higher quality sailcloth. If so, let us know.
A Final Note on Sailcloth
Although there are hundreds of types of sailcloth, they can generally be divided into two categories: woven polyester fabrics and laminated fabrics. The development of woven polyester fabrics in the 1950s was truly revolutionary, for polyester sailcloth was in every way superior to woven cotton and immediately rendered the latter obsolete. In contrast, the development of laminated fabrics since the 1970s has significantly improved sail performance, but in other respects woven polyester has retained certain advantages. One major advantage is price: a quality polyester sail still costs significantly less than a sail made with laminates. Not only is laminated fabric more expensive, but making the sail is also more labor-intensive. But there are other differences as well which explain why, despite the fact that laminated sails have taken over the racing scene, the overwhelming majority of cruisers still rely on sails made of woven polyester – this notwithstanding the efforts of sailcloth manufacturers to market their laminated cloth to cruisers.
Polyester fabrics are created on a loom much like any other typical fabric, with “fill” threads woven in and out of “warp” threads. Although the fabric is stiffened with resin, the weaving process itself allows for a certain amount of stretch and that stretch increases as the resin breaks down. In contrast, laminated fabrics are constructed by gluing together a number of layers, some of which are woven and others are not. A typical performance cruising laminate might be comprised of five different layers: a woven scrim at the center sandwiched between layers of extruded plastic (Mylar, for example) which in turn are protected on the outside by layers of tightly woven taffeta. The resulting sailcloth is strong, light, and extremely stable. Its virtues especially come into play when sailing to weather. Whereas a woven polyester sail will inevitably stretch in these circumstances, a laminate sail will hold its shape, allowing the boat to point higher, heel less and perform better. Moreover, while the stretch in a polyester sail increases over time, a laminated sail will retain its shape throughout its life.
But the increased performance involves certain trade-offs. Laminated sails are stiffer and more difficult to handle, which is more of an issue for a short-handed crew than for a team of racers. They are also more susceptible to damage from flogging or folding and need to be treated much more carefully. And while one may promise to be diligent, such diligence is not always possible. Moreover, given a greater susceptibility to UV and chafe, the overall life expectancy of a laminated sail is shorter than one made of quality polyester. This may not matter to hard-core racers who are willing to change their sails every season to keep their performance sharp, but most cruisers have different priorities.
That being said, sailcloth manufacturers clearly want to make their laminates more attractive to cruising sailors, developing fabrics that are more durable and last longer. Their success will depend on whether the long-term experiences of the intrepid cruisers who choose laminated sails will support the claims of the sailcloth manufacturers.
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In November 2006 we installed Momo's new main, replacing one that was as old as the boat -- that is to say, over a quarter of a century. Three years (and 14,000 miles) later, that sail was trash. And though I defended it to Michelle -- whose mind is much less clouded -- at various points along the way, the fact is that the sail was never very good, tearing far too often and at the slightest provocation.
The first sign that the sail was of inferior quality was when a reefing line, hanging loosely from the reefing cringle, wore through the sail just above the boom. Which was surprising, for we don't usually consider the mere presence of reefing lines to be excessively stressful. Next, the sail began to give us problems when we reefed -- each time we reduced sail, we stood a good chance that the reefing line would cut through the sail when we drew it tight. Then the sail started to develop little holes when we straightened out the cloth. Finally, one day just before the sail's third birthday, while reefing in about 20 kts of wind, the sailcloth exploded near the reef point, producing a two-meter tear; and in the seconds following, as we lowered the flogging sail, it developed a 1.5 meter tear near the head. We cursed the decrepit sail and tried once more to repair it with our sewing machine, even though we knew there was little point. The sail had become resistant to machine repairs -- the needle did more damage than good. Indeed, by now our sail was a quilt-work of awkward hand-stitched repairs and colorful glued-on vinyl patches. Ultimately, we carried out perfunctory repairs using glue and PVC cloth, but the sail was beyond salvation.
Anchored in Fiji on the cusp of cyclone season, we knew that the sail would never survive the notorious 1000-mile passage to the safety of New Zealand. Fortunately, we still had our vintage main, crammed ignominiously into an aft locker. Welcoming it back into our lives like an old friend, we hauled it out, recommissioned it, and marveled at the quality of the ancient cloth. Life again was good.
Taking Quality for Granted
It is with some reluctance that I say that the unfortunate mainsail was made by a sailmaker in Hong Kong, in part because I don't wish to evoke any knee-jerk reactions to "cheap sails made in China." But also because the workmanship on the sail was really quite good. Moreover, in the end, this sailmaker treated us well. The real culprit was the sailcloth itself -- which was made in America.
When we originally ordered our sail, we focused on the quality of the stitching, the weight of the sailcloth, and the strength of the slides. In our experience, these were things that mattered most; after all, deteriorated stitching and broken sail-slides had accounted for most of our repairs in the past. They were also things that could be easily judged. We took the quality of the sailcloth for granted, but that was a mistake.
The quality of polyester (i.e. Dacron) sailcloth is more of an issue today than it was, say, thirty years ago. According to Dan Neri in Sail Care and Repair (Beowulf: 2002), the quality of woven polyester "is just not as good as it used to be," mostly because of a lower demand, now that racers use laminated fabric for their sails. Also, sailcloth manufacturers make different grades of sailcloth -- some of which are definitely better than others. The difference in price between the grades of cloth is significant. Our sail was made with 9.3 oz high aspect cloth manufactured by an American company; it is one of the most popular cloths used for making cruising sails and found in sail-lofts everywhere. It is not the manufacturer’s worst cloth, but it is also not their best. Their best sailcloth, made of tightly woven premium polyester costs the sailmaker about 50% more than the stuff that was used for our sail. So unless you make a point of asking for it, you're probably not going to get it.
-- Jana tears our three-year-old main to shreds --
The Blame Game
The workmanship on the sail was good ...
With cheaper sailcloth, manufacturers rely on a relatively high resin content to maintain directional stability; that is to say, to reduce stretch. By increasing the degree of resin impregnation, they can still get the results they want while using inferior fabrics. The problem, however, is that the resin breaks down as the sail is used, and the sail quickly deteriorates. In the case of our sail, the cloth still had the stiffness of a moderately new sail, but it tore easily. Our vintage sail, on the other hand, is much more supple -- and it also has a much tighter weave.
The problem with our faulty sail was also aggravated by the fact that it was made from 'high aspect' cloth. High aspect cloth is woven so that the yarn in the 'fill' direction is especially strong. With the 'fill' oriented vertically in the sail, this type of weave helps the sail retain its shape when used on a high aspect sail. The downside is that the horizontal 'warp' is comparatively weak. Thus, while the 'fill' on our sail was still quite strong, the 'warp' threads tore like paper.
When we reported our problems to our sailmaker, they in turn contacted the sailcloth manufacturer, who suggested that the failure was due to UV-degradation. I don't doubt them, given that about 65% (but no more) of our sailing occurs during day-light hours. But when we're not sailing, the sail is protected by a thick sailcover. And our head sails -- which are as old as the boat, take more of beating, and with which we have sailed more than twice the mileage endured by our mainsail -- are in better condition than the ‘new’ main. Sure, I've spent plenty of quality time stitching them back into shape and healing minor wounds, but the cloth is still all right.
Some have suggested that the cloth came from a faulty lot. Perhaps, but we're not convinced. We've heard too many stories about short-lived sails. I recall the details about two of them: one was a sail made in New Zealand using European cloth; the other was a sail made in British Columbia (the friend who bought this sail let me tear samples of it myself). Both woeful tales were told by people who have spent more time at sea than almost anyone we know.
Even if it did come from a faulty lot, the fact that it passed quality control is probably not a mistake but good business practice. Most people don't use their sails the way we do. Fourteen-thousand miles make for a lot of trips between LA and the Channel Islands, around the Chesapeake Bay or from Newport to Block Island. Most sailors would, indeed, have been quite happy with our main. So, were the deficiencies of our main the result of a bad batch of cloth? Or is it just that, for the most part, this cloth is good enough for most types of sailing, but not the kind of stuff you’d want to hang from your spars for numerous ocean passages?
An Emotional Commitment
I should also note that even though the cloth was a disappointment (to say the least), I wouldn't necessarily say that the sail was a bad deal. Quotes we received from a top-notch American outfit to make a similar sail were five times as high. I have no doubt that they would have used better cloth, but not that much better. I know, too, that some people swear by their expensive sails. But once you’re spending that kind of money, you also have an emotional commitment to what you’ve bought (indeed, I had an emotional commitment to our inexpensive Chinese sail until it really let us down). If you really want to know what people think about their designer polyester sails, you have to ply them with drink.
Our experience with our offshore sailmaker was, in the end, quite good. Initially, we had difficulty getting anyone to respond to our emails. In fact, after the sail had been delivered, the agent in Vancouver, B.C. treated us as if we'd sailed off the edge of the earth. But eventually an agent in Hong Kong got back to us and offered us a new sail at a 40% discount. Their original proposal was to make us a sail with heavier cloth or with thicker warp threads. But we were reluctant to have a sail made from the same type of cloth as the old one. So we asked for a premium cloth, and they complied. They still had all of our measurements and digital photographs from when we placed the order three years back. They also accommodated a few minor changes and let us reuse our metal slides for a moderate discount.
Lessons Learned
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New sail on the right (courser thread);
old sail on the left
Now, as we contemplate purchasing new head sails, where does this experience leave us? Clearly, our negotiations with sailmakers will now include a discussion of sailcloth. But not all sailmakers want to have this discussion.
We would gladly buy sails again from that same sailmaker in Hong Kong, for example, but only if we could specify the cloth -- which isn't likely. Despite the fact that they used the cloth we requested to replace our mainsail, when we asked whether they could make us head sails out of that same cloth, they told us they don't buy the cloth and won't be able to offer it for our head sails.
Out of curiosity, we also checked with a second outfit in Hong Kong. But when we asked whether they could make us something from a better polyester cloth, they steered us towards a laminate, which is clearly not what we were looking for.
Another company advises on its website "that you leave the type of fabric and weight of cloth to our sail designers," to which I can only reply:you've got to be kidding! But when I contacted their nearest loft (which for us was in Australia), they told us that they stock a variety of cloths, including premium sailcloths. This sounds more like the beginning of a conversation we'd like to have.
One thing for us is certain: the next time we buy new sails, the quality of the sailcloth will be a primary concern. We'll get samples of the cloth beforehand and compare the finished product with the samples they send.
One final note: the manufacturer who made the cloth for our sail has recently changed its product line -- they now have a few more products to choose from. Whether that means that the quality of their lower-end cloth has improved is something we can't judge. But a little skepticism never hurt anyone.
Addendum
For those interested, the mainsail in question was produced by Lee Sails in Hong Kong. The cloth was "High Modulus/ High Aspect Cloth" manufactured by Challenge Sailcloth. We were happy with Lee Sails quality of workmanship, and perhaps if enough people ask they will be willing to use higher quality sailcloth. If so, let us know.
A Final Note on Sailcloth
Although there are hundreds of types of sailcloth, they can generally be divided into two categories: woven polyester fabrics and laminated fabrics. The development of woven polyester fabrics in the 1950s was truly revolutionary, for polyester sailcloth was in every way superior to woven cotton and immediately rendered the latter obsolete. In contrast, the development of laminated fabrics since the 1970s has significantly improved sail performance, but in other respects woven polyester has retained certain advantages. One major advantage is price: a quality polyester sail still costs significantly less than a sail made with laminates. Not only is laminated fabric more expensive, but making the sail is also more labor-intensive. But there are other differences as well which explain why, despite the fact that laminated sails have taken over the racing scene, the overwhelming majority of cruisers still rely on sails made of woven polyester – this notwithstanding the efforts of sailcloth manufacturers to market their laminated cloth to cruisers.
Polyester fabrics are created on a loom much like any other typical fabric, with “fill” threads woven in and out of “warp” threads. Although the fabric is stiffened with resin, the weaving process itself allows for a certain amount of stretch and that stretch increases as the resin breaks down. In contrast, laminated fabrics are constructed by gluing together a number of layers, some of which are woven and others are not. A typical performance cruising laminate might be comprised of five different layers: a woven scrim at the center sandwiched between layers of extruded plastic (Mylar, for example) which in turn are protected on the outside by layers of tightly woven taffeta. The resulting sailcloth is strong, light, and extremely stable. Its virtues especially come into play when sailing to weather. Whereas a woven polyester sail will inevitably stretch in these circumstances, a laminate sail will hold its shape, allowing the boat to point higher, heel less and perform better. Moreover, while the stretch in a polyester sail increases over time, a laminated sail will retain its shape throughout its life.
But the increased performance involves certain trade-offs. Laminated sails are stiffer and more difficult to handle, which is more of an issue for a short-handed crew than for a team of racers. They are also more susceptible to damage from flogging or folding and need to be treated much more carefully. And while one may promise to be diligent, such diligence is not always possible. Moreover, given a greater susceptibility to UV and chafe, the overall life expectancy of a laminated sail is shorter than one made of quality polyester. This may not matter to hard-core racers who are willing to change their sails every season to keep their performance sharp, but most cruisers have different priorities.
That being said, sailcloth manufacturers clearly want to make their laminates more attractive to cruising sailors, developing fabrics that are more durable and last longer. Their success will depend on whether the long-term experiences of the intrepid cruisers who choose laminated sails will support the claims of the sailcloth manufacturers.
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