All Piss and Wind (24 page)

The next decent gust provides the excuse he's been waiting for. Twisting out of his sea rug he yells up the companionway. ‘What's the apparent wind strength? What speed you making?' A moment's reflection as he digests the numbers. ‘Nah, we've got too much rag up. I want another reef, then change down to the #4. Up you go, boys.' And with a huge inward grin, TMH rolls over and burrows
even further into the warmth of his cot. That'll teach the buggers to make him fly kites against his better judgement.

ON MECHANICAL APTITUDE …

Why do we always seem to make things so much worse for ourselves than they need be? Take, for example, The Never-Ending Saga of the Stern Gland. (The stern gland is the mechanical seal around the propeller shaft where it exits the hull.) When a competent shipwright repacks your gland he's careful not to tighten the seal too firmly. The packing material works best if it's first allowed to take up some moisture, then snugged up gently a few days later. Owners, however, tend to panic at the first sight of saltwater in their bilge.

‘Look! It's absolutely
pissing
in!' The Mighty Helmsman is apoplectic. ‘I don't know why I pay those cowboys to work on my boat.'

Weary looks from the afterguard. ‘Don't worry, skip, it's just the gland. We'll tighten 'er up half a turn. No probs.'

Regrettably, The Bloke Up the Back Who Pays the Bills fancies himself as a bit of a dab hand at matters mechanical. ‘Give us the big shifter.'

Sigh. ‘No, mate. You won't get it with that. Doesn't open wide enough, and you can't get the purchase.'

‘Just shut up and hand me that bloody shifting spanner!'

Five minutes and three grazed knuckles later The Mighty Helmsman concedes defeat. ‘OK, I'll try the Stilson wrench.' Another sigh. But he cannot be deterred. Much grunting and cursing ensues. Result? One seriously burred stern-gland nut, and one prop-shaft seal still happily leaking into the sump.

‘You know, skip, there's a special tool for that.'

The blameless Stilson is flung onto the cabin sole in disgust. ‘Well, why don't we
have
one?'

An ill-disguised smirk. ‘We do. That's it in the bottom of the toolbox beside the hacksaw.'

Unrestrained fury. ‘So why didn't you
give
me the bloody thing in the first place?'

‘Well, mate, you didn't
ask
for it.'

Now close to an aneurysm, TMH grabs the custom-made offset spanner and tightens the poor stern gland to within an inch of its life, thus ensuring that the packing is now over-compressed. Before long the seal will have to be eased, the leak inevitably returns at double the original flow and the whole process must be repeated. Which is why boatyards never go broke.

ON HOW TO MANAGE A MOORING …

There is more etiquette, superstition and sheer 24-carat bulldust associated with putting yachts to bed than electing a Pope. The trouble always starts with the boat hook.

As The Mighty Helmsman cautiously inches his pride and joy towards the mooring, some enthusiastic new chum will (quite sensibly) begin to thread the pole through the pulpit to get a better angle on the float. Stand by for an anguished cry of ‘No, no! Not
that
way! That's dangerous. Always pick it up
over
the fence!'

Conversely, if the hapless crewman has started with the boat hook resting on
top
of the pulpit the same skipper will immediately insist the only safe way to snare the float is by resting the pole on the bow roller. (These apparent contradictions establish an immutable philosophical principle known as ‘The Owner is Always Right'.)

Meanwhile, the mooring has – of course – drifted well out of reach. ‘Bloody hell! We've missed it. Wouldn't be at all surprised if I've run right over the damn thing. Jeez, we'll be lucky if it doesn't foul the prop!' What then follows is a highly technical display of seamanship called ‘going around again', guaranteed to instantly
intensify the raging thirst of the crew (who've already got the boat cover half on and their sailing bags piled on deck).

Yet, even with the yacht now safely tethered and the engine silent there is still a host of serious mooring issues to resolve. In fact, the only certainty is that TMH himself will suddenly materialise on the foredeck to insist that the ‘tying up' is done according to his minutely detailed instructions.

Normally, as a breed, skippers share a powerful religious belief that the Good Lord did not mean them to ever leave the cockpit. You'll shout in vain trying to get them to help pull in a flogging headsail. They're quite happy to stand back and watch the hairiest of spinnaker gybes when just one extra hand might save the rig going into the tide or a new sail being reduced to shreds. I've done Hobart races on boats where the owner moored stern-to at Constitution Dock rather than risk having to walk past the mast.

But just watch these same buggers scurry up to the pointy end the moment the first mooring line hitch goes around a cleat or Samson post! There they are, fretting and fussing as they lay down the law about exactly how much chain to pay out, the best side of the bow roller to run the line, which cleat to use and the precise number of turns to take. Such are the profound and weighty issues that keep grown skippers awake at night.

Which leads me to ponder the larger mystery of why these elaborate mooring rituals always seem so important to The Bloke Up the Back Who Pays the Bills. My explanation is distinctly Freudian. Owners (as their wives will invariably tell you) are literally in love with their yachts. For them, putting the boat away is like leaving their lover. Parting is such sweet sorrow that the skipper subconsciously seeks to prolong that tender moment as much as possible.

And who could blame him – except the rest of us, who are absolutely
dying
for that first cold ale from the clubhouse bar and will happily keelhaul the bastard unless we're all ashore within the next 30 seconds, or less.

ON STAYING AFLOAT …

Yachts are designed to reach their optimum performance levels with a fair amount of water under the keel. They've never been too flash cross-country. Few things strike more terror into the hearts of sailors than the dull thud of keel on rock, followed by that sickening lurch as bodies keep going forward while the boat itself has stopped dead. The majority of these groundings happen in harbour races where everyone should know better. But the extremes of competitive frenzy can sometimes blind even the most cautious owner.

‘Careful, skipper, I wouldn't go much further on this tack. Tide's nearly out and there's a nasty bombora in here somewhere.'

Just then the wind angle lifts a precious ten degrees and The Mighty Helmsman has instant visions of snatching a miraculous lead at the weather mark. ‘Don't worry! Plenty of water. Done this a million times. We'll go a couple more boat lengths.'

The navigator elects to make his point by counting off the depth sounder. ‘Nine feet! Seven point five! Six …'

Whump!
‘We're aground, skipper!'

‘Yes, thank you for that statement of the bleeding obvious. Brilliant bloody deduction. Everyone to leeward! We'll bounce her off.'

But no amount of leaning over the rail or backing the mainsail will budge us.

‘I just can't understand it. There's usually no problem cutting in here at Shark Island.'

The tactician takes a long, deep breath and wonders why he bothers. ‘Yes, skipper, quite right. But this is Clark Island.'

ON PLAYING BY THE RULES …

The Mighty Helmsman always tends to fret if there's any other boat within a half-mile radius. These tensions invariably rise as we approach the leeward rounding mark.

‘Struth, this bloke's right up our clacker!'

Sigh. ‘Don't worry, skipper. We've got rights. Just ignore him.'

‘How can I? He's gonna be all over us in a moment.'

The tactician attempts to soothe the savage beast. ‘Mate, we only need to start worrying if he's getting close to two boat lengths away.'

‘But it'll be too late by then! He'll force us up.'

Another sigh. ‘I doubt, it, skip. He's the windward boat. Just hold your course. Rules say he's gotta give way.'

TMH is still not placated. ‘Yeah, but what if he doesn't?'

There is, of course, no rational conclusion to this dialogue. Not being a great respecter of rules on dry land himself, the skipper instinctively doesn't trust other people to obey them at sea. With his mind now overwhelmed by visions of expensive impact, he suddenly bears away without warning, buries the bow of the yacht and we stall badly while the bloke behind simply sails over us and rounds the mark in clear air.

The foredeck is not amused. ‘What the f—k are you guys doing back there?'

The afterguard is reduced to a collective ‘what can you do?' shrug. Yet there's no way our fearless leader will have his nerve or racing skills impugned by anyone from Other Ranks. ‘Well, what did you expect me to bloody well do? Run into him?'

With admirable courage the appointed spokesman for the Amalgamated Foredeck & Mastmen's Union speaks up. ‘No way he was going to hit us. Overtaking boat keeps clear. That's the rule.'

‘Bugger the rules! I only got these topsides painted last month. Cost me a damn fortune.'

Now you can't argue with that kind of logic. It's the most fundamental sailing rule of them all: The Bloke Up the Back Who Pays the Bills makes his own.

ON THE DIGNITY OF LABOUR …

There are, at the time of writing, severe water restrictions in New South Wales. To be seen with a running hose in hand and no credible excuse is to risk civil prosecution, a heavy fine and transportation to somewhere west of Wee Waa. Not that the threat of such punishment ever worries The Mighty Helmsman. When he's booked the slipway and press-ganged his crew into promises of free labour over the weekend, then absolutely nothing – ‘no imaginable impediment' (as the lawyers say) – will divert him from a freshly scraped and antifouled bottom.

He turns up early on the Saturday morning carting enough hose lengths to water the gardens at Buckingham Palace. A huge plastic bucket contains an astonishing assortment of nozzles, connectors, T-pieces and tap fittings. Within minutes he's rigged a complex arrangement of four crisscrossed hoses and starts laying out the rubbing blocks and sheets of wet-and-dry sanding paper.

Like a mob of recalcitrant old milking cows the crew amble down to the club at 30-minute intervals. No hurry, we've got the whole day. It's always better to have a cup of coffee and steadying gasper before undertaking any serious physical exertion. Besides, these delays tend to get TMH pretty agitated, which for us is the principal object of the exercise. ‘Cripes, you guys! You gonna just stand about all morning scratching your arses? Job won't do itself, you know. It's already past 10 o'clock. We've got a whole bloody boat to scrape back!'

‘We?' And so the ritual begins. We pick up our blocks and paper, select a hose each and clamber up to begin the tiresome task of rubbing away the winter's accumulated gunk and preparing the underwater surface for a new coat of antifoul.

Satisfied that his reluctant workforce has finally knuckled down to a bit of actual yakka, the skipper repairs to the clubhouse. ‘Mountains of paperwork to do, boys. I'll come back and give you a hand soon.'

Sure.

By the time we're finished it's well past beer o'clock and The Mighty Helmsman magically reappears to blow the moths out of his wallet and suggest a round of Victor Bravos might be in order. Bloody oath. ‘There you go, lads. Wasn't so bad once we all got stuck in.'

I let that ‘we' go through to the keeper again, but can't resist a parting shot by voicing a concern we'd raised among ourselves during the hours of backbreaking work. ‘I dunno about all these hoses, skipper. Surely that's a direct contravention of the water restrictions. Had us worried all day.'

‘Is that so, mate?' The ill-concealed gleam in his eye tells us TMH has been waiting like a circling vulture to deliver his killer refutation. ‘Well, let me put your tiny minds at rest. You will have noticed that each hose was hand-held at all times. Completely legal.'

‘Yeah, but there were
four
of them. That can't be allowed.'

The Mighty Helmsman delivers his punch-line with a triumphant flourish worthy of an eminent QC producing the shock new evidence that turns a murder trial. ‘Yes, but they all flowed from the
same tap
!' The logic behind that mysterious Medusa's head of intertwined hoses was solved at last. Never get between an owner and a day's supply of free labour.

ON PERFECTION …

We're often reminded that yacht racing is a team sport, but whether we always play on the same team is another matter entirely. Yet every leap year or so on our boat we somehow manage to get it right. Just as the hack golfer only remembers his single, sweet three-wood drive and forgets a million mulligans, I still reminisce about the time we snagged as close to the perfect gybe as you're ever likely to see.

We were slipping back through Sydney Heads in the final stages of a very pleasant little race to Port Hacking and return. Gorgeous late-summer sunshine, regular crew, plus a decidedly easy-on-the-eye young lady from Ireland who'd come along as a guest of The Mighty Helmsman.

Like so many escapees from the Northern Hemisphere our passenger had flung off most of her clothing to soak up the maximum UV goodness Australia can offer. Indeed, she made a somewhat disconcerting sight sprawled tanned and topless on the side-deck as we set up for the gybe and awaited the skipper's call.

‘Will I be in the way here, boys?'

‘No worries, sweetheart. You just stay right where you are.'

The beak tripped open on the first pull and the sail held its shape with clews level. The pole dipped through in an even, gentle arc. Not a thimbleful of breeze spilled as the boat turned gracefully underneath the spinnaker and the new sheet and brace were snapped in and deftly trimmed. We were so dumbstruck by this sheer fluke of perfect crew-work that everyone just stared up at the kite with idiot grins as it hauled us home.