Harboring Friendship in All the Trendy Ports of the World
Manners matter—at sea, ashore, and everywhere in between. International sailors soon get the measure of each other, whether in Tahiti, New Zealand, Phuket, or Madagascar.
And, yes, actions speak louder than words.
Recently, I was chatting with a fellow sea gypsy on a crowded dinghy dock in Seattle, Washington, USA when a yachtie in a fully-powered RIB (pushing a huge wake) zoomed up—and bullied (lots of throttle) his bow into the suddenly rocking-and-rolling dinghy dock. On one side of his center-cockpit Tee Top (which dwarfed the other craft) was a plywood pram made of thin plywood. This tiny wooden craft was severely contorted from the simultaneous crush and strain on its painter. On the other side was a kayak which took a gallon or two of water during the encounter. (Luckily, its double-bladed paddle wasn’t lost when it went overboard—its owner had wisely tethered it to the kayak.)
After electrically tilting his outboard up, the posh captain tied his dinghy tightly to the floating dock so he could get off easily—and thus reboard easily upon return. He placed his large painter atop the others on the small, pig-piled cleat.
Then he stood up, glanced at his Rolex, and strode up the ramp on his stylish leather boat shoes.
Throughout this, I imagined Carly Simon singing “You’re So Vain” as the soundtrack.
I, and the fellow I was talking with, weren’t impressed.
From the Rhinestone Captain’s confident strut, we surmised that he thought he thought he looked pretty-damn-cool. He had the largest, most powerful tender on the dock and had come from the most expensive boat in the harbor—but that’s not what we saw. What we saw was an inconsiderate lubber who didn’t know his butthole from his hawsehole.
He’d given the entire harbor a wake from speeding through it at ‘max push’ rather than slowly—or, at the very least—on an (illegal) plane.
His wake had violently smashed the dinghies into each other—some of which were delicate and a few of which were half-rotten (yet no less needed by their hardworking owners).
He could have elected to put out a stern anchor so his heavy dinghy didn’t damage the smaller, more delicate tenders into which he’d pushed. He did not.
By tying his dinghy tightly to the dock, he’d broken a cardinal rule of global dinghy dock etiquette—leave enough scope on your painter so that everyone can load and unload by coming alongside the dock, not only the most selfish, most oblivious boat owners.
He should have passed his painter under the other painters and around the over-crowded cleat—not merely added to the pile. This would not only make it easier for him to untie, it would give the liveaboard community more space and less confusion on the cleat—and guarantee that his painter would not be inadvertently cast off by a bleary-eyed drunk.
One should never swamp or over-torque another dinghy already at the dock.
Just because you have a powerful boat that can damage, say, an eight-foot rowing pram built out of Meranti door skin—doesn’t mean that you should.
And, while tilting your outboard engine up is always an option, boats with tilted outboards take up more space. Props and lower units can be razor sharp. If space between the dinghy dock and, say, a vessel’s slip is limited—don’t tilt up your engine and cut off access to the rest of the dinghy dock or, gosh forbid, force your fellow boaters to cut their hands while fending off to prevent having their inflatable tubes slit by a sharp prop.
All this, of course, is just the Golden Rule of Do unto Others as You’d have Them do unto You as applied by considerate sailors who know their seamanship versus an oblivious dirt-dweller who hadn’t a clue why he wasn’t invited to the free Friday night fish fry.
I could write an entire boat on Anchoring Etiquette. Not only have I lived aboard for over six decades, the vast majority of that time has been spent swinging to my own hooks.
First off—don’t anchor too close. What’s too close? Well, that’s a complicated technical question. but if any person already there thinks you’re too close, then you are, indeed, too close. Re-anchor (even a dozen times) until your neighbors are okay with what you’ve just done.
Don’t be like that fat German fellow on the rusty steel hard-chime that anchored in the middle of the Great Cruz Bay’s mooring field on St. John, then thumped his hull as he clambered into his dinghy while sneering “Good strong German steel!” while he headed for the nearest rum shop as his ill-maintained steel vessel immediately started damaging the moored yachts around it.
Anchored vessels swing differently than moored ones. Vessels with all chain rodes tend to swing less than vessels laying to Nylon rodes. Light racing boats and multihulls tend to hunt on their anchors far more than full keel, heavy-displacement vessels. (Hunting is sailing side to side on your anchor.)
All of these things need to be considered. Understanding our shared marine environment is at the core of seamanship.
Does your vessel hunt excessively? Then consider something as simple as flying a hatch wind scoop from your backstay—this can virtually eliminate the problem on some boats. (Since I have a ketch, I can use its mizzen to 1.) stop hunting, 2.) bias my vessel to one side or the other (say if I might swing into an underwater rock), 3.) always sail off my anchor on the preferred tack, or 4.) if I have strong crew aboard and need to back up through an anchorage while using my mizzen (and rudder) to keep me directly into the wind. (Incidentally, Freedom 40 Cat-ketches designed by Gary Hoyt could back through anchorages with perfect control—an odd sight to see!)
Obviously, in crowded, windless anchorages, excessive dinghy scope or tilted up outboards might not be preferred. Ditto, a massive raft up where big boats tied to smaller one. While I personally have nothing against holy sacraments of a herb variety, if you’re anchored directly upwind of a boat full of Jehovah’s Witnesses, that might be a problem. Ditto, gen/set fumes. Or roasting pork in Islamic countries. (The grocery check-out girls won’t touch a can of Campbell’s Pork & Beans—they push it through with a stick and a disgusted look!)
Which brings us to the subject of music. I personally adore Tom Waits, but would never inflict Frank’s Wild Years on an anchorage. I have spent many happy years anchored in Islamic countries like Malaysia and Indonesia—but not while blaring rap music about ‘hims and hos.’
Sure, I play my guitar on deck all the time—but I do not stream Frank Zappa and Mothers of Invention at 3 AM from my Bose waterproof spreader speakers after cranking the volume control to its ‘max hatred’ setting.
One simple way to guarantee yourself a fun-filled, totally-cool circ is simply to invite people aboard. The last time we were in Sint Maarten, a dinghy came alongside with some rail-clingers new to the Caribbean. Their names were Dora and John. They were off a sloop called Windrifter. We immediately invited them aboard—and offered them coffee and toast. We didn’t know anything about them other than they were off a cruising boat—which is plenty enough to intrigue us. How? When? Where? Why? What had they learned—what, specifically, did they love?
We had a great time together—she was a librarian (I once ran the St. Johns County Library System in St. Augustine) and we had a fine time ‘talking Dewey Decimal’ (DDC) and the glories of shelf reading.
Ten or twenty years later, when we needed a place to stay for a week in Boston, they lent us (via Facebook) their Westsail 42 at Constitution Marina in Charlestown.
Why? Because we try to be nice to everyone—circumnavigator and greenhorn alike.
Another thing we do is invite locals aboard. We don’t sail to Madagascar or Borneo or Cocos Keeling to cook dinner for Chicagoans. We sail there to learn from the locals. And what better way to learn than eating together while sharing our cultural tales with each other.
The only exception to that rule is in Polynesian or the Philippines where we never allow groups of teenagers to come below at the same time. I give them individual tours, sure; but never group ones. Why? Because in Polynesia, their culture and folklore is full of tales of their bravest and brightest stealing from passing ships. They almost have to try to steal something as a rite of passage. One young lad in the Marquesas stole a figurine and I grabbed his hand as he attempted to put it in his pocket. “No, no!” I said as we both watched his other hand snaked out and desperately grabbed for a fountain pen!
Please don’t misinterpret the above. I love Polynesians. They will shower you with gifts if you let them. In fact, gift-giving is a competition. And, in Makemo, our carver friend Becko came down to the beach to see us off with a whole pile of gifts. We accepted the gifts, gave him an equal amount of gifts, and then got in our dinghy, rowed a few feet and then threw our final luxury gifts at them—while sprinting away in our dinghy.
Haha! We’d won!
…well, at least we’d thought we’d won until, as we approached the break in the reef, two heavily-laden canoes swung alongside, one loaded with fresh fruits and the other veggies.
Darn it!
And be careful what you admire. In Samoa, we admired a Pandanus mat that the housewife had taken over a year to weave. She frowned, and immediately tried to give it to us. To save face, we said our boat wasn’t big enough and we’d someday return with a larger one to accept her generosity.
A week later, we invited the same couple aboard for dinner. They seemed excited. We put on a massive spread for them—the same meal we’d cooked for a prime minister.
We told them to dig in and we started eating. They said they weren’t hungry. WTH? We asked them to eat again—they refused. Totally puzzled, we ate for a while as they watched intently. Damn, what was going on? Finally, I asked them to eat again—and they all happily plunged in, the wife telling us later that, “…like any well-mannered family, we know to refuse the first two offers of food.”
Yes, ending up in a different country every few weeks can be stressful. Example: I like joking and doing magic tricks for kids, but in Thailand, every pat on the head that a child receives shortens their life. I learned this when, reaching out to pat a child on his head, his mother fainted!
Yes, you need to be on your cultural toes. One husband almost beat me up because, while sitting down to talk to him, I showed his wife the soles of my feet… kinda like mooning her, I guess.
Good manners, of course, are easy afloat or ashore: be kind, caring, and considerate. Share your food but, more importantly, share your heart, your hopes, and your precious dreams. We’re all fighting a great battle. We all want the same thing for our children. And a smile and a hug are almost always reciprocated—just leave out the pats on the head.
Cap'n Fatty Goodlander has written for ALL AT SEA since 2005.
Worth your time?
Thanks — noted.
