Boats should look "right"

[jimi]

Boats should look \"right\"

No not a CR post!

Boats are things of beauty, beauty is in the eye of the beholder but most yachts look attractive under sail. However one that to my eyes is not, but looks really strange is the new Hunter 310(?). The mainsail looks all wrong ..a bit like a pond yacht gone wrong ..

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[Magic_Sailor]

What\'s a CR post? nm

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<hr width=100% size=1><A target="_blank" HREF=http://hometown.aol.co.uk/geoffwestgarth/myhomepage/travelwriting.html>Click for website!</A>

 

[jimi]

Re: What\'s a CR post? nm

Collisision Reg ... reference to right also sometimes meaning starboard and a boat crossing from your starboard side has right of way.

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[burgundyben]

Re: Boats should look \"right\"

Absolutely, there is never a need for an ugly boat, yet there are many of them, fishing boats look manly and purposeful, racing yachts look fast and sleek, stinkpotts look fast and dashing, so why are there so many ugly boats? Like Moody Halbader (sp?) or Fisher 33 ketch? or Westerly Falcon (shudder)?



<hr width=100% size=1>Sod the Healey - I think I'll buy an E-Type.

 

[BarryH]

Re: Boats should look \"right\"

Jimi! You've been watching too many reruns of Howards Way.

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[vyv_cox]

Re: Boats should look \"right\"

I fully agree. Boat ownership is for pleasure, and part of that pleasure is the sense of being aboard something that looks nice. Sailing last weekend on the Haringvliet, amongst hundreds of others, some boats appeared breathtakingly beautiful, others hurt the eyes to behold. I often wonder about owners who signed their cheque books for the downright ugly craft that they own.

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[Mirelle]

What, not like fried eggs, you mean?

Oops, I have better keep out of this one!

I am told, by everyone, that our boat is quite exceptionally beautiful. I cannot claim any credit for this apart from paint and varnish; I did not design or build her!

Sadly, when you are aboard her, you don't get the benefit of the picture that you are creating for other people - although the previous owner did remark that Kodak ought to pay commission on the rolls of film used up on her - and that was 20 years ago!

I think this is a factor - people don't buy a boat with an eye to what she looks like because, when aboard, you don't see her.

Maybe marinas have encouraged this - when a boat is on a swinging mooring, her owner always, always, turns round in the dinghy, launch, water taxi, whatever and has a long last lingering stare as he goes ashore - there's a very early YM picture from about 1906 called "The last look at her" - but when you step onto a pontoon you cannot see the whole boat and the effect is lost, so maybe people don't bother so much?

Anyway, I think it is a shame that there are so many rather plain boats about, although there is clearly an element of what's in the eye of the beholder - I think the Moody Halberdier is not a bad looking boat, although Burgundyben, who has a Fairey powerboat (which I also think is a good looking boat) disagrees.

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[jimi]

The Wanderer _ John Masefield

Bit long but worth a read

The Wanderer

All day they loitered by the resting ships,
Telling their beauties over, taking stock;
At night the verdict left my messmate's lips,
"The Wanderer is the finest ship in dock."

I had not seen her, but a friend, since drowned,
Drew her, with painted ports, low, lovely, lean,
Saying, "The Wanderer, clipper, outward bound,
The loveliest ship my eyes have ever seen--

"Perhaps to-morrow you will see her sail.
She sails at sunrise": but the morrow showed
No Wanderer setting forth for me to hail;
Far down the stream men pointed where she rode,

Rode the great trackway to the sea, dim, dim,
Already gone before the stars were gone.
I saw her at the sea-line's smoky rim
Grow swiftly vaguer as they towed her on.

Soon even her masts were hidden in the haze
Beyond the city; she was on her course
To trample billows for a hundred days;
That afternoon the northerner gathered force,

Blowing a small snow from a point of east.
"Oh, fair for her," we said, "to take her south."
And in our spirits, as the wind increased,
We saw her there, beyond the river mouth,

Setting her side-lights in the wildering dark,
To glint upon mad water, while the gale
Roared like a battle, snapping like a shark,
And drunken seamen struggled with the sail.

While with sick hearts her mates put out of mind
Their little children, left astern, ashore,
And the gale's gathering made the darkness' blind,
Water and air one intermingled roar.

Then we forgot her, for the fiddlers played,
Dancing and singing held our merry crew;
The old ship moaned a little as she swayed.
It blew all night, oh, bitter hard it blew!

So that at midnight I was called on deck
To keep an anchor-watch: I heard the sea
Roar past in white procession filled with wreck;
Intense bright stars burned frosty over me,

And the Greek brig beside us dipped and dipped,
White to the muzzle like a half-tide rock,
Drowned to the mainmast with the seas she shipped;
Her cable-swivels clanged at every shock.

And like a never-dying force, the wind
Roared till we shouted with it, roared until
Its vast virality of wrath was thinned,
Had beat its fury breathless and was still.

By dawn the gale had dwindled into flaw,
A glorious morning followed: with my friend
I climbed the fo'c's'le-head to see; we saw
The waters hurrying shoreward without end.

Haze blotted out the river's lowest reach;
Out of the gloom the steamers, passing by,
Called with their sirens, hooting their sea-speech;
Out of the dimness others made reply.

And as we watched, there came a rush of feet
Charging the fo'c's'le till the hatchway shook.
Men all about us thrust their way, or beat,
Crying, "Wanderer! Down the river! Look!"

I looked with them towards the dimness; there
Gleamed like a spirit striding out of night,
A full-rigged ship unutterably fair,
Her masts like trees in winter, frosty-bright.

Foam trembled at her bows like wisps of wool;
She trembled as she towed. I had not dreamed
That work of man could be so beautiful,
In its own presence and in what it seemed.

"So, she is putting back again," I said.
"How white with frost her yards are on the fore."
One of the men about me answer made,
"That is not frost, but all her sails are tore,

"Torn into tatters, youngster, in the gale;
Her best foul-weather suit gone." It was true,
Her masts were white with rags of tattered sail
Many as gannets when the fish are due.

Beauty in desolation was her pride,
Her crowned array a glory that had been;
She faltered tow'rds us like a swan that died,
But altogether ruined she was still a queen.

"Put back with all her sails gone," went the word;
Then, from her signals flying, rumor ran,
"The sea that stove her boats in killed her third;
She has been gutted and has lost a man."

So, as though stepping to a funeral march,
She passed defeated homewards whence she came,
Ragged with tattered canvas white as starch,
A wild bird that misfortune had made tame.

She was refitted soon: another took
The dead man's office; then the singers hove
Her capstan till the snapping hawsers shook;
Out, with a bubble at her bows, she drove.

Again they towed her seawards, and again
We, watching, praised her beauty, praised her trim,
Saw her fair house-flag flutter at the main,
And slowly saunter seawards, dwindling dim;

And wished her well, and wondered, as she died,
How, when her canvas had been sheeted home,
Her quivering length would sweep into her stride,
Making the greenness milky with her foam.

But when we rose next morning, we discerned
Her beauty once again a shattered thing;
Towing to dock the Wanderer returned,
A wounded sea-bird with a broken wing.

A spar was gone, her rigging's disarray
Told of a worse disaster than the last;
Like draggled hair dishevelled hung the stay,
Drooping and beating on the broken mast.

Half-mast upon her flagstaff hung her flag;
Word went among us how the broken spar
Had gored her captain like an angry stag,
And killed her mate a half-day from the bar.

She passed to dock along the top of flood.
An old man near me shook his head and swore:
"Like a bad woman, she has tasted blood--
There'll be no trusting in her any more."

We thought it truth, and when we saw her there
Lying in dock, beyond, across the stream,
We would forget that we had called her fair,
We thought her murderess and the past a dream.

And when she sailed again, we watched in awe,
Wondering what bloody act her beauty planned,
What evil lurked behind the thing we saw,
What strength there was that thus annulled man's hand,

How next its triumph would compel man's will
Into compliance with external fate,
How next the powers would use her to work ill
On suffering men; we had not long to wait.

For soon the outcry of derision rose,
"Here comes the Wanderer!" the expected cry.
Guessing the cause, our mockings joined with those
Yelled from the shipping as they towed her by.

She passed us close, her seamen paid no heed
To what was called: they stood, a sullen group,
Smoking and spitting, careless of her need,
Mocking the orders given from the poop.

Her mates and boys were working her; we stared.
What was the reason of this strange return,
This third annulling of the thing prepared?
No outward evil could our eyes discern.

Only like one who having formed a plan
Beyond the pitch of common minds, she sailed,
Mocked and deserted by the common man,
Made half divine to me for having failed.

We learned the reason soon: below the town
A stay had parted like a snapping reed,
"Warning," the men thought, "not to take her down."
They took the omen, they would not proceed.

Days passed before another crew would sign.
The Wanderer lay in dock alone, unmanned,
Feared as a thing possessed by powers malign,
Bound under curses not to leave the land.

But under passing Time fear passes too;
That terror passed, the sailors' hearts grew bold.
We learned in time that she had found a crew
And was bound out southwards as of old.

And in contempt we thought, "A little while
Will bring her back again, dismantled, spoiled.
It is herself; she cannot change her style;
She has the habit now of being foiled."

So when a ship appeared among the haze,
We thought, "The Wanderer back again"; but no,
No Wanderer showed for many, many days,
Her passing lights made other waters glow.

But we would oft think and talk of her,
Tell newer hands her story, wondering, then,
Upon what ocean she was Wanderer,
Bound to the cities built by foreign men.

And one by one our little conclave thinned,
Passed into ships and sailed and so away,
To drown in some great roaring of the wind,
Wanderers themselves, unhappy fortune's prey.

And Time went by me making memory dim,
Yet still I wondered if the Wanderer fared
Still pointing to the unreached ocean's rim,
Brightening the water where her breast was bared.

And much in ports abroad I eyed the ships,
Hoping to see her well-remembered form
Come with a curl of bubbles at her lips
Bright to her berth, the sovereign of the storm.

I never did, and many years went by,
Then, near a Southern port, one Christmas Eve,
I watched a gale go roaring through the sky,
Making the cauldrons of clouds upheave.

Then the wrack tattered and the stars appeared,
Millions of stars that seemed to speak in fire;
A byre cock cried aloud that morning neared,
The swinging wind-vane flashed upon the spire.

And soon men looked upon a glittering earth,
Intensely sparkling like a world new-born;
Only to look was spiritual birth,
So bright the raindrops ran along the thorn

So bright they were, that one could almost pass
Beyond their twinkling to the source, and know
The glory pushing in the blade of grass,
That hidden soul which makes the flowers grow.

That soul was there apparent, not revealed,
Unearthly meanings covered every tree,
That wet grass grew in an immortal field,
Those waters fed some never-wrinkled sea.

The scarlet berries in the hedge stood out
Like revelations but the tongue unknown;
Even in the brooks a joy was quick: the trout
Rushed in a dumbness dumb to me alone.

All of the valley was loud with brooks;
I walked the morning, breasting up the fells,
Taking again lost childhood from the rooks,
Whose cawing came above the Christmas bells.

I had not walked that glittering world before,
But up the hill a prompting came to me,
"This line of upland runs along the shore:
Beyond the hedgerow I shall see the sea."

And on the instant from beyond away
The long familiar sound, a ship's bell, broke
The hush below me in the unseen bay.
Old memories came, that inner prompting spoke.

And bright above the hedge a seagull's wings
Flashed and were steady upon empty air.
"A Power unseen," I cried, "prepares these things;
Those are her bells, the Wanderer is there."

So, hurrying to the hedge and looking down,
I saw a mighty bay's wind-crinkled blue
Ruffling the image of a tranquill town,
With lapsing waters glimmering as they grew.

And near me in the road the shipping swung,
So stately and so still in such a great peace
That like to drooping crests their colors hung,
Only their shadows trembled without cease.

I did but glance upon these anchored ships.
Even as my thought had told, I saw her plain;
Tense, like a supple athlete with lean hips,
Swiftness at pause, the Wanderer come again--

Come as of old a queen, untouched by Time,
Resting the beauty that no seas could tire,
Sparkling, as though the midnight's rain were rime,
Like a man's thought transfigured into fire,

And as I looked, one of her men began
To sing some simple tune of Christmas day;
Among her crew the song spread, man to man,
Until the singing rang across the bay;

And soon in other anchored ships the men
Joined in the singing with clear throats, until
The farm-boy heard it up the windy glen,
Above the noise of sheep-bells on the hill.

Over the water came the lifted song--
Blind pieces in a mighty game we sing;
Life's battle is a conquest for the strong;
The meaning shows in the defeated thing.


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[romany123]

Re: The Wanderer _ John Masefield

Bit long.......Huge

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[Mirelle]

Lovely!

Huge, but worth it! Not a poem I would otherwise have read.

The good ship Mirelle is no killer, though; despite the big spars and weight of gear she's a nice, docile, family boat, good with children (we have a 1.5 year old) and animals (my sister's cat, and our friend Peter's Golden Retriever, Jake!)

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[Peppermint]

Re:Other peoples boats should look \"right\"

Mine is but a humble AWB and none the worse for that. For me the feel of the thing underway is the think and I'd happily sail, and probably did, the ugliest boat provided it moved well enough.

My last boat was a thing of beauty which brought great social advantages, people always wanted to talk about it, and great dis-advantages, you feel a terrible compunction to keep it looking great and to do the right thing all the time.

So thanks to all of you that provide me with a moveable scenery of lovely boats.

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[Jules]

Re: Boats should look \"right\"

First I try and help you with engine alignment and then you insult my boat!
What kind of man are you I ask?
Life rules:
Do not slag off a man's wife, dog, children or boat in public or to his face. No good can possibly come of it.
Beauty is in the eye etc......


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[Jules]

Re: Boats should look \"right\"

First I try and help you with engine alignment (no reply yet) and then you insult my boat!
What kind of man are you I ask?
Life rules:
Do not slag off a man's wife, mother, dog, children or boat in public or to his face. No good can possibly come of it.
Beauty is in the eye etc......
Perhaps its the upbringing.


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[jimi]

Re: Boats should look \"right\"

Oopz .. has you got a Hunter 310 then? The boom looks very high?

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[Jules]

Re: Boats should look \"right\"

Calming down now...........
Chose her for benefit of young family. Having the boom up high on an arch may not be esoterically pleasing but is v practical and a good handhold in a seaway. High roach main great in light winds, but no backstay feels a bit odd. She does well in club racing tho..
All boats are a compromise. Huntress (not my choice of name but too chicken to change it) suits us perfectly, and by the way looked after an experienced crew well on the delivery trip from Chichester to Strangford in early April.


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[Ohdrat]

Re: beauty is in the eye of the beholder

Now we could debate what is beauty, beauty is a standard but who's criteria are we to use.. the modernist or the classical?... /forums/images/icons/wink.gif

This is an age old debate and hence this thread could theoretically go be a record beater.. /forums/images/icons/laugh.gif

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[jimi]

Beauty ... Masefield again

wee bit shorter though

I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills
Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain:
I have seen the lady April bringing the daffodils,
Bringing the springing grass and the soft warm April rain.

I have heard the song of the blossoms and the old chant of the sea,
And seen strange lands from under the arched white sails of ships;
But the loveliest things of beauty God ever has showed to me
Are her voice, and her hair, and eyes, and the dear red curve of her lips

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[Vid]

Re: The Wanderer _ John Masefield

"to trample billows for a hundred days"

That encapsulates my dreams....


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[Aeolus_IV]

Re: What, not like fried eggs, you mean?

"people don't buy a boat with an eye to what she looks like "

I think I disagree with this - we are (almost) all vain to some extent, and as for most of us a boat isn't a working part of life but something we do for pleasure I'm sure most of us would choose a boat which we personally found pretty and elegant. It's just human nature that we each look for and see different aspects of beauty in any object. My wife saw a black painted Spray which she liked, but I couldn't stand - but this year we saw a blue and white cutter rigged Spray which looked pretty to me, albeit in a purposeful and functional way.

Ah, well - just 30 more pages to edit before lunch ... /forums/images/icons/frown.gif

Jeff.

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