When the wind pipes up and the going gets tough heaving-to is a great tactic that lets you stop the world and get off for a while. Or, as Bernard Moitessier says in his classic The Long Way: “….when you no longer know what to do: come about without touching the sheets, put the helm alee, stretch out in the cockpit, eyes closed, and then see things as they are….”.
You can heave-to to have lunch or to weather a storm or, of course, to lie in the cockpit and contemplate. How you do it depends to a large extent on your boat and you should practice the manoeuvre so that you can do it when you need to. For most it’s a matter of tightening up to close hauled and then tacking without releasing the jib sheet. Once the jib is aback, let out the main a little and lash the helm alee. Each boat will behave somewhat differently but the principle of setting the helm and main to drive the boat against the backed jib remains – it’s a matter of finding the right balance for your boat and the prevailing conditions.
In storm conditions you’d be down to storm jib and fully reefed main or trysail but you can heave-to with a fuller sail plan if you just want to stop for lunch or to carry out some task which is best done with the boat still.
Hove-to, the boat should lie about 40º or 50º off the wind and forereach slowly. You are underway so need to act accordingly regarding collision avoidance.
A good skill to acquire is heaving-to.
On my cruising boats I’ve always opted for conventional flushing marine toilets in conjunction with a holding tank. On my earlier cruising boat there was a Y-valve to allow waste to be directed to the holding tank or discharged directly overboard, on my later boat all waste went via the holding tank to a dockside pump-out facility or overboard.
These systems were quite satisfactory and I never felt the need to seek alternatives such as on-board waste treatment systems with their complex macerating and chemical treatment paraphernalia.
I did once have a VacuFlush system on a power boat I owned and it was the nearest thing to a home loo I’ve seen on a boat. Step on the foot pedal and whoosh, away it all went. But it used fresh water for flushing and was battery operated thereby consuming two essential resources which excluded it as an option for long term cruising.
A composting toilet is something I’d always thought of as the ideal choice for a cabin in the wilderness rather than on a boat but a couple of years ago I came across this article:
It’s a very informative and appropriately lavatorial discourse on the installation of a composting toilet on a boat and makes a good case for such a choice. So, don’t pooh-pooh alternative toilets until you’ve sat down and read it.
Personally I’ll be sticking to my conventional hand flushed marine toilets but I do love the name of the device – the Air Head.
I have a particular fondness for sailing on Chesapeake Bay where I was lucky enough to keep a boat for five years. Here’s a taste of the seasons on the Bay:
In spring the sailing on Chesapeake Bay is grand, the air fresh, winds reliable. The weather’s changeable, though; tee shirt or foul weather jacket, you never know. Most times you need both in the same weekend. Spring marks the beginning of a season that stretches before us, a blank page to be filled with familiar landfalls and new destinations. Before we can sail, though, we have to prepare; anti-foul the hull, drain the antifreeze from the water system, flush it and top up, change the engine oil, check the rig tension and load the sails back on the boat. Let the season begin.
The summer winds are fickle. A tiny breeze, a mere zephyr, tickles the surface. This is more frustrating than a dead calm. In a dead calm I’d give up, drop the sails, secure the boom and settle down with a good book. Or crank up the engine and be off to my destination. But where there’s a whiff there’s a way; the temptation to try is irresistible. I hoist the main and my lightest jib, use the topping lift to take some of the weight of the boom, go easy on the halyard tension. I know that attempting to move downwind in this tiny breeze is hopeless so I work her onto the wind, a tad below close hauled. I tell the others to keep still, whispering so as not to scare the wind-gods. Is she moving? I watch the wake, toss bits of lint into the water, and stare up at the sails willing the jib to be caressed into shape by this hint of a breath of a breeze. Eventually the tell-tails flutter into life, the boat begins to make way. This movement conspires with the true wind to create an apparent wind and that brings more movement. Yes! We’re sailing. Now let’s just keep her going – a tweak here, a tweak there.
Summer afternoons often bring thunderstorms and we try to get the hook down in a snug anchorage or settle into a marina berth before they let loose their venom. Once in a while, in September and October, hurricanes threaten the Bay; they’re born in the tropics, grow in size and intensity as they move across the Atlantic and many will re-curve when they reach the US, some heading up the coast and reaching Chesapeake Bay as vicious maelstroms threatening the coastal communities with high winds and huge tidal surges.
By the end of October the hurricanes are gone. Autumn is in the air, a magical time on Chesapeake Bay. The breezes are back after the stultifying heat and calms of summer, the trees are starting to acquire what will become a magical mantel of golds and reds and yellows and browns, and delta-flights of honking Canada geese arrive for the winter. I step onto a dew covered deck at dawn and watch the mist rising like steam; all is quiet except for the occasional slap and roil of a fish taking its prey. The first hint of the sun shows itself through the trees on the eastern shore, a promise of another fine day for sailing. But sailing comes later, when the wind arrives; for now I finish my coffee and slip below for another hour in the snugness of a still warm sleeping bag.
Chesapeake Bay – one of my favourite sailing grounds.
An aerial is an aerial is an aerial. No it isn’t. Not by a long chalk.
A marine VHF whip antenna depends for its performance on proper design and build-quality. That tin can at the bottom of the antenna contains the DC shunted coil that must be precisely tuned to the proper resonance. Getting this bit of the design and build right is the difference between an antenna that performs well and one that doesn’t.
The Metz range is based on a heavy gauge stainless steel shell which encloses the 16 AWG coil wound around a substantial form. The coil assembly is sealed in a solid epoxy compound. This build method allows prolonged transmission without danger of coil distortion as the antenna heats up.
Lower quality antennas have fibreglass bodies enclosing light gauge coils and inadequate forms all sealed in a waxy substance. This flimsy internal construction leads to distortion of the coil as the antenna heats up when transmitting, which changes the antenna characteristics, leading to poor performance and even damage to the radio.
To survive in the marine environment the antenna needs to be strongly built of appropriate materials – look for stainless steel components, including both the body and the whip. How the antenna is built internally isn’t so obvious – you’ll need to rely on reputation and a good warranty.
You don’t need to pay through the nose for top quality construction: the Metz Manta is similar in price to ordinary fibreglass bodied antennas and substantially lower in price than some other stainless bodied antennas. And it carries a lifetime coil warranty. Check it out at the Salty John on-line shop
A Happy and Prosperous New Year to all my readers.