Words of Wisdom

Chuck Paine is a force of nature; an American yacht designer who is both a traditionalist and bang up to the moment. He is worth listening to, so, rather than witter on about him, here is a recent quote taken directly from his website and blog. I think he is spot on.

"I have just returned from London Boat Show. My primary purpose was to meet with the editor of ClassicBoat magazine, which will be publishing a series of articles about my classic designs. The show followed the recent trend of being smaller each year, though what was missing were the plethora of massive powerboats chasing the maybe two customers left in the world who would want such a thing. The ClassicBoat stand was once again the best part of the show… remember, everyone, that I predicted in my memoir that the world of boating would go full circle and that what will be left in the end will be traditionally shaped, aesthetically derived, small raceable sailboats made of a material that grows on trees. The other thing that was really fun was the huge new aquasport pool where I leaned against the railing and watched improbably tiny kids trying to get their floating windsurfers to the northern end of the pool against a fan-generated wind. This, and anything shorter than fifteen feet that doesn’t consume fuel, is the future of boating!"

Here's a taste of the kind of boat he's talking about, the Paine 26. Personally, at 26ft, I prefer our British models. Those hollow bow sections are a bit too Herreshoff for me, but she's beamy enough to carry her sail well, and ballasted to half her displacement in lead. Shallow draught too, at 3ft 6in or so.

Now look at something from Ed Burnett, who takes his cues from Harrison Butler, S&S, Robert Clark and Laurent Giles (among many inspirations). Here's a little 23ft cutter which clearly owes something to Eric Hiscock's Wanderer II.

And here's another 26-footer, guess...

This is where it all began: Andrillot, lower by a strake, no doghouse, just a 5-tonner from the late 1930s, and drawing heavily on French fishing boats, small pilot boats and other healthy designs.

 

And now for some Shelley... (see post below)

Ode to the West Wind
I O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave,until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear! II Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like Earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear! III Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear! IV If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O Uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. V Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened Earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.....

Here's a favourite poem, which is far less well known than Shelley's Ode to the West Wind, and concentrates on the brutal but invaluable north-easter, on which this island nation relied in the days of sail.

There is a veiled reference to Shelley's poem in the first few lines. I will post the much more famous Ode to the West Wind next, for comparison.

Ode to the North East Wind

Welcome, wild Northeaster!
Shame it is to see
Odes to every zephyr;
Ne'er a verse to thee.
Welcome, black Northeaster!
O'er the German foam;
O'er the Danish moorlands,
From thy frozen home.
Tired are we of summer,
Tired of gaudy glare,
Showers soft and steaming,
Hot and breathless air.
Tired of listless dreaming,
Through the lazy day--
Jovial wind of winter
Turn us out to play!
Sweep the golden reed-beds;
Crisp the lazy dike;
Hunger into madness
Every plunging pike.
Fill the lake with wild fowl;
Fill the marsh with snipe;
While on dreary moorlands
Lonely curlew pipe.
Through the black fir-forest
Thunder harsh and dry,
Shattering down the snowflakes
Off the curdled sky.
Hark! The brave Northeaster!
Breast-high lies the scent,
On by holt and headland,
Over heath and bent.
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Through the sleet and snow.
Who can override you?
Let the horses go!
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Down the roaring blast;
You shall see a fox die
Ere an hour be past.
Go! and rest tomorrow,
Hunting in your dreams,
While our skates are ringing
O'er the frozen streams.
Let the luscious Southwind
Breathe in lovers' sighs,
While the lazy gallants
Bask in ladies' eyes.
What does he but soften
Heart alike and pen?
'Tis the hard gray weather
Breeds hard English men.
What's the soft Southwester?
'Tis the ladies' breeze,
Bringing home their trueloves
Out of all the seas.
But the black Northeaster,
Through the snowstorm hurled,
Drives our English hearts of oak
Seaward round the world.
Come, as came our fathers,
Heralded by thee,
Conquering from the eastward,
Lords by land and sea.
Come; and strong, within us
Stir the Vikings' blood;
Bracing brain and sinew;
Blow, thou wind of God!

Charles Kingsley

No More Ads...

No, they didn't look right. After a fortnight, the adverts that appeared on this blog have been removed. They were a distraction, and cheapened the tone of the blog; and besides they will never make me a fortune. In any case, it would have been a fortune built on the digits of my visitors. Click, click, click. How many times have you clicked inadvertently on an advertisement, and cursed? I do not want to lose weight; I did not need a new car, I did not mean to click.

Copyright: Charlotte Watters

 So The Trouble With Old Boats has reverted to its pristine purity. Its aims are unchanged (what are its aims, I ask myself?) And the £3 or so that has apparently been accrued in the last two weeks will be donated to charity.

Coyright: Charlotte Watters

One click you may want to experience is that of Charlotte Watters, who illustrated the book of the blog. Click on the picture of the boat outside the shed (top right) and you will be transported instantly (depending on speed of modem connection, naturally) to another world: a world of beauty and artistry, for Charlotte is indeed a remarkable artist. One day the book will be a collectors' item, whereas at the moment you can't give them away (well you can, in fact. I gave one to my Mum for her birthday)...

Just for Brandon, by Special Request...

OK, here's the old faering again, from a different angle...

and another of the sjekte on the lake.

Time for a new Header

The old Oughtred faering I built has been popped back in its folder, to be replaced by a 15ft sjekte I built for a Sussex lake a year or so back. She was, to be honest, somewhat wasted on the water; a bit small for her, but she made a pretty enough picture, laid out on the bank under a washed out Sussex sky that day we went to launch her.

Probably my favourite rowing boat in terms of aesthetics to date. Quite narrow on the waterline, but that's fine for speed one up, and then as she settles with more crew she becomes more sedate.  What do you think? Be honest...

Second Hand Blues

I appear to own nothing that's new; well, strictly speaking as soon as you buy something it's no longer new, but I don't mean that. I mean that pretty well nothing of any value was bought first hand. The house, right? 1880s, or thereabouts; the Land Rover 1992; Sally II, the 1937 Vertue... and so on. Do I like old things, or is it that I can't afford new ones? Bit of both, probably. But I suspect that the underlying reason why I am attracted to secondhand stuff is that I enjoy mending it.

The Land Rover had the full spring clean over the weekend (there was a burst of sunshine for about five hours) and all the holes that appeared over the winter have been covered either with sheet lead or roofing material, and clarted (technical term: Scottish) with a mixture of bitumen and Waxoyl. Sally II's mast has been refurbished and her hull will get a coat of paint before too long. The old motor bike (which was about the only thing I bought new) is now in the category of things that need fettling before the summer. I think I'll sell it.

Owning all this old stuff means I seem to spend my whole time mending and repairing things. Do I enjoy it? Well, yes I suppose I do. It's definitely a male thing, this tinkering, and is probably deep down a replacement activity of some sort (let's not go there).

The latest old thing I have acquired is that 1980 flying fifteen. She'll have a new home and a new lease of life. I call it recycling, reusing, making do and mending. It is probably a hangover from the war, and the attitudes inculcated in me by my mother and grandmother who reused everything; never wasted nothing.

So most of my time is spent repairing things. What's wrong with that? What's so great about owning things that work, from new and then get trashed? One thing that did nearly get trashed were the bathroom scales (bought new but now three years old) which were reading everything from a flattering 65kg, to a more truthful 78kg, at random. They seem to have settled around 76kg. At one time they registered 80kg, and were heading bin-wards, until I gave them one more chance. They're on death row unless they behave. I'd settle for 75kg.

All this reminds me that I am also approaching my sell-by date, and long overdue for some (minor) repairs. And thus we are like the objects we collect: subject to deterioration from the moment we are born. But it does erk me somewhat that an inanimate object like a boat will still be around long after I am gone. Human beings are transitory; boats are forever (if subjected to routine maintenance).

By the way, look at the line of that old clinker boat. Perfect, built in Alligin, on loch Torridon. She's a flower bed now, simply and sadly for lack of that saviour of old boats who sometimes appears in the nick of time. He didn't. She was unlucky.