Books: "Remains of ... Unhappy Creatures"

On Thursday the 11th, the U.S. Coast Guard published the findings of its inquiry into the sinking of the HMS Bounty off the Atlantic coast in October of 2012. According to the evidence available, the Coast Guard found the Captain and a too small, too green crew to be at fault. From the NBC News article:

Specifically, the choosing to navigate a vessel in insufficient material condition in close proximity to an approaching hurricane with an inexperienced crew was highlighted. 

A similar situation occurred some 160 years ago in January of 1854 when the brand new iron clad merchant vessel named RMS Tayleur encountered foul weather on her voyage from Liverpool in England to the far away shores of Melbourne. In her new book, The Sinking of RMS Tayleur, author and psychologist Gill Hoffs tells the sad tale of the sinking of a "Victorian Titanic".

As Hoffs tells us, both candidly and engagingly, Tayleur had everything going for her on her maiden voyage. She was a massive vessel, 230 feet long and displacing over 1,700 tons. Her holds were 30 feet deep and she would carry 650 souls toward a new life in New South Wales. Her Captain, John Noble, was a veteran seaman with a laundry list of successful voyages and happy owners under his belt. No one seemed to doubt his capability to select a crew and run and tight ship.

No one bothered to scrutinize the fact that the crew of Tayleur had quite literally been foisted on Noble without his consent, or that the Captain himself had taken a horrible fall from one of Tayleur's masts only days before she was to get under weigh. The persistent hurry of her owners, specifically Pilkington and Wilson and collectively the White Star Line, to get her out onto the open sea overshadowed these issues. Along with the unfortunate havoc that Tayleur's iron hull was playing with her three compasses and the "patent rudder" - not built for a ship as fast and large as she was - that she shipped, anyone well versed in the art of sail would have wondered at her speedy launch.

Speedily launched she was, however. This to the utter calamity of all aboard her.

Hoffs walks us through the terrible tragedy of that January night when, after apparently steering in the wrong direction due to those ill-working compasses, Tayleur found herself in the middle of a frightening Irish Sea storm on a rocky lee shore with sails wide open to the brutal wind and her rudder unable to answer. The incompetent crew, despite help from more than one seaworthy passenger, could not rescue the ship from her fate. Captain Noble himself, seemingly dazed to unresponsiveness by consecutive sleepless nights, made no decisions at all. Precious moments ticked by as Tayleur inched toward her doom.

Her passengers panicked; men trampled women and women stumbled over children in a desperate attempt to save themselves. Some made it to land, only to cling to the cold, wet shore in desperation. 360 people, including most of the 70 crew members and the gallant, heroic ship's surgeon Robert Cunningham along with his wife and children, would go to their death in or around the wreck. Survivors spoke of seeing bloodied bodies in nightclothes sloshing on the surface of the water. Battered body parts, ripped apart by the force of waves and shore, would be found along the coast for weeks to come.

The sinking of this "unsinkable" iron clad sent shock waves through English society. In total, four inquiries were heard and it was found that the crew, and particularly the Captain of Tayleur - who himself had survived her demise - were at fault. The White Star line was also soundly castigated for rushing Tayleur to sea with a hold full of innocent lives. The company went bankrupt and was reinstated again only to produce another tragic vessel: RMS Titanic.

Hoffs telling of the sad story of RMS Tayleur is energetic and insightful. The author is at her best when she is painting vignettes of the people whose lives were effected by the mighty ship and its sinking. There is the sad Dr. Cunningham who lost one of his sons while trying to save him, returned to the ship for the other and lost him as well, all while his wife watched. Then there is the man transported for theft who returned to the mother of his child after ten long years. He married her and planned to take his family back to Australia where they would grow rich in the gold rush, only to see them all drown.

Her most intriguing point, however, and one that I have not been seen before, regards Captain Noble himself. Did his fall just before Tayleur's launch cause damage to his brain that did not have time to heal and was then exacerbated by long nights of stress on his ship's deck? Did this unfortunate chain of events lead an historically solid Captain to tragic decision making - or lack thereof?

Thoughts worth pondering just as much as the book is well worth reading. Find the book at Amazon or your local bookseller.

* I believe I have to add that Ms. Hoffs' publisher, Pen & Sword, provided me with a copy of  The Sinking of RMS Tayleur for the purposes of this review. Hopefully I did that right; I'm used to buying the books I review so this is quite the thrill.

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Iron

And, I'm back. Miss me? Just time enough today for a look at the word iron at sea and on the dock. And we're not just talking about the famous ironclads CSS Virginia (ex-Merrimack) and USS Monitor here.

So let us start, then, with ironclad vessels. Also spoken of as ironcased, coated or plated, these were the ships, emerging in the 19th century, entirely encased in iron plates. The trick of making such vessels seaworthy was one that led to the practice of putting plate on only specific parts that were more open to missiles until the dawn of the 20th century iron age ship.

By the 19th century, most ships had some iron parts. Iron work was the general name for these and any pieces of iron used in the construction of ships or equipment for ships. Iron bound blocks were those fitted with iron strops. The "iron horse" was the latter-day iron railing of the head attached most usually to the fore- or boom-sheet. A ship was said to be iron-sick when her iron work was coming loose from the timbers and her sheathing nails are rusted. A sorry condition that no right-thinking sailor would allow.

A coast may be spoken of as iron-bound when it is made up of rocks that are predominately perpendicular to the sea as they rise up from it. These are dangerous shores indeed, and should be avoided at all costs.

A ship may be said to be in irons when, as Admiral Smyth explains in The Sailor's Word Book:

... by mismanagement, she is permitted to come up in the wind and lose her way; so that, having no steerage, she must either be boxed off on the former track, or fall off on the other; for she will not cast one way or the other, without bracing in the yards.

Irons are the tools used by caulkers, of which my grandfather was proudly one, to hammer oakum into the wooden seams of a vessel. These are sometimes known as boom irons, probably for their loud racket while in use. Grandpa went deaf caulking. Irons were also, of course, the bilboes that would be fitted around a miscreant sailor's ankles to keep him both in place and in discomfort. Sailors, with their sarcastic wit, might euphemistically refer to same as "iron garters."

And a ship might be lovingly spoken of as having "iron-sides" when she seemed immune to the blasts of enemy cannon. Here in the U.S., we still know one of our first frigates, USS Constitution, as "Old Ironsides."

Thus ends another addition of SMS. Fair winds and following sees, Brethren, until next we meet...

Header: Hudson River Under the Moonlight by M. F. Hendrik de Haas via American Gallery

Meta: A Picture Worth a Thousand Words

It has been rather a troublesome week here at chez Pauline and, along with that, I am preparing for a licensing exam on Tuesday so just a brief post today. I wanted to share this gorgeous frigate whose picture I found over at the always engrossing Naval Architecture. The first picture today is equally as lovely and daydream inducing. Fair winds to all!

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Steer

Most of us are familiar with today's word. We steer our cars, our bicycles, our skateboards, our lives; and steer at sea has similar meaning. Not surprisingly perhaps, it has different ones as well.

Steering, according to the oft-quoted Admiral Smyth, comes from the Anglo-Saxon word steoran. To quote the Admiral once again:

The perfection of steering consists in a vigilant attention to the motion of the ship's head, so as to check every deviation from the line of her course in the first instant of its commencement, and in applying as little of the power of the helm as possible, for the action of the rudder checks a ship's speed.

Thus a skilled helmsman is capable of keeping a ship at her optimal speed while staying on her optimal course. A helmsman might also be called a steersman for this very reason. As an aside, the word for helmsman in French is timonier, from the French word for helm: timon. Thus in the Cinque Ports era and somewhat beyond, the word timoneer might be used for the steersman.

To steer large is to allow her to go free or to steer her loosely. To steer her small is the opposite; as the Admiral puts it "to steer well and within small compass, not dragging the tiller over from side to side." To steer her course is to go with a fair wind, allowing it to move the ship along on her charted course. Steerage way indicates the ship has enough room to use her helm effectively for steering.

An old, and the Admiral notes incorrect, term for studding sails is steering-sails.

Steerage, that fateful term so familiar to many an American whose ancestors came over in it, originally meant the act of steering. Steerage, when one spoke of the decks of a fighting ship, often referred to where the mechanisms of the helm worked their way to the tiller. Thus, the deck below the quarter and immediately before the bulkhead of the great cabin was steerage. Sometimes, the Admiral's cabin on the middle deck of a three-decker was known by this name. When passenger ships came into vogue in the late 19th century, steerage acquired its less-than-savory reputation as the lowest deck before the bilge where the least of the passengers were crammed together like the rats among them. It is only one such as Jame Cameron, in his high fantasy film Titanic, who would have the temerity to portray this steerage as the most delightful and carefree deck aboard a liner.

And finally, on a similar note, there is the word steeving, which applies to the painting above. In this now mostly archaic form of rigging, the bowsprit's angle was some 70 or 80 degrees above the horizon. This made it a proper mast upon which a sail could be rigged as shown.

And with that, I wish you a happy Saturday once again and all steerage way upon your cruises, Brethren.

Header: HMS Surprise by Randal Wilson via NAVART

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Break

While the word break generally makes lubbers think - when they think of the sea at all - of those rocks upon which the ocean waves so noisily crash, it has and had many more meanings to men and women who belong to the sea.

Breakers are indeed those reefs, rocks and so on that stop the mighty ocean waves, particularly at shallower points along the shore. Admiral Smyth describes this situation most poetically in The Sailor's Word Book:

... those billows which break violently over reefs, rocks, or shallows, lying immediately at, or under, the surface of the sea. They are distinguished both by their appearance and sound, as they cover that part of the sea with a perpetual foam, and produce loud roaring, very different from what the waves usually have over a deeper bottom. Also, a name given to those rocks which occasion the waves to break over them.

One imagines that, in a heavy sea, the rocks pictured above might become breakers. "Breakers ahead!" This call warns the helm of broken water in a ship's direct course.

A break water may be a natural bar or a man-made jetty or mole that protects a harbor or bay from the more violent roiling of the open ocean, thus keeping the ships there safe from being beaten up by waves and wind.

Breakers is also a term for the small barrels used to store water or other liquids, rum for instance. A crew might break such things out; breaking out meaning to pull up stores or cargo from stowage. Thus breakage was the empty spaces where nothing was stowed in a ship's hold. In ocean marine insurance, however, it is the part of the cargo that arrives damaged. Break bulk means to open and unload the hold of said cargo and can allude to the "disposal" of ill-gotten, perhaps piratical gains.

A sudden end to a deck's planking was called the break-beams. A break was the rise of a deck; the break of the poop was where that half-deck aft ended at its fore-point.

At sea, breaking ground means the beginning of the weighing process; breaking the anchor from the ground beneath the water. A ship may break sheer when she is forced toward her anchor rode, or sheer, by the wind.

A gale is said to break when it slows down and gives way to better weather. But the breaking of a gale can mean the mournful howling of the wind through shrouds and rigging. Those sailors familiar with the East Indies would speak of the "break-up of the monsoon", when winds would rage so violently as to literally break a ship caught off guard apart. A ship may break off her course when the wind is such that the direction intended cannot be maintained. Break off is also an order for a sailor or sailors to move swiftly from one chore to another.

A man is said to break liberty when he does not return to his mess after shore leave. To break a man is to "deprive him of his commission, warrant, or rating by court-martial." To break up a ship is to dismantle her when her parts are worth more to the service than she is. All of these instances may be a very sad time indeed.

And that is all for today, Brethren. Fair winds, following seas and full tankards to y'all!

Header: A Maine Windjammer from Isa Bella's Pics via Naval Architecture

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Lee

The word lee is commonly heard in discussing the sea and sea terms. "Have I brought you by the lee," is one of those euphemisms that just about everyone but the dog uses around chez Pauline. But what does it really mean? Let us look closer, shall we?

According to Admiral W.H. Smyth writing in The Sailor's Word Book, the English word lee comes from the Scandinavian loe or laa which roughly translates as the sea. With that in mind, we know that the word always had two feet firmly planted in the water and probably came from our intrepid Viking ancestors. To English speakers, lee has long meant the side of a vessel opposite the side upon which the wind is blowing. Thus leeward versus windward and leewardly meaning a ship unable to keep up with the wind versus weatherly, a ship that is capable in almost any weather.

Larger ships may have a lee anchor; any anchor catted to the leeward side. All ships riding at anchor may refer to their lee anchor if indeed the kedge is to the vessel's lee.

The lee beams are those on her lee side, positioned at right angles to the keel. The lee boards are wooden frames that are attached to the sides of small, flat-bottomed vessels like wings to keep them from drifting to leeward. The lee side of a ship is considered to be the portion of her that lies, as the Admiral describes it, "between the mast and the side farthest from the wind, the other half being the weather-side."

The lee side of the quarterdeck, which is often relatively shielded from the wind, is said to be the prerogative of the captain. It is here aboard the dear Surprise that Patrick O'Brian's Jack Aubrey took his exercise daily on the advise of his physician and particular friend, Stephen Maturin. On men-of-war, the lee side of the quarterdeck was sometimes known colloquially as "the midshipman's parade" since they were often being instructed there by the ship's captain or lieutenants.

A lee tide runs in the same direction of the wind and must be taken into account in navigation as it can push a ship to leeward. Thus the lee gauge refers to being farther from the wind than another vessel, either friend or foe. A ship may take a lee lurch and roll to leeward when struck by a unusual wave on her weather side. The dangerous lee shore is directly on a ship's leeward side with the wind battering her into it.

When a ship is on a lee hitch the helmsman has allowed her to drift to the lee. Being under the lee-gunnel is slang for a ship being troublesomely over taxed by wind, weather, or enemy fire. "Take care of the lee hatch!" This is an order to the helmsman not to get off on a lee hitch.

And then there's that bit about being brought by the lee. A ship is said to be under the lee when she is in water near a weather shore where the wind is coming off the land and the sailing is easier than it might be further out. In the uncomfortable situation known as to lay by the lee or to be brought by or come up on the lee, a ship is run out, brought by the lee quarter and looses the wind in her sails. Thus, when one is brought by the lee, they are speechless, dumbfounded; something a loquacious person like your humble hostess finds very vexing indeed.

Happy Saturday, Brethren. I do apologize for the long absence and hope to have that corrected within the next month. Until than - and in between as well - may your ship be weatherly, and never troubled by being brought by the lee.

Header: The lovely Mouzho on a sunset sail via the wonderful Naval Architecture on tumblr

Meta: A New Adventure on the Horizon

I apologize for skipping my favorite post of the week, Sailor Mouth Saturday, today but I am short on time. I will be embarking on a new adventure starting Monday in the form of a full time, away from home job. I'm thrilled to be so fortunate; the company is an excellent one and they are offering the all-important medical benefits that my family very much needs right now. I cannot gush enough about how lucky I am.

Unfortunately, though, this will impact my ability to spend as much time on Triple P as I have in the past. While I will certainly continue this labor of love, there will be some "down time", at least for a little while. Meanwhile, though, please enjoy the archives. I will return to some form of regular posts, perhaps two or three a week, sooner rather than later. Thank you all for your support, Brethren. And now, let us pack on all sail and put her bow toward that promising horizon...

Header: Captain Kermit Sparrow, apparently, via my good mates at Under the Black Flag on FB

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Fresh

Tomorrow is Saint Patrick's Day: the day we're all Irish. Aside from corned beef, beer and all things green I always harken back to - and I'm really dating myself here - these very old Irish Spring soap commercials. Making a "strong" man "fresh" was what Irish Spring was about and thus, today's SMS word.

Fresh at sea generally refers to one of three things: water, wind or rigging. Let's look at them in that order, shall we?

Fresh water if, of course, that that is not salt. A ship freshens her water by taking on more casks of same for drinking and cooking but rarely if ever for washing. Other fresh water, particularly that from rain or snow, was used for that purpose. If none of that was to hand one might have the good luck to use the freshening from a local river. The so called fresh shot was the fresh water that came down stream from a large river and emptied into a body of salt water. As Admiral Smyth notes in The Sailor's Word Book, in such cases - particularly after a large dump of rain or with snow melt inland - "... fresh water is often to be found on the surface a good way from the mouth of the river." There is, in similar cases, the freshes which refer to the large deposits of silt and other materials swept into the oceans and gulfs by the world's mightiest rivers. With the Nile, Congo, Ganges, Mississippi and others, the discolorations in the salt waters can be seen from outer space.

In relation to rivers, a sailor with blue water experience may refer to one who works rivers and lakes pejoratively as a "fresh water jack." This was essential an insult and meant that the individual was just this side of a lubber. Samuel Clemens, as an example, might be called a fresh water jack by the likes of Richard Henry Dana, Jr. or Joseph Conrad. Sorry, Mark Twain...

Fresh water seas are those that are so large, they essentially behave like the ocean. Probably the best example of these is the Great Lakes at the U.S. and Canada boarder. Superior, Michigan, Huron Erie and Ontario are all example of lakes that are just as vast - and potentially deadly - as any gulf we know.

A fresh breeze is a brisk and often sudden wind but can also refer to the way a ship is handled in known channels of wind, such as the trades or gulf stream. A fresh gale is just a more powerful form of a fresh breeze. When a ship begins to feel the push of a fresh breeze, she is said to freshen her way. Fresh way is also said of a man who picks up his stride or sets out at a run. Fresh way is slightly different, and refers to a ships increased speed through the water; she gathers fresh way, for instance, after completing a successful tack when her sails once again catch the wind.

One can freshen rigging by adjusting ropes or cable, thus relieving pressure points and potential failure on or of same. To freshen the hawse, for instance, means to relieve the part of the cable that has been repeatedly exposed to friction from the hawse hole. This is necessary in times when a ship sits at anchor for some days. The term freshen the nip follows this rule and essential refers to the same duty. It also has been used to essentially mean "the sun is over the yardarm" for those officers who are ready for a glass.

The ballast is freshened when it is raked and/or moved to better purpose. Fresh grub are new stores taken aboard. A fresh spell means new men to taking on a repetitious task such as turning the capstan. And finally, your mate might be fresh meaning not that he is a bit too friendly but that he is just this side of drunk. As the Admiral puts it delicately, "excited by drink."

So cheers mates and a Happy St. Pat's. Perhaps a Guinness rather than a grog is in order. Slainte!

Header: Merchant's Quay at Newry; photo from the National Library of Ireland via Naval Architecture

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Lap

Today's word swings widely at sea. From superstitions about weather to naval uniforms to the building of iron vessels, lap plays a little part in them all.

In shipbuilding, lap over revers to the carlings of masts which Admiral Smyth explains clearly in The Sailors Word Book:

Pieces of timber about five inches square, lying fore and aft, along from one beam to another. On and athwart these the ledges rest, whereon the planks of the deck and other portions of carpentry are made fast.

Thus, the mast carlings are said to lap over or upon the deck because they are necessarily deep. Laps proper are the ends of a carling that support an unusual heft. Admiral Smyth gives the example of the capstan step.

Lap jointing refers to the overlapping plates of iron on a vessel. This form of shipbuilding is similar to the old wooden fashion known as clincher or clinker building.

We've all read of the wave "lapping" at the shore or some other solid surface but at sea, lapping often refers to thin ice. Indicating the way the ice slowly builds as the temperature descends, these layers of overlapping ice can be an extreme danger to ships and men, trapping or even crushing vessels in their stealthy grasp.

The word lapel (lapelle) was once as important to naval uniforms as the more modern epaulette. The golden fringed epaulette came into use in European navies during the late 18th and early 19th century. Prior to that, a white lapelle was used in uniform making to indicate the rank of lieutenant. Admiral Smyth quotes what he calls "the brackish poet, in the craven midshipman's lament":

If I had in my country staid,
I then had learnt some useful trade,
And scorned the white lapelle.

In northern seas women who claimed a certain talent for weather-witchery were sometimes dubbed Lapland Witches. Apparently the women of this Finish tribe were more than capable of bringing fair weather - but at a price. One was considered an ignorant gob among his mates if he bought weather for coin.

Famously, the dish known as lap's course is said to be one of the oldest savory dishes served to any working ship's foc's'l men. It developed into the more familiar lobscouse, a stew of salted meat, potatoes, onions, spices and ship's biscuit for thickening that warmed the heart and stuck to the ribs of many a hungry seamen throughout history.

And so, an end to lap. I chose this word today because it is my youngest daughter's fourteenth birthday today. Like any mother who loves her children, I now see a beautiful young lady but remember a very little redhead who used to like to sit on my lap and listen to me sing...

Happy Saturday, Brethren; fair winds, following sails and full tankards to you all!

Header: Beach Scene by Gustav Courbet c 1874 via Old Paint

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Clothes

The clothes make the man, or so we're told, but at sea words that would indicate things used for covering the body human to a lubber mean something very different. Here's a handy list from Peter H. Spectre's The Mariner's Book of Days 2013:

Apron ~ a strengthening timber behind the stempost.
Belly band ~ a band of canvas across a sail to prevent it from "bellying" - or stretching - from the force of the wind.
Bibbs ~ mast brackets that support the trestle-trees; also called hounds.
Bonnet ~ a piece of sailcloth attached to the foot of a sail to temporarily increase sail area.
Boot-top ~ band of paint defining the waterline of a hull.
Breeching ~ a backstay.
Buckler ~ a shaped piece of wood for caulking the hawseholes.
Cap ~ a fitting at the head of a mast or the end of a spar.
Cape ~ a pormontory.
Clasp ~ a hook that clasps a ring, or a stay, or a rope.
Collar knot ~ a knot used to fit shrouds to a mast.
Dress ~ to bedeck a ship with flags, pennants and bunting.
Earings ~ small pieces of line attached to cringles in a sail to be used when reefing [I can always tell this one from the ear adornment by the spelling; it is also part of that sailor's jargon meaning "from head to toe"; "from clew to earing."]
Girdle ~ a piece of rope passed around anything; also, a plank fastened over the wales of a wooden vessel.
Hood ~ a covering over gear, scuttle, or companion; also, the last plank of a complete strake in wooden shipbuilding.
Jacket ~ the outer layer of a double-planked hull.
Jumper ~ a rope used to prevent unwanted movement of a mast, spar or boom.
Mast coat ~ a gasket used to waterproof the opening where a mast penetrates the deck.
Quilting ~ a jacket of canvas, leather or rope to protect a bottle from breaking.
Skirts ~ the main body of a sail.
Slip ~ to let something go on purpose - i.e., to slip the anchor; also a launching way; also a space for mooring a vessel.
Strap ~ an iron bar for working a capstan; also, a metal band around a block.
Suit ~ a set of sails.

Finally, clothes may make the man but it seems this aphorism is proven doubly so in the case of Captain Oliver Hazard Perry, the Hero of Lake Erie from the War of 1812 whose famous flag hangs just to my right as I write. Thanks to my dear mate Captain Swallow, it is a constant reminder to go forward, be brave and never mind maneuvers: always go at them!

Header: Captain Oliver Hazard Perry by Edward L. Mooney c 1839 via Wikipedia

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Victualler

When Henry VIII had the brilliant notion to establish the Royal Navy, ships were a bit different than they would be 300 years later in the glory days of Admiral Nelson. A fine carrack of war, like the iconic Mary Rose, was often filled to bursting with men and arms, leaving very little in the way of room for the food and water needed to keep those men in good working trim.

Enter the smaller, but equally important, companion ship that became known as the victualler. As Admiral Smyth notes in The Sailor's Word Book:

In the early age of the navy, each man-of-war had a victualler especially attached to her; as, in Henry VIII's reign, we find the Nicholas Draper, of 140 tons and 40 men, was victualler to the Trinity Sovereign; the Barbara of Greenwich to the Gabriel Royal, and so on.

The smaller ships, probably more closely resembling a Medieval cog than their larger companions, could ship supplies far out to sea allowing their man-of-war to focus on the important duties to hand.

The word victualler and victualling thus entered the parlance of the Royal Navy and in turn her American daughter. The same could not be said of the Latin-speaking navies, who relied more on a form of the word "provider"; le fournisseur in French, for instance.

Thus we find in the English speaking countries the victualling bill which was essentially the receipt kept at a customs house for provisions and stores provided to the quartermaster of a merchant ship after payment or bond had been received. The victualling book would have been kept aboard ship, generally by the purser, and would have been a log of incoming and outgoing provisions. This would have been inspected on a regular basis by the captain and/or owner to ensure that all was on the up-and-up, so to say.

In the navy, the victualling yards were a series of warehouses where provisions and other dry goods were stored for the stocking of naval vessels. These yards were generally located near naval dockyard such as Boston, New York, Baltimore, Charleston and New Orleans in early 19th century America, and Plymouth, Gosport, Gibraltar and Jamaica for the Royal Navy (to name only a few.)

And now that we have our victuals in, I'm away to sea Brethren. Fair winds for this Saturday and beyond; huzzah!

Header: The Argonauts Leaving Colchis by Ercole de Roberti c 1480 via Old Paint; a fanciful interpretation of a round ship, or cog

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Lay

"A rough hardy seaman, unus'd to shore ways; Knew little of ladies, but much of lay-days."

Or so Captain Cuttle explained of the merchant service in the 18th century. Lay-days were the express number of 24 hour periods as designated in a ship's bill of lading which said vessels was allowed in port. These days were specifically for the unloading of one cargo and loading of another and not for the convenience of the sailors. The less time this process took the better. The ship's owner had recourse to an overage of days - or even hours - in port by deducting a specified sum from what would amount to the crew's pay. No wonder so many merchant sailors went on the account...

To lay was the sea-speak for to come or go; lay aloft, lay forward, lay aft, lay out etc. As Admiral Smyth notes in The Sailor's Word Book, "This is not the neuter verb lie mispronounced, but the active verb lay." A mistake of semantics seen in unfortunately ill-researched nautical fiction. One may also lay a gun, which is essentially to aim a cannon. Not the easiest thing with a huge 24 in a rolling sea.

To lay in is the order for men to return from the yards or to man the capstan. Taking on provisions was sometimes spoken of as laying in sea stock and laying in the oars was the order from the coxswain to ship the oars of a boat. This would generally be preceded by the order to lay (or lie) on your oars, meaning to stop rowing. Lay out your oars then means the opposite: row harder.

Laying or lying out a yard: to go out toward the yard arms. Laying or lying along: when a ship is down sideways in a gale.

On can lay up; a ship by dismantling her or lay the land by almost losing sight of it. To lay-to is to set only one sail in a rough sea and can also be spoke of as to lie-to. Lay her course: this is the ability to sail in the direction desired, regardless of whether or not the wind is in your favor.

Laying down, sometimes spoken as laying off, is the delineation of the lines of a ship from the draught at the beginning of building her.

And thus we find the end of another Sailor Mouth Saturday. See how that lays with ye...

Header: Gorgeous draught of a French frigate from the late 18th century via my good mates at Under the Black Flag (see sidebar)

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Card/Careen

The card was intimately familiar to our sailing ancestors, just as it was only a few short decades ago to anyone trying to find their way in unknown territory. The face of the magnetic compass is and was known as a card and poets have sung its praises for centuries. As Admiral Smyth quotes from Plato in The Sailor's Word Book: "Reason the card, but passion is the gale." Unfortunately, our appreciation for the compass and so the card has at least depreciated in recent years.

Relating to the card are the cardinal points - north, south, east and west - and the cardinal winds which originate from those points. The cardinal signs are those more familiarly known as the zodiac, through which the sun passes. The cardinal points of the ecliptic are those zodiac signs into which the sun enters at the equinoxes - Aries and Libra - and the solstices - Cancer and Capricorn.

Careening, as Admiral Smyth tells us, is:

the operation of heaving the ship down on one side, by arranging the ballast, or the application of a strong purchase to her masts, which require to be expressly supported by the occasion to prevent their springing; by these means one side of the bottom, elevated above the surface of the water, may be cleansed or repaired.

This operation was quite an undertaking and all ships without the benefit of copper sheathing by necessity needed to be cleaned off at intervals. Seamen, and pirates in particular, would covet secluded careening beaches that would allow for not only a thorough overhaul of their ship but also time ashore to bathe, collect fresh water and provisions and all the other simple things that time aboard ship might not allow. There were many such spots in particular around the Gulf of Mexico not the least of which included Matagorda, Isla Mujeres, Galveston, Barataria and various spots on the Florida coast.

The term careening actually comes from careen which is a corruption of the word carina: keel. A ship is said to careen at she when she inclines to one side to such a degree that her keel is seen above the waves.

And that's enough for now, I'd say. May you sit upon a warm careening beach this evening, Brethren, with all the best of everything to your hand.

Header: Harbor Scene by Andrew Andrews via American Gallery

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Mid/Middle

We've talked about midshipmen before here at Triple P, but there are a few other reference points for the words mid and middle at sea. None are particularly surprising, but they are interesting.

The word middle, perhaps curiously, comes from the Anglo-Saxon into Middle English words middel and middle. According to our old friend Webster they both indicate the halfway point between two others. That's fairly straight forward at least.

At sea, this general application of the word applies often but not always. A middle band is the central band on any sail, one of the many that is sewn to the canvas to give it extra strength. Middling a sail, on the other hand, is the act of arranging the sail for attaching it to the yard. A middle-topsail is one usually particular to schooners and sloops. This type of sail was - and still is - set on such vessels between the top and the cap of their topmasts.

Midrib is an old word for a slender or narrow canal. Mid-channel is the center, or halfway point from one shore to the other of a river, channel or smaller lake.

When a ship's position is determined by converting departure/arrival in difference of longitude, the type of navigation used is said to be middle latitude sailing. In such cases the middle latitude is used as a point of reference rather than the meridion.

Middle-timber reference the planking amidships and to the stern. Middle-wales are the strakes or outer planking along each side of a three decked vessel between the lower and middle deck ports.

The middle watch on naval ships was counted between midnight and 4:00 AM. A middle-watcher is no a member of that watch but a light, usually hand-held meal (such as a biscuit or sandwich) which officers of the middle watch might be able to, as Admiral Smyth puts it, "snatch" at about five bells or 2:30 AM. Fortifying oneself is always a good idea in the middle of the night, after all.

To return to where we started, midshipmen were often referred to, particularly as a group, as mids. Either affectionately or derogatorily they may also be referred to as "middies." I suppose it would depend on the individual young gentleman whether or not he appreciated such a moniker.

A happy Saturday to all the Brethren, then. Fair winds, following seas, and a little sunshine is my wish for you.

Header: Lake Superior by Walter Shirlaw via American Gallery ~ an example of a lake more like a small sea and far too large to have a mid-channel

Sailor Mouth Saturday: From Arm To Zulu

We're changing SMS up today because nothing is worse than a lack of deviation. At least in my opinion. So here, for your consideration, if a curious list from A Mariner's Miscellany by Peter H. Spectre. These are words that may be familiar to any lubber, but their meaning at sea might leave him or her scratching their land-bound head.

Arm: the portion of an anchor between the crown and the flukes.
Bank: a shoal which is full of enough deep water to navigate a ship through.
Caboose: a cook station on the deck of a sailing ship.
Dead head: a spar or log, usually floating on end, which is mostly submerged and therefore a dangerous obstacle to navigation.
Earing: a line used to bend a sail to a spar.
Fox: a group of rope yarns twisted together.
Groin: a breakwater.
Hog: that unfortunate state of a badly constructed vessel where her bow and stern drop down while her wait rises up.
Indian head: a type of New England fishing schooner first seen around 1900.
Jackass: a canvas bag filled with oakum and stuffed into the hawsehole to make it watertight.
Kid: a tub for serving out soups and stews.
Leech: the after side of a fore-and-aft sail or the outer sides of a square sail.
Mole: a man made breakwater, usually constructed of masonry, and used as a landing for ships.
Nose: the stem of a vessel.
Ordinary: naval term for a vessel that is not sailing and laid up in port, but still in commission.
Pea: the point of an anchor's palm.
Quarter: the side section of a vessel from the aftermost chainplate to the stern. Thus "the wind on her quarter." This should not be confused with the quarterdeck, which is the raised deck at the aft of most ships without a poop.
Roach: the curve in the side of a sail.
Sheets: lines used to control the sails.
Throat: the part of a gaff nearest to the mast.
Up: the position of the helm which allows the vessel to fall off the wind.
Vast!: short for avast; an order to stop as in "Vast fighting!"
Whack: a sailors food ration.
Yankee: a jib topsail. Probably so called because of its development by colonial sailors.
Zulu: a lug-rigged fishing boat used on the coast of Scotland.

There; a whole flock of useful words from one SMS courtesy of that expert in all things seafaring, Mr. Spectre.

Header: A Ship in Storm by an unknown artist via my good mates at Under The Black Flag's Facebook page

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Rat/Rate

Today marks the 204th anniversary of the birth of - in my opinion - the single most influential writer America has ever produced. Wait, someone is asking; how can anyone be more influential than Stephanie Meyer and the 50 Shades of Gray which is really just Twilight fan fiction woman? Who ever you are, please move along. Anyway: Happy Birthday Mr. Edgar A. Poe!

When I think of Poe, which may be more often that is good for a healthy psyche, I generally start to dwell on the things that he is not credited with. Just one "for instance" would be the invention of the detective story. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owes Holmes to Poe's C. Auguste Dupin. But no one ever talks about that, do they? When those type of blue-Devils take hold, I like to turn my morbid thoughts back to Poe's writing and the more familiar stuff that gives me the willies just thinking of it. Like those big, brown rats crawling all over the poor guy in "The Pit and the Pendulum." And away we go...

Rate was originally a word for tariff, at least in seafaring parlance. In the 18th century, the navies of Europe began to rate ships according, for the most part, to their size and armament. A first rate could carry 110 guns or more, a second rate between 90 and 100, a third rate from 80 to 85, a fourth rate from 60 to 74, a fifth rate 30 to 50 and a sixth rate any number including none. These last were only rated if they were commanded by a Post Captain.

A rating, on the other hand, had to do with an individual seaman's stated position in the ship's books. This included wasters, idlers, able seamen and so on up to Admiral.

One often hears of ratlines (also spoken of as ratlings) in nautical fiction. These are the small ropes that traverse the shrouds horizontally. They form the footholds of the rope ladder climbed up and down by men going into and out of the rigging. To rattle down the rigging or rattle the shrouds is to fix the ratlines parallel to the water line, an occasional task that must be undertaken for the safety of those using the ratlines. A rat's tail is the tapering end of a rope.

And so we come back around to those brown rats. As Admiral Smyth puts it:

These mischievous vermin are said to have increased after the economic expulsion of cats from our dockyards. Thus, in the petition from the ships-in-ordinary, to be allowed to go to sea, even to carry passengers, we read:

Tho' it was hemigrants or sodgers - 
Anything afore them rats,
Which now they is our only lodgers;
For well they knows, the artful dodgers,
The Board won't stand th' expense of cats.

A shame too as, after the dawn of nautical insurance, insurers would not pay for damage done by rats. Time to bring a ratting dog aboard, evidently.

A rat, too, was a sailor's word for one who turned his allegiance easily to suit his own best interests. Sounds familiar to this day.

All that said, I hope you and yours enjoy Poe's birthday. Perhaps with a reading of one of his better stories. But first stop by the dear Undine's World of Poe blog and read her tribute to the great man and his humor. You'll love it; I promise!

Header: Brown Rat by Archibald Thorburn via Movie Posters Lounge

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Day

The day has turned into the next, as will happen each day at noon when aboard us. For those here in south central Alaska, that means wind, rain, and the dreaded Chinook, or williwaw, wind. Everything will be a dangerous sheet of ice once this passes. Not to mention it hasn't gotten past the dark of dusk all day. But no one wants to here about our blue-Devil weather; let's talk about days at sea instead.

The nautical day is reckoned from noon to noon rather than midnight to midnight as it frequently is by land. The log book is turned to the next page once noon is called, and the series of watches begins anew.

Likewise, the day's work in the nautical mind differs from the perception by land. From The Sailor's Word Book:

In navigation, the reckoning or reduction of the ship's courses and distances made good during twenty-four hours, or from noon to noon, according to the rules of trigonometry, and thence ascertaining her latitude and longitude by dead-reckoning.

A very disparate thing from a task well done.

Day mates is an old term, probably originating in the Medieval period, for mess mates. When the distinction changed jibes relatively with abolition of the sub-lieutenant distinction. This position, an officer who was in charge of a group of day mates, was taken over by midshipmen who were similarly set to command a mess.

Day book is also an old term for the log book, noted earlier in this post. A journal, or diary, was referred to in some parts of Britain as a day book up until the 19th century.

Finally, the day-sky refers to the gloaming of sunrise or sunset. Something that my neck of the woods has experienced all the day long.

Here's hoping that your weather, wherever you may be, is better. Fair winds and a mug of grog to you all, until next we meet.

Header: Sunset by Julian Rix via American Gallery

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Jaw

I apologize for the lack of posting here at Triple P this week. The ravages of the flu have yet to leave me and I may just have to relent and drag myself to the doc for some meds. But I hate to miss a SMS so here's a short but I find interesting review of the word jaw at sea.

Jaw generally refers to semicircular end of a boom or gaff which presses against a ship's mast. The points of the jaw are called horns. The jaw-rope is a line or cable attached to the horns of the jaws to keep the gaff attached to the mast. Admiral Smyth notes that the line is usually finished with bull's eyes, specific types of blocks usually without a sheave, to ensure that the jaw-rope can run easily against the mast.

Along those lines, blocks with sheaves also have a jaw. This is the place in the hull of the block where the sheave turns.

Any line can be said to be long jawed if, through the strain of use, it begins to untwist and eventually breaks or otherwise fails.

Often, though, jaw when used at sea has more to do with men than equipment. A man is said to be jawing when using language generally thought of as reserved for sailors. Jaw breakers are the words we're referring to. A man who speaks this way on a regular basis is said to have brought his jawing tacks aboard us. He may also be labelled a jaw-me-down, particularly if he is prone to argue.

As an interesting if unrelated aside, javels were the "dirty, idle fellows, wandering about quays and docks" in times gone by. That would be a nice little addition to a piece of historical fiction, I think.

Happy Saturday, Brethren. I hope you feel better than me and that the winds are fair where ever you're at sea.

Header: Sunset Seascape with Boats by Franklin D. Briscoe via American Gallery

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Ham

Ham is the standard protein at New Year's Day dinner around chez Pauline. So why not discuss the word - or in this case that part of so many words - at sea? No reason I can think of.

The first word with a nautical bent which probably comes to mind is hammock. This suspended bed that has cradled so many generations of sailors is now as familiar hanging over the backyard lawn as it once was foreign, at least to Europeans.

The word comes from the Carib native word for their own suspended beds. Made of cotton netting and known to them as hamacs, these very comfortable sleeping arrangements were first witnessed by Columbus. Given their ideal usefulness in keeping the sleeper cool in torrid climes, the invaders soon appropriated the design for not only land but also sea. A true "swinging sea-bed" is wonderfully described by Admiral Smyth in The Sailor's Word Book:

... the hammock consists of a piece of canvas, 6 feet long and 4 feet wide, gathered together at the two ends by means of clews, formed by a grommet and knittles, whence the head-clue and foot-clue: the hammock is hung horizontally under the deck, and forms a receptacle for the bed on which the seamen sleep. There are usually allowed from 14 to 20 inches between hammock and hammock on a ship of war. In preparing for action, the hammocks, together with their contents, are all firmly corded, taken upon deck, and fixed in various nettings, so as to form a barricade against musket-balls.

The hammock, the need to both hang and stow it in particular, gives rise to other utilitarian items. Hammacoe, hammock battens and hammock racks are all one and the same: cleats nailed to the sides of a ship's beams which are used to suspend the hammocks. Hammock gant-lines are those strung from the jib around the ship to support the drying of cleaned hammocks. Hammock nettings hold the hammocks in place when they are stowed on deck. These are then wrapped in hammock cloths to prevent the bedding from getting wet. Hammock berthing is the order and placement of hammocks according to rank aboard naval vessels.

Other words involving ham are less familiar, perhaps. Hambro lines are small lashings used around a ship. I think we all know about hammers, hammer-head sharks - "chiefly found on the coasts of Barbary" according to the Admiral - and the hammer-lock of a gun or pistol, so I won't trouble you explaining the obvious. Hammering, however, may refer to a heavy cannonade at close range.

Hamron is a very old word meaning the hold of a ship.

Hamper is anything in the way aboard ship, particularly during dirty weather or an engagement. A man is said to be hampered if he is anxious or confused. And at times, perhaps drunk.

And that is enough ham for one evening. Although all things being equal, a nice ham on the table is perhaps the most welcome thing of all.

Header: Supper at Home by Thomas Rowlandson via Wikimedia

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Up

With the season upon us, and a New Year up for grabs, it seems there is no place to go but up. Or so we would like to think. Up is quite the popular word at sea, so let us take a look at it today.

"Up-and-down!" This is a call that would have been familiar on just about any ship of the Golden Age of Sail. They would all have some type of anchor or at least a kedge, after all. Up-and-down indicates the position of the cable when the ship, by the force of drawing in her anchor via a capstan or other like method, is situated directly over that anchor. This is the step before the anchor comes clean of the water and, once that is accomplished, the call of "Clean and dry for weighing!" might be heard.

Up and down can also refer to tackle. In this case it speaks to any combinations of same that will pull sails, anchors or payloads up or down.

Topgallant masts, topmasts and royal masts were sometimes referred to as upper masts. As Admiral Smyth notes, "any spars above these are termed poles." Upper works are the parts of a ship that stand above the water as she goes. The upper counter, or counter, lies between the transom and the railing, and the upper deck is, of course, the highest continuous deck on a ship.

The so called upper transit is spoken of in navigation. From The Sailor's Word Book:

The passage of a circumpolar star over the meridian above the pole...

Up is often part of an order, as one might reasonably imagine. Here is a by no means complete list of what you might hear in such regard aboard any ship from pirate schooner to 74 gun man-of-war:

Up anchor! To weigh the anchor; as Admiral Smyth notes, "every man to his station."

Up boats! Hoist the ship's boats to their davits, most probably in preparation for getting under weigh.

Up courses! Haul up the sails hanging on the lower yards: mainsail, foresail, mizzen et cetera.

Up her helm! Put the bow of the ship to windward. Also sometimes spoken as "Put her a-weather!" In such case it should be remembered that the rudder will need to answer to leeward to accomplish this maneuver.

I hope your mood is up, as is my tankard to honor all the Brethren. Huzzah!

Header: Two Ships at Anchor by Andries van Eertvelt via Under the Black Flag on Facebook