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CLASSIC BOAT JUNE 2019
BOSUN’S BAG
PRACTICAL TIPS FOR THE TRADITIONAL BOATER
WORDS TOM CUNLIFFE ILLUSTRATION MARTYN MACKRILL
BRIGHTWORK AND THE
TRADITIONAL BAROMETER
When I went to school, ‘brightwork’ meant wood finished
bright. Usually, this suggested that it was varnished, but it might
also mean oiled to a sheen. Recently I’ve heard the word used
for the stainless steel that graces the decks of modern yachts.
Each to his own, so let’s forget the metal and consider the
wood. How do you manage yours? Do you favour varnish? If
so, whose? Are you perhaps a Coelan sailor, or do you sign up
with the traditional Norwegians and go for a saturating oil? If
you were to ask me where I stand, you’d get a response rather
like a Conservative MP talking about Brexit. I won’t go the
whole hog and say “let me be absolutely clear about this”.
Instead, I’ll opt for the blander “it all depends”.
My first ocean sailing boat, a 1903 gaff cutter, had lots of
brightwork, all varnished. By the time I’d thrashed out of the
Channel in October and beaten south across the Line against the
southeast trades, my bowsprit was as bare as a cricket pitch in
December, my beautiful ash blocks were going black in horrible
patches and the teak cockpit coaming was ready for a rough
session with the 120-grit. In those days, nobody outside
Scandinavia oiled their wood to a finish. It was varnish or
nothing, so I turned to in South America, facing a life sentence of
hard labour to keep the yacht halfway decent. Several years later,
I discovered a different way.
Cruising to the far north of the Atlantic via Norway, I left the
UK in a much bigger gaff cutter with my brightwork in a poor
state. On arrival in Bergen, I noticed a group of lads oiling a
wooden fishing boat hull. It had all the appearance of varnish,
but they didn’t rub down. They just washed off the salt, wiped
the planking with raw turps which cut back any residual gloss
like magic, then literally painted the stuff on. It smelt like a free
trip to heaven, the whiff of Stockholm tar on the air taking you
back a millennium to the days when Erik the Red and his
Atlantic venturers used the same unction. This was a Norwegian
oil called Gjøco Dekksolje, nothing to do with decks. It was,
they averred, a lot kinder than varnish. It fed the wood and
was easier to make good if it got a knock. All you had to do
was clean up and paint on some more. None of that careful
patching that never works, and so on.
I tried to buy some but they had so much, they slipped me
a gallon for free. I found some turps – it must be the real thing
- and set about scraping back my boom and bowsprit. They
were pitch pine and came up easily. The recommended seven
coats were whacked on in an afternoon until the spars wouldn’t
take any more. A few days later they were completely dry, and
a couple of top coats went off with a shine like varnish. When
I arrived in America via Greenland, they still looked smart.
This was so impressive that my shipmate Pol Bergius decided
to import the stuff for a waiting British market. He called it
Varnol and for a few years it did well. Everyone who followed
the instructions loved it. A few who couldn’t read suffered
indifferent results, but I have a three-sheave block in my
workshop treated with it. After two decades it still shines like
gold in autumn.
Oiling’s good, then, so long as you buy the best and do what
it says on the tin. For a really fine finish, though, it’s still hard to
beat traditional yacht varnish. My wife loves it and now that we
sail a ‘gent’s yacht’ in summer only, she uses it in some areas. I
still favour my oil, so we have developed a happy compromise.
All surfaces that will not be over-exposed to salt water and
not subject to abrasion get the varnish treatment. More vulnerable
areas such as the toerail and the cockpit coaming are treated to
the modern equivalent of the old Scandi oil. This is Owatrol’s
D1 and D2. It took a long time to saturate them with D1 and we
needed an eagle eye for the dreaded runs. Once done, however,
laying on the D2 was a pleasure. Now, I just wipe it down with
turps in spring then brush on another coat of D2. Maybe I top
up in August, but it’s so easy, it doesn’t take more than a couple
of hours in a quiet anchorage and while the smell isn’t up to
Bergen 1982, it’s not half bad.
So there’s your answer. I favour both oil and varnish, each in
its chosen place, and my boat looks pretty decent for an old one.
TAP THE GLASS
Life for the sailor is incomplete without a barometer. I’ve one at
home that my father tapped every morning as he went to work.
Half a century on I still listen to its quiet, metallic response as
the needle pops up or down and I reset the datum marker. On
board the boat, a less venerable version of the instrument has its
readings recorded more formally. At sea, we log it on the hour
for a heads-up on the real world to augment the virtual arrows
on the computer screen. If there’s no barometer column in the
book, tapping it is a waste of time. In the trade winds, the needle
should be dead steady inside a two-millibar rise and fall, high at
1,000, low at 1,600. Once you’ve established the pattern, if the
reading moves more than a couple of points beyond it, watch
out! Things may be more erratic in higher latitudes, but when
the eastern sky flushes red before sunrise and the glass has
dropped five points overnight, never mind the internet. Go
to sea if you must... but stand by your reefing tackle.