This was suggested by an early reader when I was in the nearly-done-with-the-book writing phase. I sat down, put my fingers on the keyboard, and what follows just seemed to pour out. While the terms are as correct as I can make them, I couldn’t keep the humor out, because, if you don’t have a sense of humor, how can you live in a few feet of wet space and remember all the nautical terms of your boat? The anecdote at the end was my introduction to sailing and the failing of a sailing term. I hope you enjoy.
Glossary of Sailing Terms
…as I apply them to the Fandango.
The Physical Plant
(or living and working space)
Cockpit: The area from which the boat is steered. It is also the main outdoor living space that allows four people to occupy the space (but not necessarily comfortably). There are hard seats on each side, built more to cover the lockers beneath than to be comfortable seating. To access the lockers, the passenger stands up, turns around in one foot of space, and lifts the locker cover. Many things are stored in the cavernous lockers, including hoses, tool chests, ropes (which are never called ropes), and fenders–rubber bumpers used to cushion the boat when it’s tied to a dock. These lockers also provide access to things that need to be fixed. The Fixer has to throw everything from the locker into the footwell, and then lower himself into the locker. The space is too tight to bring tools, so someone has to hand them to the Fixer, one at a time. Care has to be taken to hold the hinged locker cover open, if someone is in the locker, so that if the boat rocks, the cover doesn’t snap closed, leaving the handyman in total darkness. I have never been in the locker.
Coaming: Vertical surface that prevents water from coming into the boat. It nicely doubles as the backrest when you sit in the cockpit.
Footwell: When you sit in the cockpit, your feet are down in the footwell. Many other things besides feet find their way into the footwell: sunscreen, sunglasses, hats, extra rope (that is called many things, but never called rope) seaweed, winch handles, ocean water, soggy sandwiches, empty Spam cans….you get the idea.
Cabin: Also called the house, it applies to the living space, some of which is below the deck. You descend five stairs to go “below.” To have enough head room, this space extends above deck level. The cabin has a galley (kitchen) consisting of a so-called stove, an ice box that only works if there is ice in it, and a dinette which has a u-shaped seating area around a table that can be lowered and made into additional sleeping space. This multipurpose space, also used for lounging, is sometimes called the saloon, which constantly sparks a controversy about how to pronounce it and whether or not it should be spelled salon–and pronounced that way, too. People who try to bring a little elegance to boating would like it to be salon. Dorin called it the saloon. I called it the cabin. In any case, this space, meant for cooking, eating, and relaxing, also has a one-person bunk across from the dinette. We referred to it as the Captain’s bunk because it’s the sleeping space closest to the cockpit where the captain needs to be when all hell breaks loose. Included in the cabin is a head (toilet) and sink, as well as the fo’c’sle (forecastle), which is the master bedroom. The “bedroom,” which is not a room, but a space, is a mattress about three-and-a-half feet wide at its widest that narrows to a point where the feet could go, if the mattress were longer and wider. The walls are lined with lockers for clothing and other perceived necessities. The mattress fills the space from locker to locker. The cabin ends before fo’c’sle space, so occupants’ legs actually fit (more or less) into space that is under the deck.
When you are anywhere in the cabin, you realize it’s important to have windows. As in a basement apartment, the view isn’t great because you are practically at sea level. You might see crew members’ feet as they walk along the deck, but even then, not well, as the windows are often covered in dried on saltwater. Importantly, though, light filters in.
Portholes/port lights: What windows are called. In movies filmed on board large ships, they are always round and called portholes, and sometimes evidence of a crime is dropped out of a porthole. Dorin always called them port lights and, eventually, so did I. We exchanged our original enormous rectangular port lights for smaller ones so that, if we were hit with a big wave, our lights wouldn’t be punched out. While I’ve never heard anyone else call them port lights, I refer to them as such to this day. For purist sailors, and you know who you are, who are bothered by this, you are invited by me to just get over it.
Hatch: An opening to exit the cabin. The Fandango has two: a small square one over the fo’c’sle, which is covered by a hinged, lockable lid. By standing on the bed, we can boost ourselves up and out. The other one, called the companionway, opens to the cockpit from the galley. This is a lot fancier and more functional than the front hatch. There are five steps, that also double as a cover for the motor, leading to the cockpit. There is also a sliding overhead cover, that has to be pushed forward out of the way, to allow exit and entrance. The companionway opening is the favorite spot for passengers at the top of the stairs because they can be supported on three sides when they stand in the opening. When you want to lock up the boat or close out bad weather when you are below, there are companionway boards, five of them, that fit into tracks that close off the opening. When the boards are in and the companionway hatch cover is slid into its closed position, the cabin is pretty snug and almost watertight.
Deck: The deck on a sailboat is definitely not for promenading. It’s the narrow walking space, about 18 inches wide, on the outer sides of the boat, so you can move from the cockpit to the bow (the forward most part of the boat). There is additional and slightly larger deck space at the front of the boat, mostly used by us to wrestle an uncooperative sail into place.
Toe Rails: These are part of the deck, in that they are attached to and run the length of the boat on the outside edges of the deck, and are there to keep feet from slipping off the sides of the boat. Often they are two inches high, but on the Fandango, they are four inches. This provides extra security and has the added feature of funneling any water that lands on the foredeck back to the cockpit, over the coamings, onto the seats and into the foot well. Right where you want it.
Lifelines: These are rope “railings” attached to stainless steel stanchions, attached to the deck and toe rails. It’s a double row of lines and gives the boater something to hang on to when all hell is breaking loose. They are also used to attach the tether of the boaters’ safety harnesses, when they move along the deck. This has the added feature of allowing the man overboard to dangle over the side until someone can figure out a way to pull him in.
Standing (Rigid) Rigging
Without it you just have a floating house.
Mast or Spar: Probably the most noticeable feature of a sailboat, the mast is the tall metal or wood spire attached (stepped) to the top of the cabin. The mainsail is attached to it by means of plastic tabs on the back edge of the sail that slide into a metal slot that goes to the top.
Boom: The metal or wood spar attached to the mast, near the bottom, that controls the bottom of the mainsail; along with the mast, the boom completes two sides of the recognizable triangle shaped sail. The bottom of the sail is attached to the boom in the same manner as it is to the mast. The boom can move from side to side (the pivot point is where it attaches to the mast), which allows the sail to be in a finite number of positions (finite, but in the hundreds) from extreme right to extreme left, relative to the boat and mast. This enables the boat to move forward no matter where the wind is coming from, simply by changing the position of the sail by moving the boom. The boom is controlled from the cockpit.
Headstay or forestay: The cable that runs from the bow to the top of the mast to support the mast.
Backstay: Likewise, the cable that runs from the stern to the top of the mast to support it.
Shrouds and Spreaders: If you think about it, the headstay and backstay (known collectively as the stays) could not, by themselves, support the mast. The mast needs support cables on each side. These cables are not called side stays, as you might think, but are called shrouds. I don’t know why, even after exhaustive research with my close friend Google. Located midway on each side of the boat, the shrouds are fastened at the outside at deck level. On the Fandango, there are three on each side. The middle one goes all the way to the top of the mast, first attaching at the ends of the spreaders and then up to the top of the mast. To understand spreaders, think of your body as a mast. If you lift your arms straight out to your sides at shoulder level, those are the spreaders. The shrouds are attached to the ends of the spreaders (your fingertips) and then go on up to the top of the mast.
The other two shrouds are attached to the mast at the point where the spreaders are attached (your armpits).
The interesting thing about the shrouds is that in calm weather or in port both Dorin and Cory would lounge against them, like leaning against a wall. I never got the hang of it.
Running Rigging
Soft rigging (like rope) that controls the sails.
Mainsheet: This “rope” (rope is in quotes because we never call any line on a boat a rope) attaches to the end of the boom and controls the boom from side to side, so you can adjust the angle of the sail. (It was hard for me to get used to calling something a sheet, when a sheet is something that goes on a bed.) The mainsheet runs through a series of pulleys (called blocks, never pulleys) at the back of the boom and then is secured by a cam cleat. When there is a lot (yards) of sheet left because the sail is pulled in close, it can drop loosely into the footwell, where it provides an interesting texture to stand on while at the helm. This can give you an extra muscle-building challenge for the feet and calves.
Jib sheet: The jib, a sail at the front of the boat, also needs side to side control, so it has two sheets, both attached to the bottom corner of the sail; one sheet runs back to the cockpit on the port side and the other on the starboard side. This allows a crew member to control the jib from the cockpit.
Halyard: Any “rope” that hoists any sail vertically. There is one for each sail, as in main halyard and jib halyard. The halyard runs to the top of the mast, through a block (pulley) and back down again. With the help of a winch, a crew member can raise and lower the sails. The halyard is very long–actually more than twice the height of the mast. This is so when the sail is fully down and lying on the boom like last week’s laundry, the halyard can reach to the top of the mast, through the block, and back down to the top of the cabin, where it’s wound around a cleat near the winch in a shipshape, figure eight pattern. However, when the sail is up, there is a lot of leftover halyard that, after the figure eight, has to be secured neatly, somehow. I never got the hang of that and just looped it awkwardly over the winch.
The jib has its own halyard that goes to the top of the mast and then down. It is controlled at the mast just like the main halyard.
Cam cleat: Not running rigging, but related, this is the darling of boaters, who claim it is easy and quick to use and efficiently locks a halyard or sheet in place. Manufacturers say the same thing. I see it as a vicious item, something akin to Chinese handcuffs. Once you pull the line through the middle of the opposing saw-toothed round grips, the tension just gets tighter as pressure is put on the sail by the wind. Many a time, it’s been my job to release the main sheet, and it takes both hands and all my strength, boosted by adrenalin, to release it. After five or six tries.
Moving Parts to Move the Boat Forward
Helm: It is either a wheel or tiller, like the steering wheel in your car: some boats have wheels, wood or stainless steel, and look like what you see in movies—especially larger boats. By a series of pulleys (I think they are called pulleys, not blocks, in this case, but I can’t say for certain, and no one I asked knew for sure) and wire rope, the wheel is attached to the rudder for steering purposes. Other boats (usually smaller boats) have a tiller, a long wood “handle” that is attached directly to the head of the rudder to steer the boat. The Fandango began life with a wheel, but, because the pedestal that the wheel was attached to took up a lot of room in the cockpit/footwell area, we changed to a tiller for the trip. This allowed us to tip the tiller arm up out of the way when the boat was being steered by the autopilot, giving us the entire 3-foot by 18-inch footwell to use for feet, sheets, sun screen, flip flops, etc.
Rudder: A paddle-like appendage attached to the back of the boat that follows the curve of the hull and is mostly under the water. Controlled by the helm, it pivots from side to side enabling the helms(wo)man to steer the boat. When the boat is moving and the rudder is straight back, the water rushes around it equally on both sides, allowing the boat to move straight ahead. When the rudder is turned to one side, there is more water pressure on one side and less on the other, which pivots the boat to one side or the other.
Autopilot: A marvelous invention that makes offshore boating feasible. It’s an electric ram that attaches to the tiller and will hold a course by moving the tiller, as needed, to maintain a navigation heading by setting the autopilot compass. Of course you have to adjust the sails to adjust for the direction from which the wind is coming. When you are out to sea and don’t need to watch out for other boats every minute, as you do near the coast and in a harbor, the autopilot allows the boater to do other necessary things. Like use the head.
Head: The toilet.
Where are we going, and how are we going to get there?
Points of Sail: Basically, these are how the sails are set, relative to the boat and the wind, compounded in complexity by where you want to go. It’s very technical and is usually learned when someone draws it for you on a cocktail napkin. That’s how I learned, but it took a few cocktails and a lot of napkins. You don’t really need to know this in order to understand the trip the Fandango took, and I don’t have a cocktail napkin on which to draw diagrams. Nevertheless, I’ll break it down in terms I can understand.
Beat: The most uncomfortable point of sail, according to me, is caused by wanting or needing to go in a direction where the wind is not favorable to you. To illustrate, picture the face of a clock. The boat is in the middle, and you want to go toward 12 o’clock. But, as the sailing gods would have it, the wind is coming directly from 12 o’clock and into your face. It’s not going to work. However, if you sail toward two o’clock, and you keep your sails in tight to the boat, the wind will slip around the sails and create a lift that will pull you forward—a little like the air that slips around the wing of a plane. Incidentally, beneath the surface, water against the shape of the hull creates additional lift that pulls the boat in the direction you are heading.
Of course, if you keep sailing toward two o’clock, you will never get to the seafood restaurant on the other side of the bay. So, after a while, you turn toward ten o’clock and sail for approximately the same amount of time you sailed toward two. And repeat. By zigzagging back and forth from a port beat to a starboard beat, you eventually reach your goal. The problem with beating, however, is when the sails are pulled in tight, the boat tips exceedingly, making it uncomfortable to walk, cook, or use the head. Also, when it’s time to “change tack,” meaning to switch from one heading to the other, you “come about,” which is more than just turning the wheel or moving the tiller. The sails all have to come to the other side of the boat. Sheets that have been held in place by winches have to be released, the boom has to slide from one side to the other, and the opposite sheets have to be quickly pulled tight to the other side of the boat with the winch. Care should be taken that the swinging boom doesn’t dislodge a passenger on the way by. Except for Dorin and a few other thrill seekers, no one likes a beat. Helmsmen who like to live on the edge, literally and figuratively–I say literally because the boat can tip to such an extreme that the outer edge runs close to or on the surface of the water—are addicted to racing any other boat in sight. These guys, they love a beat. But it’s tiring for both passengers and crew. We sailed on a beat for most of the trip.
Reach: A kinder, gentler point of sail that is probably the most comfortable and user friendly: in a reach, you can point your boat at twelve o’clock because the wind can be coming from nine or three. To take advantage of this situation, you let the sails swing out away from the boat on one side, and the wind still slips over them to create the lift that moves the boat forward. The beauty of this point of sail is that the boat hardly tips at all. Or not at all. I once mentioned to a boater we met from Australia that we had been on a beat for six months. She replied, “Oh, dear, how dreadful. We’ve sailed around the world for a year, and we’ve always been on a reach.”
I guess it’s all in the planning….
Run: A lot of boaters like this point of sail. The wind is coming from behind you, so the sails are out as far as they can go, and instead of the wind slipping over the sails, it hits them from behind and pushes the boat, as opposed to pulling it. It’s really pretty when you see this done by someone else. Usually wind-filled sails are let out away from the boat on both sides (sometimes this is called “wing and wing”), and it reminds you of an old clipper ship in full sail. While it is impressive and can make you feel quite grand as a passenger, I’m not so fond of this point of sail. While the boat doesn’t tip, it can be a little tricky to steer. You have to keep the wind directly behind you to keep the sails full, but it’s a balancing act: the mast is the pivot point, and if you get just a teensy-weensy bit off, the wind collapses out of the sail. Then, you bob around and apologize, while someone better than you gets the boat back on course. Sometimes it’s better to pick a new destination, so you can sail on a reach. I’m a reach fan.
Heave to: This could be my favorite “point of sail.” It’s not really a point of sail, except in the corners of my mind. When the wind and seas are so out of control you just want to pull over and get off, but you are two hundred miles from shore, there is a handy little way to get comfortable. Without getting too technical, the staysail (at the front of the boat) is back winded, and the mainsail is balanced, so the two sails cancel each other out. The wheel, or in our case the tiller, is lashed (tied) over as far as possible. You might still get big waves washing over the boat, but heeling is reduced to almost nothing, and the boat just mushes along, not moving toward your destination but, with the sails still up, becoming very stable. Ahhh, how wonderful is heaving to.
Reefing: Reefing can save your life. I am a big, big fan of reefing. When the wind is blowing hard enough that it puts so much pressure on the sails and tips the boat enough so, at the very least, it’s uncomfortable to use the head, or you think you are in immediate danger of tipping over, you can take down your sails for the time being and just motor along. OR, you can reef, reducing the size of the area of the sail. This means, with a series of lines and some expertise, you lower the sail a little, letting the excess sailcloth sag along the boom. The sail is then fastened and tightened in its shorter configuration. Larger sailboats have the ability to shorten the sail even more with second, third or fourth reefing points. With less sail, there is less strain on the boat, the crew, and particularly on the passengers, who are now regretting they ever accepted your invitation for a day sail. I’ve actually heard a passenger pray: “Dear Lord, if you get me safely back to shore, I promise I will never get on a sailboat again.” One guest who survived a windy day sail with us, on returning, actually got down on his knees and kissed the dock. True story.
Bow and Stern: If you didn’t already know, you probably have picked up that the bow is the front of the boat, and stern is the back.
Port and Starboard: These terms, which mean left and right, have evolved over centuries. They are critically important so that the crew can follow directions. Left and right are relative to the boat, not the person, so that the First Mate doesn’t say to the Captain, “Your left or mine?” when they are facing each other. So, when facing the bow, left is port and right is starboard. To remember which is which, starboard comes from the fact that boats were steered by an oar on the right side because most people are right handed. To remember port, you can think that the ship has left port. Also, “left” and “port” have the same number of letters. One device that Dorin taught me is “star light, star bright, starboard is on the right.” And whatever is not starboard is port. It amused Dorin that I have right/left confusion in life, but on the boat, I never confuse port and starboard. Could be I remember these terms because one remembers things under circumstances of extreme terror.
I didn’t learn all of the terms in the very beginning. When I started sailing with Dorin, it was with 24 hours’ notice that I drove with him from Maine to Rhode Island to pick up the Fandango, which he had just purchased, so he could sail her back to Maine. I had never been on a sailboat.
The first morning, with a big grin on his face, he motored around other boats and toward the dock so we could fuel up.
I sat on what I would quickly learn was called the house. My eye caught activity in the boatyard, and I watched in fascination as a tanned, young woman, sitting in some kind of sling, was cranked up the mast to the point I eventually learned was where the spreaders were attached. She had a tool belt around her waist and proceeded to do a repair.
How I envied her confident expertise. Suddenly I didn’t want to appear as a lounging, know-nothing guest. Hoping I would pass as someone who was accustomed to boats—an old hand—an experienced sailor like the other women who were busy sanding and painting, I struck a casual, nonchalant pose.
Then Dorin yelled to me, “Could you grab the bow line?”
I stared at him in horror. What was a bow line?
I had to say it out loud. “What’s a bow line?”
“It’s that line—that, that rope….” I felt the burn of a blush as I jumped up and grabbed the rope and looked back for further instructions. Dorin steered the boat toward the dock and said, “Hand him the bow line.” A bronzed, good looking young guy grinned at us and waited on the dock near the gas pumps. “Toss it to me,” he said. I threw the coil of rope in his direction. It went two feet and then dropped into the water….
Let me tell you, the highly amused expression on his face lives with me to this day. So, on the ensuing trip home, I learned as many terms as I could, the first one being, “It’s a line, not a rope.”