Tradewinds Sailing Blog

Nautical Terminator – Capes & Points

Posted on October 22, 2023 by Tony Johnson

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.

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Nautical Terminator – Animals!

Posted on October 14, 2023 by Tony Johnson

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.

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You can find Tradewinds Members anywhere

Posted on July 31, 2023 by TW-Brandy

Hi Matt and Brandy,

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!

Jeff and Marcia

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Tradewinds Member Passage

Posted on July 25, 2023 by TW-Brandy

Hey Brandy & Matt!

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!

All best wishes! – Peter

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Coast Guard Safety Inspection Boarding

Posted on May 26, 2023 by TW-Brandy

Hello Tradewinds family!

I had a great sailing day on the Concord yesterday, including my first ever while-still-moving boarding by the US Coast Guard!

I called it in to Tradewinds right after they transferred off and gave a brief summary to Virginia.

I included a copy of the Report of Boarding they gave to me with the checkout sheet.

rcboarded Download

Below is my summary of the boarding.

– 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.

Regards,

Ricky C.

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Nautical Terminator – Horse Latitudes (Part 2)

Posted on April 2, 2023 by Tony Johnson

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.”

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Nautical Terminator – Horse Latitudes (Part 1)

Posted on March 28, 2023 by Tony Johnson

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.

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Nautical Terminator – Doldrums

Posted on March 21, 2023 by Tony Johnson

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?

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Nautical Terminator – Pesky Sailing Terms

Posted on February 21, 2023 by Tony Johnson

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 32^nd 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.

You’ve got to be kidding. I’m just sayin’.

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Estimating Time Of Arrival

Posted on February 6, 2023 by Tony Johnson

One of the most common calculations you make when cruising, whether it’s a sail on the Bay or island hopping in Greece, is figuring when you’re going to get where you’re going. It’s easy enough to estimate time of arrival when you are “fetching” your destination, which is sailing jargon for sailing directly there rather than tacking. Distance divided by speed equals time. But suppose you want to figure out how long it takes to sail to San Francisco from Richmond. With the prevailing summer wind, it’s going to be a beat and let’s say your boat does 6 knots through the water, but not in a direct line because you have to tack. The “ETE” or estimated time enroute, and “VMG” or velocity made good aren’t so straightforward, and these are what you need to know to figure “ETA,” or estimated time of arrival. You can figure a rough estimate, though, without knowing trigonometry or having a whole cabal of nerds running arcane computer programs for Larry Ellison.
What you’ve got when your destination is directly upwind is, theoretically, an isosceles right triangle (iso=equal, skelos=leg) where the hypotenuse represents the distance to your destination and the legs represent your tacks. So x + x is the distance you’ll have to sail to get from F to D via point E:

                Remembering that geometry class in high school, a squared + b squared = c squared, but since the legs are the same, the hypotenuse is equal to either side times the square root of two. (In this theoretical treatment it doesn’t matter whether it’s ten tacks or one.) So if you divide the hypotenuse, which is in this case the distance from the end of Potrero Reach (F) to the City (D), about 5.5 nautical miles, by the square root of two (≈1.41), you’ll have the length of one tack, and then multiply by two for the two tacks, you will have the distance you need to sail to get there. This turns out to be a little less than 8 nm. Let’s assume a boat speed of 6 knots with a steady breeze. If you divide that distance by your six knots of speed, you’ll have your time enroute or ETE, about 1.3 hours. Divide the distance from F to D by the ETE, 5.5/1.3, and you’ll have your velocity made good or VMG, a little more than 4 knots. And add the ETE to the present time, and you’ll know if you’ll be arriving in time to meet Betty and Sam.
                Because that calculation is neglecting leeway, however, the distance is actually a little more than that so your ETE is longer and your VMG is less. So forget all that square root stuff. It turns out that just multiplying the distance from F to D by 1.5 is going to give a close enough estimate of the actual distance you’ll have to sail, assuming the destination is dead to windward, for us regular old sailors. Correspondingly, your VMG is 2/3 of your boat speed through the water. If it isn’t dead to windward, sail the long leg first, and the multiplier will be less than 1.5, but never less than 1. It’s not so hard. So put those high school trig and geometry books back on the shelf next to your vinyl Spice Girl albums.
                But wait. We also have to figure current, as the above assumes slack water. This can get a bit cumbersome but let’s see if we can, again, find a shortcut. Have a look at the current charts at the back of your tide book. Turn to the max ebb chart on p. 59. You’ll see 1.4 knots helping you along, then a little over 2 knots of current to the right. This is on an average day at maximum current. To find what the figure is on a strong day, go to the chart on p. 50 and you’ll see the multiplier is 1.5. This means that at max ebb on a strong day, you’ll get 1.4 x 1.5, or a little over 2 knots of help halfway there, and then let’s say 2.4 x 1.5 or about 3.5 knots of being set to the right, which also helps. Averaging those, you’ll have a bit less than three knots in your favor for the whole trip. When we add this to the six knots your boat does over the water, we get a speed over the water of nearly nine knots on a day with a strong ebb. The distance sailed is the same 8 miles, so now the trip will take just less than an hour at max ebb on a strong day. [There is some oversimplification going on here, but…let’s just forget about that.]
                On a flood where the current is adverse, consult the chart on p. 53, and again adjusting by the chart on p. 50, we’ll multiply by 1.5 for a strong day. We get 1.5 knots of adverse current and then a little less than 2 setting us to the left, opposite of where we want. (The flood difference is smaller than the ebb difference because on average the ebb is stronger than the flood. A subject for another day.) Averaging the 2 with the 1.5, we can subtract 1.7 knots from our boat speed, bringing it to about 4.3 knots. The distance through the water is the same 8 miles, so it will take a little less than 2 hours to get there. Again, this is max flood on a strong day.
                The end result is we get a range of ETE from just under one hour with a strong ebb, which yields a VMG of about 6 knots; one hour, 20 minutes at slack for a VMG of just over 4 knots; and a little under 2 hours against a strong flood for a VMG of about 2.8 knots. Try this for any destination on the Bay. If any of you decide to actually do this, please report your results back for all of us to benefit. There’s nothing like empirical validation.
                OK, I admit, that was a bit complicated. But you only have to figure this out once, based on the speed of your boat, and you’ll know at a glance how to estimate your ETE to the city given the state of wind and current. All of this assumes constant wind and consistent boat handling, so your figures may vary. Not that you really care, because if you’re sailing, no matter how long it takes to get to your destination, you’ve already arrived.

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