In the situation shown in this photo, which vessel has the right-of-way and why? Here at Tradewinds we focus on teaching new sailors how to cruise safely in the unique and challenging waters of the San Francisco Bay. At the conclusion of our sailing courses you will know how to navigate safely and confidently with huge ocean going ships both inside and outside the bay. While you might think you know who has the “stand on” and who has the “give way” rights, it will take a sharp eye to understand which of the ColREGS rules apply here. Comment below and we will reveal the proper rule used in this condition. – Jeff H.
Does it bother you that Cape Mendocino, which looks like a point, is called a “cape,” while Point Reyes, which looks like a cape, is called a “point”? Cape Hatteras is more of a bump but still gets the title “cape.” Even Cape Cod, which looks like a cup and maybe at best an upside down cape, as worn by an upside down superhero running towards Texas, gets to call itself a cape.
“Cape”
sounds more important. The three “great” capes are Cape Horn, The Cape of Good
Hope, and Cape Leeuwin. There are some “great” points, like on Nantucket, but
they really aren’t all that great. Point Conception is sometimes called the
“Cape Horn of California,” as if this were an upgrade. Is it because royalty is
forever parading around in capes, and not the commoners?
It is
natural to think that when something is called a cape it is because of its
resemblance to the article of clothing. Geographical features are often
metaphorically described using familiar objects: the bottom of the ocean is the
ocean “floor,” a river has a “bed,” Italy is a “boot,” and so on. In this case,
however, “cape” does not get its meaning from haberdashery. It ultimately comes
from the Latin “caput,” which means “head.” The Spanish “Cabo” comes from the
same family of languages as cape and caput. So it is not the garment but the
head that sticks out like a point–at least in my case–that explains the
title.
The
whim of the discoverer or common usage determines if it’s a cape, headland, or
point, not some commission dedicated to consistency like the International
Astronomical Union that says Pluto isn’t a planet. So we end up with, for
example, “Bodega Head.” The word “bodega” is Spanish for wine cellar or
storeroom, and head is English for cape, although not because it looks like
one, which it does. At least “Bodega Head” goes straight to the point and
doesn’t involve any Latinate pretension.
Well,
we don’t have any capes in San Francisco Bay but we have plenty of points, like
Point Potrero, which is where the Red Oak Victory is tied up, and Point
Richmond, which, if you don’t know, is located at those dilapidated pilings at
the end of Potrero Reach where the ferry used to land. It could have been “Cape”
Richmond, but it just wasn’t ambitious enough.
You can’t help but notice how common it is that things related to seafaring are named after animals. In a house you’ll find a table, chair, bed, cupboard, bookcase, rafter, gable, and joist. But aboard a ship in the great age of sail you’d hear the terms gooseneck, crow’s nest, crowfoot, duck, cat, cathead, cat hole, wildcat, catboat, cat-rig, catwalk, cat-o-nine-tails, ratlines, horse, dead horse, Flemish horse, saddle, cow hitch (which is the same thing as a lark’s head), sheepshank, leg-o’-mutton, knee, jackass, camel, horns, bridle, bullnose, bullrope, bull’s eye, cockpit, cockbill, cockboat, fox, dog, doghouse, dog vane, dog watch, and hounds. An old boat can lose its shape and become “hogged,” and “pig-ballast” was molded in forms called “sows.” A “Donkey’s breakfast” was the term the old seamen used to describe their straw mattress. The “manger” is the space immediately inboard of the hawse pipes. Then there’s the monkey fist, monkey jacket, monkey’s blood, monkey bridge, monkey chain, and monkey rail.
Of
course, not everything on a boat has a metaphorical name; we have masts and
cleats and lines. Yet, when the old sailors sought a colorful moniker for a
piece of gear, they looked to familiar and friendly animals. It is notable that
there is a scarcity of sea creatures among these names. We do have a
dolphin-striker, and a pelican hook, and a fish-plate, but no shark-widgets;
and the crow’s nest is named after a land bird, not a gull or albatross. We
also don’t see fearsome animals like wolves and tigers represented.
Humans
evolved on land as hunter/gatherers and then farmers, and until this century
the majority of the people of the world situated themselves in rural areas, not
cities. Before then, most people lived and worked in the countryside, in close,
everyday contact with the animal kingdom, both domestic and wild.
But
long ago, at least 50,000 years in fact, humans took to the sea. We are
challenged to comprehend the courage and imagination required to be the first
to sail away from the sight of land, hearth, and home, into that alien
environment, removed from everything recognizable. Did the homesick sailor, now
in a fearsome, barren wasteland far from the familiar things of life, construct
the mental furniture of his surroundings out of his companions—the comforting creatures
humans have known forever—in the unconscious effort to place himself at home? Well,
maybe he did.
This is Jeff and Marcia Parten from On Three. We were members of the club for several years before we bought our own boat. We also had a slip on Dock D during Covid. We just wanted to drop a note to say we’ve ran into several Tradewinds members and alumni since we’ve left SF. Here is a picture of current Tradewinds members who we ran into in Ensenada Grande in the Sea of Cortez while kayaking around the anchorage
Best wishes to you guys and thanks again for all you did for us!
I hoisted the TWSC burgee on “Rover” (Valiant 42) after we anchored in Taioha’e Bay on Nuku Hiva in the Marquesa Islands after our 26-day passage from San Diego, covering 3,230nm. We left San Diego on Saturday April 1 (yeah, I know, April Fools Day…)
Rover’s owner-captain is Eric Ahlvin from Seattle (Rover’s home port), and there were three other crew onboard, including me. At age 73, I learned a lot about passage making and, candidly, about myself as well.
Eric signed up his “Rover” in Andy Turpin’s Pacific Puddle Jump which made our preparations and arrival smoother. The three-person passage crew left “Rover” at Nuku Hiva, but with fresh crew Eric will continue to cruise the South Pacific until reaching New Zealand by November.
I wanted both of you to know how excited I was to take my Tradewinds experiences across the Pacific!
– We were on our way back to Tradewinds after lunch at Jack London Square.
– Under motor power, approaching Bay bridge from Oakland Inner Harbor. We were preparing to hoist sails after under crossing the Bay Bridge.
– US Coast Guard came aside us on starboard and said they would be boarding us for a routine safety inspection.
– I took over helm and followed instructions of speed and heading. I told Liza and anyone below to come up, so they get no surprises.
– (2) Officers boarded, immediately counted life jackets and persons on board. I informed him it was a boat from the Tradewinds Sailing Club in Richmond.
Boarding
– I went with officer down into cabin as he asked to see various items:
– Boat registration, all fire extinguishers, sound signal (which was already hanging off pedestal) life ring or life sling. I showed him all items without hesitation and to his satisfaction.
– Head, and asked if the head switch was set to correct position. I told him it was set to tank. He asked how many, I told him one tank. He asked if we had a macerator, I told him on this boat yes.
– He asked if diesel or gas engine I said diesel.
– He looked around a bit and said thank you, we’re done here.
– He and the other officer asked for my ID, filed out the Report of Boarding and gave me a copy.
– They proceeded to de-board and left.
Deboarding
– Entire process took about 10 – 15 min.
If I forgot anything g I’ll let you know. Or if you have any questions or concerns, please let me know.
Quite the experience, but was glad and thankful with the training and checklists given by Tradewinds, I knew all I needed to know about the boat, where, and definitely what was minimum required safety.
When last I wrote about the Doors’ song, Horse Latitudes, I was skeptical about the practice of jettisoning live horses at sea, or even dead ones, for these reasons: They could be used for food if all provisions had run low; they may revive in a rainstorm if the ship was low on water; they were among many animals transported to America, so it’s puzzling that horses be singled out to be thrown overboard; I can find no cases of insurance claims for this cause; and the so-called Horse Latitudes are closer to Europe than the Doldrums, so provisions would be more likely to run out in the latter calms. Admittedly, the wide acceptance of the “jettisoning” account of the term’s derivation, and its mention in print as early as 1777, means we cannot completely rule it out. Still, more reasonable explanations exist.
One is that the phrase “dead horse
month” referred to that time at the beginning of the voyage when the sailor was
working off wages paid in advance. The ordinary seaman often spent this money
before leaving, so at the beginning of his duties at sea he felt he was working
for nothing. A ceremony, described in the Sailor’s Lexicon of 1867, was
performed when wages finally began being credited to his account, at an area
that came to be associated with the celebration. An effigy of a horse was
dragged around the deck, hoisted to the yardarm, then cut away and cast adrift,
all attended by much merriment.
Another explanation is that the area
between Spain and the Canary Islands was called El Golfo de las Yeguas by the Spanish, meaning “the gulf of the
mares.” This gulf is at about 35 degrees north, consistent with the Horse
Latitudes. But this region is known for gales, not calms, and in any case, the
question of why it is named after horses remains unresolved.
More often than not, the phrases of
the sea were created by men who could not read or write. Many evolved for
centuries before showing up in literature, which today is our only source of
information. Some of you, enamored of the original macabre poetry from the pen
of Jim Morrison, will stick with his reading.
But as with many important issues in our sport, sometimes it is best to
follow that great nautical sage Captain Ron, and wistfully confess that “nobody
knows.”
In 1967 The Doors released their second album, Strange Days, which included a creepy song called Horse Latitudes. The song alludes to live horses being “jettisoned” from ships and suffering in “mute nostril agony,” presumably to lighten the load or because provisions have run too low to sustain them. Composer Jim Morrison based the song on seemingly solid nautical sources; the phrase is explained similarly by W. H. Smyth in his 1867 lexicon, in reference to the Azores High. There’s no doubt that the calms associated with this high prolonged the voyage for many ships heading to the New World and that the trip was dangerous. The mortality rate for humans could range to 30%. Still, many authorities question this interpretation of the phrase for the following reasons:
1) The Azores High is much closer to
Europe than the equatorial calms, making the Doldrums an even more likely area
for cargo to be thrown overboard. Why do we not locate the practice there?
2) A ship’s consignment was
documented in the manifest. Horses were not incidental items that could be
glossed over when they failed to materialize at their destination, but highly
valued ones. Their absence would have required a thorough accounting to the
ship’s insurers from the captain, who took responsibility for their safe
transport. Yet as far as I can determine, no record of an insurance claim for
this type of loss has been documented, while we have records of other losses
due to storms.
3) Horses were not the only animals
transported. Cows, pigs, chickens, goats, sheep, and oxen were also among the
animals needed to be supplied to America, which lacked them. Why are only
horses singled out in this phrase?
4) Even if the ship’s water stores
needed to be rationed, there remained the potential for rain, which could come
at any time. Why jettison live animals, while there was still hope that they
could be revived with fresh water from a rainstorm?
5) However unappealing it may be to
modern Americans, horsemeat is still consumed in Europe and would have been
much better fare than the salted, often rotten meat which was commonly
provided. With supplies running low, would the captain order this important
food source thrown overboard?
As
common as Morrison’s interpretation of this phrase is, logic cries out for
another explanation. We’ll see if we can come up with one next time.
Ever feel like you’re “in the doldrums”— where everything seems bleak and colorless, and there’s nothing you can think of that sounds like fun? Yeah, me neither.
The
word comes from the old English dol
meaning dull. Appended to this is the suffix drum, which is believed to have been borrowed from tantrum. As
tantrums are fits of anger, doldrums are fits of dreariness. The term was used
in this form by the nineteenth century, so in 1824 when Lord Byron referred to
a ship as being “in the doldrums” in “light and baffling” winds, he was noting
the ship’s forlorn behavior, not its location.
The
first time the doldrums were connected to a specific place in the ocean was in The
Physical Geography of the Sea, 1855, by the estimable Matthew Maury, whose detailed
research formed the foundation of pilot charts: “The ‘equatorial doldrums’
is another of these calm places… a region of calms and baffling winds.” But
this seems to have been the result of a misconception on the part of someone
(not Maury) who, when told a ship was “in the doldrums,” thought this was a
geographical area.
The doldrums are now the Intertropical Convergence Zone, a
title that is infinitely less poetic than its predecessor. The ITCZ consists of
a band of light wind north of the equator that varies in latitude and width according
to the season and any old whim that occurs to it. Many try to avoid it when
sailing, and marine forecasters will give you a good guess about just where to
cross it at its narrowest. Of course, by the time you sail to that spot, it
will be the widest.
I’m going to buck the crowd and put in a word for the
doldrums. The wind has ceased, and you’re alone in a vast, primordial
wilderness far from the chatter of civilization. It wasn’t easy getting here. The
ocean is quietly resting, though you sense the uncanny power of her languid
undulations born of distant, violent storms. In this desolate and dreamlike domain,
you can read, contemplate, and swim in perfect serenity and solitude. Your cup
and plate sit calmly on the table instead of unsociably flinging themselves to
the cabin sole. The sunset beams across the anvil tops of thunderheads a
hundred miles away. Soon enough, you’ll be in a city with all the normal folks.
What’s the hurry?
Mastering all those sailing terms can be troublesome. It’s like learning a silly secret language that an exclusive club made up just to befuddle outsiders, or at least that’s what I like about it. But sometimes it seems as though the sailing wizards have just gone too far. What follows are mariners’ words that have two or more meanings with little or nothing in common. Why? Just because.
Veer
(vb.):
(1) Of the wind, to turn clockwise, or when steering, to change course, often
by spacing out; (2) To let out anchor rode, particularly when you believe that
using fancy words will disguise the fact that you have no idea what you’re
doing.
Bight
(n.):
(1) The middle of a line, where you have to learn special ways to tie knots
like clove hitches and bowlines that you thought you already knew; (2) A
concave stretch of shoreline, not deep enough to have its own name like those haughty
coves and bays.
Foot
(vb.): (1) To sail slightly further off the wind than a close-hauled course to
increase speed; (n.) (2) The bottom edge of a sail; (3) The thing at the end of
your leg, useful for many seamanlike tasks like kicking the windlass to get it started.
Fetch
(vb.):
(1) To sail to a point upwind without having to tack; (2) To “fetch up” means
to come to a stop, usually on a reef (see below); (n.) (3) The distance over
the water that a particular wind blows, generating waves. I’m not even counting
what dogs do.
Reef
(n.):
A shallow shelf of rock or coral that sooner or later you’re going to hit; (2)
The bottom part of the sail taken in when shortening down, although on a square
sail this is the top of the sail, of course.
Point
(vb.): (1) To taper the end of a rope; (2) To sail close to the wind, as in
“she points well”; (n.) (3) Any one of several courses relative to the wind, as
in “point of sail,”; (4) An area of land projecting from the coastline; (5) A
32nd part of the compass card equivalent to 11 degrees, 15 minutes. Are
these five different things, or what? Couldn’t we have five different words?
And
the winner is:
Westerly
(adj.):(1) Of wind, blowing from the
west; but (2) Of current, setting towards the west.
