36 CLASSIC BOAT AUGUST 2019
BOSUN’S BAG
PRACTICAL TIPS FOR THE TRADITIONAL BOATERWORDS TOM CUNLIFFE ILLUSTRATION MARTYN MACKRILLBAGGYWRINKLE
You don’t see baggywrinkle as much as you used to. If you aren’t
familiar with the term, it’s those fluffy cylindrical pads up in the
rigs of salty vessels that guard against chafe. Time was when any
self-respecting gaffer had a few lengths on the runners or the
topping lifts to protect the mainsail going downwind. The
bosuns of square-riggers clapped it on to their forestays under
the hounds to save their sails from oblivion. For ocean cruisers
it was once a rite of passage. Today, it’s a rarity. I wonder why.
Chafe still goes on in traditional craft. In some ways, it’s
worse than it used to be because, with modern sailcloth, the
stitching stands proud and is victim to anything with a fancy to
rub away at it. With canvas, the stitches bedded in, so only the
cloth was vulnerable. I suspect that the reason is a rising
awareness about windage. A single spare halyard of half-inch
diameter on a 50-foot mast has a cross-sectional area of four
square feet. Three of these is the equivalent of a small toilet door.
Try holding that open against force six when you’re hacking to
windward and you’ll see why keeping the rig as clean as possible
is important. A one-foot length of baggywrinkle at four inches
diameter costs us a significant 48 square inches, but it doesn’t
do to get too fussy about windage. In many cases, a few strips
of baggywrinkle provide a fair trade-off against this obvious
downside by neutralising known chafe spots. So, how are we
to make and rig it?
Here’s where the progress forced upon us by synthetic fibres
represents a genuine improvement. I’ve made yards of baggy-
wrinkle using organic materials. It was a lovely job and it smelt
divine, but after a season or two, my efforts would unravel in
their place aloft and bring shame upon the ship until I girded up
my loins and dealt with it. Today, the stuff should last as long
as we do ourselves. Traditionally, the core of baggywrinkle was
tarred, two-strand marline. Now, of course, you can use some
sort of polyester marline substitute. Most of these are not nearly
so enjoyable to work with, but if you can lay hold of some
Canadian fishing-boat gangion, it will offer a fair substitute
that will outlast any of God’s creatures that walk on two legs.
As for the fluff, this is supplied by worn-out rope, originally
hemp, manila or sisal too tired for any other purpose. In a
polyester world, any three-strand will do except the dreaded
polypropylene. This is a truly nasty product that will soon start
to shed bits and pieces all over the deck as the sun degrades it.
It’s rough to touch too, so is counter-productive at the business
end of the job.
To make a useful pad for any boat between 20 and 50 feet,
first take a fathom of marline, double it and knot the ends
together. Stretch it out tight between two suitable fixtures atabout waist height. The height is important as it enables you to
work standing up straight and thus you will not tire your back
for leaning on the bar at the end of the day. Now pick up your
useless old rope. Measure it off into something like 8-inch
lengths and cut it up. These come apart easily into strands.
Unravel the strands into smaller units and tease them out
so that the fibres are no longer twisted. Cow-hitch these into
the doubled-up marline and pull tight. Leave a short length
of marline at each end for tying off in the rigging. When the
marline is full, the job is done. It only remains to deploy the
fruits of your labours.
Swing aloft in the bosun’s chair and site yourself beside the
rope to be baggywrinkled. Clove hitch one end of the marline
to the rope, then wind the whole shooting match snugly round
and round until you get to the marline at the other end. You
may find you have to twist the baggywrinkle here and there
to keep the yarns of old rope pointing outwards. Tie off the
marline and that’s it.LOG BOOK
You might think on first considering the matter, that a log
book has nothing to do with the bosun’s work. Mine, at least,
has everything to do with it. In all my life, I have never used
a store-bought log book. These remarkable volumes are full
of columns, clearly put there by more learned men than me,
because I can’t recognise half the stuff they want me to record.
It’s far superior, as well as more economical, to nip into your
local newsagent and invest in a hard-backed A4 exercise book.
Each day you can start a new page and rule off the columns
you think you’ll need for the passage you’ll be making on the
left-hand leaf. Leave the right-hand one clear for remarks.
Fill this in as you go along and note anything that should be
entered into the ‘jobs to do’ list. If you don’t write down that
the mousing has disappeared off the bobstay shackle when
you first see it, you’ll forget and the next thing you know the
spar will be pointing at the sky with the jib luff looking out
for better weather.
The most important part of the log book is the pages at the
back which are filled with notes regarding the running of the
ship. Things you analyse once, then forget so you have to do it
all over again next time. “Peak halyard fall runs inside topping
life on port side. Standing end runs down to purchase outside
to starboard.” “Staysail sheet leads outside cap shrouds, then
inside aft lower.” “Slings for lifting sited at second stanchion
from the bow and ditto at stern.” It’s a private bosun’s manual,
and all it costs is the discipline to enter details as they occur to
you, a book and a cheap biro pinched from the harbourmaster.