The look of love
What faults? Why a wooden boat is so precious
Iknow I love the look of her, the way her sheerline rises so boldly at the bow, and the playful kick as it leaves the transom, but I have never added up all the reasons why she is so precious, and all the little things that annoy me, including the way she contrives to crack my skull when I fail to stoop too low, or how she just will not decide which way she wants to go when I stick the engine into reverse.
It cannot be the same for a boat that popped out of a mould, no matter how classy. There is something about a boat of pitch pine fastened to oak frames with copper nails that you don’t get with glassfibre, and before you can say “leaks”, yes it is true that most wooden boats like a tipple – I prefer the word to ‘leak’ – but a little seawater refreshes the bilges and the salt keeps rot at bay.
Aside from looks, there are the sounds, both above and below deck; the muffled swish through an inch or so of timber close to your ear when at rest in the leeward bunk as she heels, and the creak and rattle of blocks when the wind fills her sails, while from under the bow comes a gentle roar as she puts her shoulders to the waves, ideally accompanied by a pod of dolphins which seem to be attracted to wooden boats, especially those with white topsides and blue antifouling.
Sally, as I have admitted before, is not perfect. Give me a sharp plane and I would take a smidge off her sheer, from about 2ft (0.61m) from her bow, and blend it in at the coachroof. That would be perfection, at least to my biased eye. As for the rest, leave well alone. In any case it would not be possible to add a few inches to her beam, for she is in truth skinny. But then so is Kate Moss, more Alvis than Bentley; built for speed, rather than comfort (which I shall touch upon later.)
Does she have a character, and if so, how would you describe an old lady nearing her 90 birthday? Well preserved? Arthritic? Choleric? Crotchety? What do you say to her when she steals a diamond off your partner’s engagement ring, as she did somewhere off Start Point a few years back? Or deliberately spills your whisky to whet her bilge? Well, you forgive her of course, and next time have the courtesy to offer her a dram before she takes it upon herself to pour one.
Her truest joy is the way she balances in a breeze, and is rock steady in a gale under scraps of sail, her tiller finger light. Pop a peg in the pin rail, trim the main and let her take you to windward better than you can yourself. Swing down the companionway and fire up the alcohol stove; wander to the bow (and watch the dolphins); squint up the mast or check shroud tension and she’ll be doing her thing the while, nudging up close to the breeze until the luff of the mainsail shakes, then letting the foresail bring her back a touch.
And then, just when you have placed full trust in her, and have determined to change the fuel filter, she’ll lose it, and as you scramble to disengage the tiller, she will tack and heave to. Not often, but often enough to keep an eye on her, for she can be mischievous as well as cantankerous. But then who isn’t?
Sailing? 9/10. Looks? 9/10. Accommodation? Well, if you are small and agile then you might stretch to calling her cosy. Spacious is not a word that could ever describe Sally’s two narrow bunks, crouching headroom, squeeze-past-the-mast-to-get-to-the-Simpson Lawrence-loo cabin. Unless you’ve sailed a Tumlare.
But then what is comfort? A boat that can take you comfortably, if not closely, to windward on a featherbed, or twin cabins aft, a flat forefoot that will shake your bones, and a counter whose slamming at night will ruin your sleep?
As for that diamond, which she still secretes about her person, and which she will never surrender, she’s worth it. Besides, when I told Hamilton & Inches in Edinburgh how a feisty old bat in her late 80s had stolen it, they replaced it free of charge.