Last time we spoke of the difference between a hitch and a bend according to the Ashley Book of Knots. According to Ashley, a hitch makes a rope fast to another object while a bend unites two ropes at the ends for the purpose of lengthening the rope. He adds the refinement that at certain times when two ropes are joined, the knot is still called a hitch because the rope being tied to is not “active” as it is in a bend.

            A couple of examples may serve to illustrate this “active” principle. Although many authorities do not bother with this subtlety, Ashley distinguishes the Sheet Bend we all know (ABOK#1431) from the Becket Hitch (ABOK#1900) which is exactly the same knot but made fast to an eye splice or the loop in a fishing leader instead of a bight in the second line. In the Becket Hitch the second rope is not “active” and becomes an “object” so the knot fits the definition of “hitch” in ABOK#12, justifying the difference in name.

            A Rolling Hitch (ABOK#1734) can be used to make a rope fast to a spar, and is the preferred knot when hoisting a roller furling extrusion up the forestay, so in these instances it fits the definition of a hitch. But of course we also use it to take the strain from a rope when the end of the second rope is not workable, as in the case of an anchor rode or a halyard with an override on a winch. In these cases, even though two lines are being “united,” we are not uniting them at the ends, and the rope we tie the rolling hitch to is not “active.” The result is that even in situations where two ropes are united using this knot, we call it a Rolling Hitch rather than a Rolling Bend.

            A tidy example that summarizes the difference between knot, hitch, and bend is the versatile Bowline. If it is just a loop tied in a rope we call it a Bowline Knot (ABOK#1010), neither a hitch nor a bend. Once we make a line fast to an object using a Bowline it becomes a Bowline Hitch (ABOK#1716). However, if we put the loop of one Bowline through the loop of another to join two ropes for the purpose of making a longer one, we have a Bowline Bend (ABOK#1455).

I think I know what a splice is, and I’m sort of willing for the time being, subject to further review, to use the word “knot” to describe any jumble of rope made intentionally or otherwise. But of the two species of knots named “hitches” and “bends,” what’s the difference? A little research uncovers some complexity here, as well as some interpretations too muddled to repeat.

            In all matters knotical (not a real word, I’m sorry to report) our best authority absent a solid countervailing reason is The Ashley Book of Knots. Clifford Ashley was a seaman from the fabled whaling port of New Bedford, Massachusetts who devoted his life to the study of knots used by a wide variety of professionals from the journeyman to the joker. Some are safe, some dangerous, and some downright homicidal (the knots, not the jokers, although we can’t rule that out).

            His definitions of the items in question:

            ABOK#12: “A hitch makes a rope fast to another object.” In Chapter 20 he elaborates: “A hitch is a complication that secures a rope to another object, generally of a different nature. But this is not necessarily so, since the object may be another rope, provided the hitch is made entirely with the active rope, and the second rope remains inactive.” [Italics mine.]

            ABOK#13: “A bend unites two ropes.” In chapter 18, Ashley further explains that generally a bend unites two ropes “at the ends,” and its purpose is “to lengthen the rope.” He adds, “Bends for tying two ends of different characteristics may partake somewhat of the nature of a hitch, since one rope is more active than the other.” [Italics mine.]

            By tradition, the anchor rode is always “bent” to its anchor, and a sail to its spar, no matter what type of attachment is utilized, be it knot, shackle, hank, or slide. As a result there is a knot called an Anchor Bend, also known as a Fisherman’s Bend, which actually fits the above definition of a hitch since it “makes a rope fast to another object.” Ashley notes in ABOK#24-26 that this knot is really a hitch and that with this and three other arcane exceptions, “all knots called bends are for lengthening rope, by tying two ends together.”

            More next time on hitches, bends, the “active” principle, Clifford Ashley, and the art of knotery (alas, also not a real word).

The forecast calls for a “small craft advisory.” Latitude 38 once made the comment that these don’t really mean anything. This is false, but I can understand how one might come to that conclusion.

First, there’s no legal definition of “small craft.” However, this means you.

Secondly, none of the many websites of the National Weather Service offers an explanation specifically applicable to our unique San Francisco Bay conditions. But a phone call or two to the NWS elicited the following thresholds for the three types of small craft advisory for our local waters:

1) A small craft advisory is issued if current or forecast sustained winds are 21-33 knots, or frequent gusts of 21-33 knots lasting more than two hours are predicted.

Outside the Gate:

2) A small craft advisory for hazardous seas is issued if the period of the combined seas measured in seconds is less than or equal to the wave height in feet, except when the wave height is less than 5 feet.

3) A small craft advisory for rough bar conditions is issued if breaking waves and/or combined seas of 10 feet or greater are expected on the San Francisco Bar.

The confusion over this advisory results partly from the difference between our summer conditions and winter conditions. In summer, a daily thermal low in California’s central valley pulls wind from the sea through the path of least resistance, which is the Golden Gate. A venturi effect amplifies the velocity in the “slot,” and from there the wind fans out and its speed diminishes. So in the summer, a sailor in the Oakland Estuary may see 10 mellow knots while a boat near Alcatraz may be well reefed down in 30 knots.

In the winter, however, wind velocity is generated by Pacific weather systems that can have massive fronts of over 1000 miles in length. These sweep over the entire bay and may generate sizable waves, so there will be no place to hide.

Since the NWS makes predictions for the highest wind anywhere within the forecast area on a given day, and does not slice our area any smaller than “San Francisco, San Pablo, Suisun Bay and the West Delta,” you need to know summer from winter patterns to interpret this advisory. In fall and spring, take a closer look at the local weather reports, as winds can be generated by either dynamic.

            Last time we talked about a boat being “Bristol,” but what about the sailor? What do we call the man or woman whose uniform is pressed, shoes polished, and knife lanyard festooned with proper sinnets and Matthew Walker knots? The word is “tiddley,” a word commonly associated with winks and less often with strong drink–a whole other sailing topic. You might wonder why you’ve never heard this word, but ask yourself when you last espied a natty, perfectly dressed sailor. Yet neatness does count.

            When Amy Vanderbilt’s books included a section on yachting etiquette, the central issue discussed was suitable attire. Crews of the Victorian era liked to appear neat even after weathering a gale to give the impression it was nothing that would muss one’s hair, and to this day, you best doff your foulies before repairing to the yacht club dining room. Military sailors still tailor their uniforms to fit more handsomely, and try to get just the right fit and rake on their “dixie cup” hat. But yacht clubs and naval uniforms are recent phenomena, whereas the vanity of sailors is ancient. As long as there have been ropes, sailors have advertised their professional competence by the fancy knots decorating their personal accoutrements—a belt, a bag, a bucket. Just as perfect brightwork can give an indication of a boat’s overall condition, fancy work is evidence of a sailor’s inner spirit and skill, and is most assuredly tiddley.

            At the Tradewinds docks one is pleased to notice lines neatly stowed in a Flemish coil. In the old days they would have called the lines “cheesed down” and the resultant coil a “cheese.” The practice wasn’t purely ornamental, as the coils were useful for chafing gear, or a non-skid pad for standing long hours at the helm. Five hundred years ago, naval architects had yet to provide below-decks accommodations for the crew, who had to sleep on deck with their mates. But a senior hand would be able to claim, as the privilege of rank, a coil of rope for a mattress. This was as much comfort as the men who discovered America with Columbus could expect to enjoy.

            Yet a flair with ropes is a signal of superior seamanship, not a substitute for it. So when smartly dressing the line with a Flemish coil, first make sure the knot being finished is properly tied. A Flemish coil issuing from an improper cleat hitch is, sir, definitely not tiddley.

By the early seventeenth century, mariners were calling the steady easterly winds near the equator the “trade” winds. But it was not understood why these winds blew with such constancy, and a full explanation had to wait until the early twentieth century.

The earliest hypothesis in the early 1700s, by the astronomer Edmund Halley and the maritime lexicographer and poet William Falconer, was that the air directly under the sun was heated and therefore rose, causing surface air to flow in to fill the vacuum. Halley and Falconer weren’t right, as their theory would predict that the wind would not blow at night, and that in the morning, the wind would blow east, towards the sun. But the trades don’t change direction.

A better hypothesis was developed around the same time by George Hadley, whose brother invented the octant, a predecessor of the sextant. Hadley’s theory languished in obscurity until the late 19^th century, but now he is remembered in meteorology by the “Hadley Cell.” Hadley theorized that the linear momentum of the air played a role as the earth rotated beneath it. The wind blew toward the equator, and the earth’s rotation made it also appear to travel from east to west. But the final piece of the puzzle required the addition of an effect described by Gaspard-Gustave Coriolis regarding the preservation of angular momentum. A rather nice description of the Coriolis effect can be found at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aeY9tY9vKgs.

As long as the earth has been a sphere, the tropics, where the sun’s rays are vertical, have been heated more than the rest of the globe, where the sun’s energy strikes at a tangent. The hot air around the equator rises and flows to higher latitudes, and cooler air flows in to replace it. And as long as the earth has rotated on its axis, the Coriolis effect has turned this wind to the right in the northern hemisphere and left in the southern. Therefore, even in earth’s primitive atmosphere that lacked free oxygen, when no animals walked on earth and no fish swam in the sea, the trade winds were already blowing. If you had the DeLorean from “Back To The Future” and you could haul a boat on a trailer, you could transport yourself three billion years back in time and experience trade winds sailing. Of course, you wouldn’t be able to breathe, but everything has a downside.

          Everyone knows that the trade winds, from which our club takes its name, are the reliable easterlies that were followed when most freight was carried under sail. But is this mercantile association the real reason they are called “trade winds?”

          The contemporary uses of the word “trade,” as in commerce, and “trade,” as it applies to the winds, have a common ancestor, but not the same meaning. Both come from the Old English “tredan,” which means course or path, as in “path of life.” The word is related to “tread,” and refers to the habitual way one carries out one’s day. Some of us are impulsive and changeable, but most folks spend their lives in a regular activity practiced without much variation—their “trade.” By the same token, some winds are fickle, but others have a regular, dependable course. It was this consistency that originally earned these winds their name, not their commercial value.

          The trade winds are among the most ancient meteorological phenomena on the planet, but they were still unknown in Europe by the time of Columbus’ first voyage. According to Samuel Eliot Morison, the dean of Columbus scholars, the great discoverer set his course not according to these as yet unproven winds, but directly—or so he thought—towards Japan, due west from the Canaries. In a normal year his departure from La Gomera, at 28 degrees, would have been several hundred miles north of the trade winds. Sailing west should have becalmed him in the horse latitudes, and he may never have made his fabled discoveries. However, in addition to daring and perseverance, Columbus profited from excellent luck. He made his passage on a year when the Atlantic trades were much higher in latitude than is common, and he reports enjoying a perfect following breeze. But why would he have thought to sail further south? No one had ever gone before him, and it would be over 300 years until the Atlantic and Pacific trade winds were systematically recorded by Mathew Maury.

          On his second voyage, for reasons again unrelated to the wind, Columbus headed West by South from the Canaries, finding steady breezes at a lower latitude. Before long, navigators came to expect them and soon they were calling them the “trade,” meaning constant, winds. Next time, we will discuss why they are so constant—so constant, in fact, that they have been blowing forever.

Away out here they got a name for rain and wind and fire
The rain is Tess, the fire Joe, and they call the wind Mariah

I was born and raised “away out here” in California where the characters in the musical “Paint Your Wagon” reside. But I’m sure I’ve never, ever, heard anyone call the wind Mariah, much less use a name for rain and fire. What we have instead is an “onshore flow” or an “offshore breeze,” and that is as far as our meager poetry takes us. And what I say is, more’s the pity. Why, even in the much-maligned region known as Southern California, the land of freeways and aspiring actors waiting tables, they have sufficient wit to name a wind a “Santa Ana.” The origin of their name for this hot, dry, desert wind is murky, as is appropriate for mysterious forces of nature. But it’s a name of mythic resonance, compared to “offshore breeze.”

The National Weather Service is doing what it can. It says that away out here there’s a wind they call Diablo, Northern California’s version of the Santa Ana. I’m all for it, but I’ve heard folks call the wind Diablo about as often as I’ve heard them call it Mariah.

The poverty of language about the wind in our area is fortunately not the norm. In other parts of the world we find the observers of our favorite element much less shy about getting in touch with their inner poet. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Meltemi, the Mistral, the Sirocco, the Tehuantepecer, the Barat, the Chubasco, the Monsoon, the Elephanta, the Haboob, the Chinook, the Levanter, the Zephyros, the Papagayo, the Bora, the Tramontana, the Willy-willy, and the Williwaw—which is completely different from the Willy-willy. How about the Barber, the Brickfielder, the Blue Norther, the Cape Doctor, the Freemantle Doctor, the Squamish, and the Warm Braw? Admit it, your life would be a whole lot better if you could say stuff like, “I wouldn’t venture out today, son, a Squamish is fixin’ to blow.”

The Bible and Homer agree there are four winds all together. But Aristotle named ten, Timosthenes twelve, and the ancient Greeks finally settled on the eight of Eratosthenes. These were memorialized with their associated gods at the Tower of the Winds in the Agora of ancient Athens. It’s still there, and so are the winds.