A Meditation on Servicing Winches

A Meditation on servicing Winches

Well hi there, shipmates. I’m not quite sure what a literary meditation should look like (or read like?) but here’s what I thought when I was servicing the starboard sheet winch. What’s a winch, I hear? It’s a big hunk of metal full of moving parts, large and small – an assembly of cogs, shafts and bearings, and tiny bits called er, I forget what they’re called but they are extremely important! Wait a minute, I’ll look it up – yeah, ‘pawls’. And what does it do? It is a modern day replacement for block and tackle. It’s shaped like an old-fashioned cotton reel, with flanges top and bottom. You wrap a rope around it 3 times, clockwise, put a pull on it so there’s some tension, pop a handle thingy in the hope at the top and wind away. As if by magic, sails are lifted, jibs sheeted. Ours even go at 2 speeds (different amounts of mechanical advantage, like bike gears). And once a year they need servicing.

When we bought Snork Maiden I was so terrified of the job that I didn’t do it all the first year. The second year I convinced myself of the necessity, photocopied the relevant bit of Nigel Calder’s Boatowner’s Practical & Technical Cruising Manual (sic), put it in a plastic ring binder and got to it. It’s actually one of the most enjoyable jobs on the boat. The parts are beautifully engineered in bronze and stainless steel, and they appear remarkably simple. But the really amazing thing is that the really chunky, heavy-duty parts are held together and operated by tiny things. The clip that secures the whole thing only weighs a couple of grammes, and the pawls are held in by hair-like springs that a small butterfly could lift.

All the bits have to be cleaned in lamp oil to clean off the old grease – I use an old toothbrush. There’s something very satisfying about this. Then re-assemble with brand new winch grease, applied delicately with bare hands (I wear gloves for the lamp oil bit) to the cogs and bearings. Now comes the tricky bit, putting back the pawls in the right orientation and without the tiny springs leaping overboard. Now I am on my 5^th season of winch maintenance, this bit goes a lot faster than it used to, and I haven’t lost one overboard for a quite a while.

The whole thing takes me an hour for the first one and probably about 10 minutes for the 4^th! The spinnaker winches are hardly ever used, so they only get the treatment every couple of years. I think this might be one of those years.

Well, this was written because a thunderstorm stopped play! It’s still very hot, but now humid as well. Totally tropical.

PS Recently discovered fact about winches: the standard winch derives from helicopter gearboxes a similarity spotted by a farsighted chap called Henry Shepherd in 1959.

A Meditation on Servicing Winches

A Meditation on servicing Winches

Well hi there, shipmates. I’m not quite sure what a literary meditation should look like (or read like?) but here’s what I thought when I was servicing the starboard sheet winch. What’s a winch, I hear? It’s a big hunk of metal full of moving parts, large and small – an assembly of cogs, shafts and bearings, and tiny bits called er, I forget what they’re called but they are extremely important! Wait a minute, I’ll look it up – yeah, ‘pawls’. And what does it do? It is a modern day replacement for block and tackle. It’s shaped like an old-fashioned cotton reel, with flanges top and bottom. You wrap a rope around it 3 times, clockwise, put a pull on it so there’s some tension, pop a handle thingy in the hope at the top and wind away. As if by magic, sails are lifted, jibs sheeted. Ours even go at 2 speeds (different amounts of mechanical advantage, like bike gears). And once a year they need servicing.

When we bought Snork Maiden I was so terrified of the job that I didn’t do it all the first year. The second year I convinced myself of the necessity, photocopied the relevant bit of Nigel Calder’s Boatowner’s Practical & Technical Cruising Manual (sic), put it in a plastic ring binder and got to it. It’s actually one of the most enjoyable jobs on the boat. The parts are beautifully engineered in bronze and stainless steel, and they appear remarkably simple. But the really amazing thing is that the really chunky, heavy-duty parts are held together and operated by tiny things. The clip that secures the whole thing only weighs a couple of grammes, and the pawls are held in by hair-like springs that a small butterfly could lift.

All the bits have to be cleaned in lamp oil to clean off the old grease – I use an old toothbrush. There’s something very satisfying about this. Then re-assemble with brand new winch grease, applied delicately with bare hands (I wear gloves for the lamp oil bit) to the cogs and bearings. Now comes the tricky bit, putting back the pawls in the right orientation and without the tiny springs leaping overboard. Now I am on my 5^th season of winch maintenance, this bit goes a lot faster than it used to, and I haven’t lost one overboard for a quite a while.

The whole thing takes me an hour for the first one and probably about 10 minutes for the 4^th! The spinnaker winches are hardly ever used, so they only get the treatment every couple of years. I think this might be one of those years.

Well, this was written because a thunderstorm stopped play! It’s still very hot, but now humid as well. Totally tropical.

PS Recently discovered fact about winches: the standard winch derives from helicopter gearboxes a similarity spotted by a farsighted chap called Henry Shepherd in 1959.

Calling all Friends & 'Friends'

PS
I usually email all of you friends (and ‘friends’) to let you know that the blog’s about. My email has been so constipated this year that I haven’t done the email part, relying on FB to get the word out. But I know that a lot of my friends don’t use it or don’t visit much. So if you are reading this via FB please pass it on to the snail brigade that the blog is OUT THERE. (One of the chief reasons for doing this is to keep in touch, so please do!) In case I don’t get to post another blog until I get back, I am leaving Marans tomorrow for a complicated trip home, hopefully arriving back in Bristol Tuesday 6 July… even more hopefully, we’d like to be back out here in August, a period we usually try to avoid, but, hey, it’s summer and everybody can enjoy it.

Calling all Friends & 'Friends'

PS
I usually email all of you friends (and ‘friends’) to let you know that the blog’s about. My email has been so constipated this year that I haven’t done the email part, relying on FB to get the word out. But I know that a lot of my friends don’t use it or don’t visit much. So if you are reading this via FB please pass it on to the snail brigade that the blog is OUT THERE. (One of the chief reasons for doing this is to keep in touch, so please do!) In case I don’t get to post another blog until I get back, I am leaving Marans tomorrow for a complicated trip home, hopefully arriving back in Bristol Tuesday 6 July… even more hopefully, we’d like to be back out here in August, a period we usually try to avoid, but, hey, it’s summer and everybody can enjoy it.

The Snaky Sevre

The Snaky Sevre
June 20 2010
The transition from sea to land is a real transformation – like something out of Alice Through the Looking Glass, especially the first time you make the trip. From the air, it’s clear why you choose a rising tide. You see clearly a bay of very shallow water with a channel carved through it, becoming a river with sneaky, snaky bends (check it out on Google Earth). At first it’s no different from being on the sea, but you do have to keep an accurate course to stay in the channel, since at this point, it’s invisible from boat-level. Once then next safe-water mark appears, things get easier and it becomes more like a wide lake, and there’s a smell of land joining in with the sea tang. Of course the wide lake is deceptive, since outside the channel, you could probably wade. (Snork Maiden draws 1.52 metres = 5 english feet, that means she touches bottom in any less.) The channel proper, begins, and from then on you hop from one marker buoy to the next – red on the left, green on the right. Today the Buoys are leaning away from the wind, straining at their mooring chains. Most of them look new – the old ones were carried away by the huge winter storm that swept into this area of the coast, killing many people stranded in their single-storey houses. Many hundreds of boats were damaged and the La Rochelle marinas are almost entirely closed to visitors this year. Anyway, back in the channel, we are starting to pass oyster boats – it’s Sunday and no-one is working. There seem to be fewer boats than there were last year, and as we get further into the river, we pass a few wrecks thrown onto the land by the waves and apparently abandoned. Now the land dominates, with reeds and then fields stretching away, pylons marching across the flat landscape of the Vendee. We are river creatures now, and we encounter moorhens, herons, egrets, ducks and some sort of fish-eagle thingy. There are fish too, jumping as we pass. There’s a whiff of farm animal as we get close to the lock and bridge that will let us into the final stretch of canal. Our timing is spectacular, and we don’t have to pick up a buoy – difficult since most of them have broken rings, making them almost impossible to capture. I guess the repeated attempts help to pass the time if you’re not early enough, or lucky enough, to get one that works! First the bridge swings open then you approach the lock, which has a wide basin and a pontoon on one side, so several boats go through at once, all tied to each other in a raft. We hang about until the boat ahead of us is settled, and make a very nice, smooth entry. Al chats with our neighbours. We have met this chap twice before in the same place – more than coincidence, surely (another spirit guide?). His boomy voice drowns out my feeble attempt at answering any questions from the wild-haired skipper of the next boat over. Boomy-voice has a 5-year plan to go to Senegal. He’s a retired farmer, has bought himself a 10 thousand euro boat, and taught himself to sail. He’s already been down there for 3 weeks by air for a fishing recce.
Through the lock, we head straight down the canal for Marans and the other 2 boat inexplicably head straight for the canal bank and wedge their bows in the reeds. Inexplicable until we realise it’s lunch time.
It takes only half an hour, maybe less, to motor down the tree-lined canal – more wildlife, more fields, and we find ourselves a space amongst the crowded moorings. We are fifth boat out, so no electricity for us tonight, and an obstacle course of safety lines, rigging, fenders, spinnaker poles and other weird stuff between us and the shore, where it’s a final scramble up the harbour wall. Later we go for a walk to the bus stop to check the times, and eat supper at the Thalassa Café. Their food’s not that great but its inexpensive and I like the name. There are a few town bad boys ranged around the bar, but otherwise its quiet. There’s still a cool wind, the remains of the Northerly blow, so we sit inside.
The next day we find the harbourmaster, M. Coindeau (followers of the blog know all about him) and after we all shake hands Al broaches the delicate subject of our projected abandonment of Snork Maiden for a period of weeks, thus taking up a valuable berth at the busiest time of year. Now here’s where this social democracy thing wins out over private enterprise. He has a good laugh and then tells us that it’s OK, he will find us somewhere. We chew over the pros and cons of the alternatives, and decide on a spot halfway between the market and the shower block, with no resident neighbours and on the outside of 2 boats that look like they are not going anywhere, although you can never really tell! I have another neighbour who makes an occasional appearances on his oddly named ‘P Pipotin’. He’s a cheerful bloke who likes to practice his English, saying things like “’Ow are you-oo” and, being assured I am fine, “I am ‘appy that you-oo are fine” to which I respond by saying that I am happy that he is happy, and we pretty much leave it at that.
Next: I shed my sailing trousers, accompany Al to the airport where we are disappointed with the new catering arrangements, and I head for the Film fleshpots of La Rochelle.

The Snaky Sevre

The Snaky Sevre
June 20 2010
The transition from sea to land is a real transformation – like something out of Alice Through the Looking Glass, especially the first time you make the trip. From the air, it’s clear why you choose a rising tide. You see clearly a bay of very shallow water with a channel carved through it, becoming a river with sneaky, snaky bends (check it out on Google Earth). At first it’s no different from being on the sea, but you do have to keep an accurate course to stay in the channel, since at this point, it’s invisible from boat-level. Once then next safe-water mark appears, things get easier and it becomes more like a wide lake, and there’s a smell of land joining in with the sea tang. Of course the wide lake is deceptive, since outside the channel, you could probably wade. (Snork Maiden draws 1.52 metres = 5 english feet, that means she touches bottom in any less.) The channel proper, begins, and from then on you hop from one marker buoy to the next – red on the left, green on the right. Today the Buoys are leaning away from the wind, straining at their mooring chains. Most of them look new – the old ones were carried away by the huge winter storm that swept into this area of the coast, killing many people stranded in their single-storey houses. Many hundreds of boats were damaged and the La Rochelle marinas are almost entirely closed to visitors this year. Anyway, back in the channel, we are starting to pass oyster boats – it’s Sunday and no-one is working. There seem to be fewer boats than there were last year, and as we get further into the river, we pass a few wrecks thrown onto the land by the waves and apparently abandoned. Now the land dominates, with reeds and then fields stretching away, pylons marching across the flat landscape of the Vendee. We are river creatures now, and we encounter moorhens, herons, egrets, ducks and some sort of fish-eagle thingy. There are fish too, jumping as we pass. There’s a whiff of farm animal as we get close to the lock and bridge that will let us into the final stretch of canal. Our timing is spectacular, and we don’t have to pick up a buoy – difficult since most of them have broken rings, making them almost impossible to capture. I guess the repeated attempts help to pass the time if you’re not early enough, or lucky enough, to get one that works! First the bridge swings open then you approach the lock, which has a wide basin and a pontoon on one side, so several boats go through at once, all tied to each other in a raft. We hang about until the boat ahead of us is settled, and make a very nice, smooth entry. Al chats with our neighbours. We have met this chap twice before in the same place – more than coincidence, surely (another spirit guide?). His boomy voice drowns out my feeble attempt at answering any questions from the wild-haired skipper of the next boat over. Boomy-voice has a 5-year plan to go to Senegal. He’s a retired farmer, has bought himself a 10 thousand euro boat, and taught himself to sail. He’s already been down there for 3 weeks by air for a fishing recce.
Through the lock, we head straight down the canal for Marans and the other 2 boat inexplicably head straight for the canal bank and wedge their bows in the reeds. Inexplicable until we realise it’s lunch time.
It takes only half an hour, maybe less, to motor down the tree-lined canal – more wildlife, more fields, and we find ourselves a space amongst the crowded moorings. We are fifth boat out, so no electricity for us tonight, and an obstacle course of safety lines, rigging, fenders, spinnaker poles and other weird stuff between us and the shore, where it’s a final scramble up the harbour wall. Later we go for a walk to the bus stop to check the times, and eat supper at the Thalassa Café. Their food’s not that great but its inexpensive and I like the name. There are a few town bad boys ranged around the bar, but otherwise its quiet. There’s still a cool wind, the remains of the Northerly blow, so we sit inside.
The next day we find the harbourmaster, M. Coindeau (followers of the blog know all about him) and after we all shake hands Al broaches the delicate subject of our projected abandonment of Snork Maiden for a period of weeks, thus taking up a valuable berth at the busiest time of year. Now here’s where this social democracy thing wins out over private enterprise. He has a good laugh and then tells us that it’s OK, he will find us somewhere. We chew over the pros and cons of the alternatives, and decide on a spot halfway between the market and the shower block, with no resident neighbours and on the outside of 2 boats that look like they are not going anywhere, although you can never really tell! I have another neighbour who makes an occasional appearances on his oddly named ‘P Pipotin’. He’s a cheerful bloke who likes to practice his English, saying things like “’Ow are you-oo” and, being assured I am fine, “I am ‘appy that you-oo are fine” to which I respond by saying that I am happy that he is happy, and we pretty much leave it at that.
Next: I shed my sailing trousers, accompany Al to the airport where we are disappointed with the new catering arrangements, and I head for the Film fleshpots of La Rochelle.

Groix to St Martin

Getting here

Well, this has been a really odd trip in that it felt as though it was over before it began and the middle bit is like one of those dreams that you would really like to fall back into. After a really prompt launch, the time in PLF expanded to fill the weather – cold and often wet. Then we got started. Then Al got THE CALL – an offer he couldn’t refuse, so we put ourselves in serious delivery mode (5 knots under sail or else the engine goes on) and left Groix as soon as the wind dropped away from the enthusiastic F5-7 it had been blowing for the last 3 days. Not an early start since our destination (Belle Ile) could only be entered a couple of hours before high water.
An uneventful but really enjoyable sail of just under 30 Miles (nautical ones, that is) with one reef in the main and the number 2 jib and steady NE 3-4s with a fairly flat sea ( I think it was what the French call ‘peu agitee’ (apologies for missing accents)). For landlubbers I can only say this is just about nearly as good as it gets. If I manage to get the visual aid up, you’ll see that our course was SE.
We arrived at the offing (a nautical term; get used to it) of Le Palais at around 1930. It is a picture-poscard town – at a distance – nestling under the angular wings of a Vaubon Fort. The outer harbour is bumpy in Northerlies and there’s also a cunning arrangement of buoys that mean you have to pick up fore and aft. We haven’t yet worked out how to do this, so thought we’d go for a quiet night in the inner harbour – protected by a gate and swing bridge. We turned up in the outer harbour at the appointed hour, only to be met by a rough looking harbour irk in a rib (Rigid Inflatable Boat) clutching a hand-held VHF radio and telling us to come back in 15 minutes. An hour of bashing about, burning diesel, alternately playing dodgems and musical chairs with other boats, and we were in. (A couple of coasters were in the way, hence the wait. Working boats come first.) The same faintly unpleasant bloke directed us to a parking space (yes, a berth) just about as long as us, necessitating a bit of jiggling around with lines to get us neatly in (we used to just crash about a bit and hope for the best, but we’re a lot better behaved these days). Only slight embarrassment: Me to woman on pontoon ‘ You can let that line go now, it’s not ours’. She: ‘No, it’s ours’. (I didn’t ask why she was holding on to it as if her life depended on it …)
There is an odd feeling about Le Palais – the harbour staff are kind of casual to the point of being rude, and the whole quay has a kind of rough feeling – and not in a good way. This feeling seriously came home that night when around midnight lots of alcohol started getting its wind up and having a good shout, scream, hysterical laugh and more shouting whilst apparently falling over empty oil drums. This went on until around 4, in waves as successive clubs & dives chucked out. I am usually quite calm about party noise but this time I couldn’t have murdered the vessels of drink personally, but I think I could have gone along with it. (Is this middle age sweeping by like a buoy in a channel?)
Maybe the bad feelings around Belle Ile are to do with its popularity as a holiday home island with Parisiennes, who have probably been scooping up the best houses for decades, employing the locals as builders and caretakers, leaving them dispossessed, and generally out of sorts - a bit like Cornwall.
Next day brought a welcome escape from the torturers of the night and a motor-sail to Yeu, 50 Miles away. I’m afraid we could only make 3-4 Knots without the motor, and we’d already decided that we needed to get Al into La Rochelle for a flight on Tuesday, giving us Monday to sort things out with the harbourmaster there, persuading him to find a safe place to leave Snork Maiden.
Yeu brought a fresh disaster. Getting in was OK (remember last time?) apart from my kicking the gear leaver inadvertently forward after a very slick manoeuvre alongside another boat. Lot’s of shouts of ‘en arriere’ quickly fixed that. That wasn’t the disaster. The disaster happened in a pizza place (no time or inclination to cook, already past 2100 and we have a long day tomorrow). As some of you know, we have a cute little waterproof, shockproof camera (the Olympus Mu, Tough version). Unfortunately it’s not idiot-proof, and in a rush of enthusiasm I deleted all of Al’s favourite pictures, taken on Yeu. What could I say – it was a time for abject boot-licking apology. Al is amazing, he really doesn’t carry a grudge – but I know he grieves for the pictures. He says he went through them all, and so he at least had a bit more of a mind imprint of what we had seen. I did save the movies. (Actually, that was sort of the problem; and it’s not really true about the grudge – he does have it in for my poor old 6 year old Powerbook, creaking away with Mac 10.3. If iTunes hadn’t been so slow this would never have happened.)
Next: we sail from Yeu to St Martin and have a very bumpy night.