Category: Seamanship

It’s a generally accepted piece of cruising etiquette that one should help newly arriving boats with their dock lines when one is at the marina, and I am happy to say that this is one nicety that is observed almost universally wherever we have been along the Salish Sea. A component of that protocol which one finds in most of the literature discussing it, that the line handler should simply stand by with the line and await instructions from the skipper of the boat, is however much less in evidence.

I like to think I honor this more in the breach than in the observance, and on joining a fellow transient here in Friday Harbor in greeting a 42 foot Catalina that was just coming in, I was gently but reasonably chastised by the other gentleman on the dock, a fellow with a laid-back attitude but considerable sailing experience. Seeing the Catalina skidding out of line with the slip it was coming into, I offered to take the bowline with the intention of moving forward and hauling the bow around as the boat powered in, which seemed the likely course of action. The other fellow shook his head and said, “I prefer to wait for them to tell me what they would like,” thereby setting off a micro-debate in my head.

His position was, of course, quite proper, certainly reflecting the “book” approach to docking courtesy, or in fact almost any nautical matter. The captain runs the boat, no question. My fellow helper had misread my intent slightly, I think; I wasn’t actually going to haul away, just move into position, but no matter… what he assumed was something that in fact happens frequently. It also made me realize that in other circumstances I am more aggressive than the recommended policy would dictate. In the event, the skipper decided to back off and go around again, a decision I will never scoff at, so we stood around and chatted idly about docking while waiting for his return.

As it happened, I might have been more sensitive to the matter, because my own approach into the marina here a couple days ago was in fact blown by a well-meaning bystander, who pushed off my bow without my direction, and who then misheard or misunderstood my requests that he haul in on the bow line before we were blown away. I had to go around again, too… frustrating work on what was a much windier day than today.

Still, I am not sure that I entirely agree that just waiting for the skipper’s direction is always the thing to do. For one thing, it’s been my experience that a captain who knows what he is doing and what he wants his line handlers to do will be loud and up front in telegraphing his instructions. If you’re left standing there with a slack line in your hands for more than ten seconds, you are not likely to receive any decisive direction from the bridge thereafter, and in my view, it’s time to start providing the sort of assistance that is really needed, which is usually action of some sort. If you’re only going to be a spectator, you may as well stay off the finger dock and out of the way. I’ve never been inclined to simply hang around waiting for unforthcoming direction while things are going sideways, even if it isn’t my boat; right, wrong, I’m going to do something, not just stand there with a limp line in my hands. And yeah, I get how sometimes doing nothing is better than something. But something that we both agreed on today was that we could indeed have brought the boat in on the first pass. Today it didn’t much matter, but sometimes the first chance is the only one you get.

It’s arrogant to assume that one knows better than the skipper how to land a boat, but it’s also a situation that you see time and again. Goodness knows my own docking skills leave much to be desired. I have had my bacon saved innumerable times by more experienced hands helping from dockside, and on more than one occasion have followed their directions rather than giving any to them, and they’ve brought me in successfully. When it’s obvious the skipper coming in is inexperienced or uncertain, I don’t have a problem taking steps to get them in the rest of the way without their explicit direction. And there are also those times where it is clear that everyone is of a mind about the proceeding, and it’s more imposition to make them state the obvious than simply to do it. Maybe it’s still “wrong” but it’s also the most commonly done thing, and maybe sometimes the safest.

The rub, of course, is knowing when those times are and when you are stepping on someone’s toes or messing up well-laid plans. I suppose that’s simply a job for experience to determine. The more I am out sailing, and perhaps the longer I live life, the less inclined I am to put faith in blind rules and the more I ascribe to exercising judgement instead. Taking responsibility for a bad call every once in a while may be a necessary part of the package. In my view, it’s still better than standing by when someone may need help that they don’t quite know how to ask for.

In making my judgement, though, I’ll confess I had some inside information on the vessel today that my companion on the dock lacked: though there was a completely different crew aboard, the boat was the very same one that anchored too close aboard us in Ganges two weeks ago and tangled her bow roller in our lifelines around midnight. She’s a charter boat and the skippers aren’t likely to be familiar with her handling or have a great deal of experience docking her.

But this skipper came around again and slid her in nicely on the second try with hardly a push necessary from on the dock. I did push, though; one fender was set too high for the notoriously low docks at Friday Harbor and I kept the hull from scraping without being so told. I also made fast the stern line after I took it and she stopped moving. I suppose those were both transgressions. I check or adjust my docklines after anyone else helps me with them, I expect any other competent skipper can do the same… I don’t need to stand around and make him come down and do it himself the first time, as was apparently the other fellow’s policy. Of course, I’m happy to do as I’m told, but if not told to, I’m still capable of exercising my own brain muscle slightly and doing something.

I guess what it boils down to is that I agree with and respect the sentiment of waiting for the skipper’s direction, and I will certainly follow any that is given. But I don’t think it’s necessary or desirable to allow hesitant, uncertain, or frightened skippers to flail around without taking a more proactive role if one is able. Communication is golden in these situations. Many of them simply aren’t confident enough to tell you what they want, and my thing lately has been to just ask… “Where do you want me?”; and to follow with more leading questions if I don’t get an answer… “I’ll haul in on the bow while you power forward, okay?”

Miss Manners I ain’t; but bringing them in, I can do.

I believe I have mentioned previously that my idea of a good night on board involves a lot of scope on the anchor rode and plenty of swinging room. It turns out that “lots” and “plenty” are variables with a wide range of possible values depending on the person assigning them. Most of the cruising literature talks blithely of scopes of 7:1 or 10:1 (the “1” in the ratio representing the depth at which that anchor is being set; I’ll leave it to others to explain the geometry and physics behind the “more is better” philosophy), assuming what I can only imagine are Caribbean-like conditions of moderate tides, steady winds, 15 foot depths, and plenty of space. Here in the Pacific Northwest, 3:1 may be about the norm, and 4:1 luxurious. The water is deep, tidal range is great, anchorages are few and boats are many. In a lot of places, you wouldn’t have sufficient swinging room on 10:1 even if you were by yourself (and happened to have 600 feet of rode bent on).

I bring this up again because of a number of debates I uncovered while researching anchoring etiquette. I was looking into it because of an ambiguity in the otherwise fairly standard code of “first come, first served, dragging party resets.” The ambiguity has to do with unoccupied moorings. They aren’t often mentioned in the mix, but they are increasingly a prominent feature in popular anchorages, and there seems to be little consensus on how to deal with them. Everyone agrees, in the main, that they should generally be kept clear of, as moored boats will swing differently than anchored boats, and that it’s a bad idea to tie up to one yourself, as the owner may return at midnight, and anyway you don’t know the quality of the anchor.

My question arose when we anchored in Mark Bay, near Nanaimo, which can be crowded, and where we ended up on the edge of the anchorage a bit close to someone’s pieced-together permanent mooring. There are a number of these through the bay, and increasingly through many of the popular anchorages in the Gulf Islands; Telegraph Harbour is littered with them, and Silva Bay is absolutely choked. We re-anchored a little further away, but not knowing what size boat was typically tied to the thing, it was hard to judge an adequate distance.

So I was wondering what my obligations were and started searching a bit, and uncovered a raging debate that touches the topic. Apparently I am supposed to be boycotting Nanaimo entirely because they are exploring a permitting process for Mark Bay (this is separate from the anti-development Nanaimo boycott; that seems like a lot of boycotts for a town that size), similar to the False Creek system; people see it as an affront to freedom and our anchoring liberties, and in some sense at least I am with them on that; on the other hand, the thrust of the argument suggests that moorings be respected as the “first boat” and that if the original tenant returned, I should re-anchor. It’s easy to see how that custom turns out like Silva Bay, where you simply don’t anchor. The “Boycott Nanaimo” crowd sees this as a secondary concern to keeping government out of the anchoring process; their opponents think the derelicts, out-of-code permanent moorings, and floating homes are impactful enough to be worthy of regulation.

It’s a worthy debate, and not just a Pacific Northwestern question, of course, but in the midst of all the finger-pointing and recriminations I found very little practical advice in how to honorably approach anchoring in crowded mooring fields. Some discussion amongst British cruisers suggests giving them little respect, even to the extent that one might pick up an unoccupied mooring (quite a no-no here in the States); amongst East Coast cruisers, where in many municipalities private moorings are costly and hard to come by, they seem to be treated almost as reverently as a home ashore. Beth Leonard, in “The Cruiser’s Handbook,” suggests you avoid anchoring near them, but if you must, you needn’t leave if the owner returns, implicitly suggesting that despite the ball, the second boat is always the second boat. That seems, at least, to be common sense to me… without an actual boat there, no one anchoring anywhere nearby has an opportunity to judge size and swing, and it seems unfair to hold them to any particular degree of keeping clear without that information.

So that’s my perspective on the matter at the moment, but I would love to hear other opinions… not so much on the broader question of anchoring rights and use, but rather on the etiquette and protocol of anchoring near moorings in typically crowded areas.

So I mentioned previously that one of the koans my cruising Zen master, Sturt Bay, gave me was about stern-ties. Also called shore-ties, this common Pacific Northwest practice involves dropping one’s anchor in the desired water depth off-shore, then backing down on it toward the shoreline and running a second line to a convenient anchoring point on shore. Like the venerable Med-moor, this allows more boats to fit into limited space than would otherwise be possible. It is used to allow anchorage in tight spots otherwise unsuitable due to limited swinging space, such as notches, or along steep depth gradients where only a narrow shelf of anchoring depth is available very close to the shoreline. It is also, as I mentioned, simply the polite thing to do in popular anchorages. Many a tree along the Pacific Northwest shore has a groove in the bark from shore-tie lines (dead trees preferred; otherwise, you’ll inadvertently start contributing to the clear-cutting endemic to the region) and some particularly popular anchorages feature rings set along the walls for this purpose.

After my stern-tie fiasco in Sturt Bay, it became clear that we needed to work out some other method for setting things up in contrary winds. We’ve been running shore-ties for several years now but for whatever reason all our previous experiences had been in relatively benign conditions. So, faced with the new challenge, I put some thought into it and was ready when we got to Prideaux Haven in a nasty cross-wind. I would send Mandy ashore with the line while I jockeyed the helm and got the anchor set; I could back against it and keep enough slack in the line for her to loop around a tree and bring back.

In the event, this did not prove to be much easier, and required about forty-five minutes and several trips between ship and shore to accomplish. Prideaux Haven is a popular, usually crowded anchorage, but it wasn’t busy on this day and by the end of it I felt vaguely stupid for having gone through such exertions (although having no doubt served the admirable purpose of having entertained the rest of the anchorage for an extended period) to save space when there was swinging room available all over the cove.

So when we picked up and moved to Walsh Cove, another Provincial Marine Park slightly north of Prideaux Haven, I breathed a sigh of relief that it seemed relatively empty. I could pick a nice, empty patch near the middle, slop out a kingly 4:1 scope, and dangle in the winds to my heart’s content, inhibiting no one and saving vast amount of exertion and frustration.

That was around noon. By late afternoon, the place started to fill up. I thought anxiously about good citizenship and stern-ties, but I had set fairly deep, and the closest likely candidate was a small islet with nothing substantial growing on it to tie to. At that, it was further away than I could reach; our designated shore-tie line is about a quarter the recommended length (most people say 600′ is good). Still, that very position put us pretty well clear of where others might drop the hook… I thought.

It didn’t take long before someone came in and got a little too close. After fending off one another, they decided to set a stern-tie ashore, and I thought nothing more about it.

A couple hours later, the currents and wind got a little odd, and I heard an accented “Excuse me!” through our companionway, and it sounded like whoever said it was standing in the cockpit. I got up, and there were our neighbors again, with our stern swinging dangerously close to their anchor rode.

The rule may be that he who anchors first has the right of way, but I was already feeling like the stupid American, so when they offered to lend a hand getting the line ashore and finding a way to secure it, I jumped on the offer. I paid out enough rode to get our stern closer and the intrepid yachtsman from S/V Effervescence rowed the line in and found a piece of scrub sturdy enough to hold it. We were still too far out to loop it back again (which would allow us to take off without rowing ashore again to untie it) but although thoroughly embarrassed by my continued bad manners, I felt better with it out there.

“Everyone will sleep better this way,” one of the men from Effervescence called across in a strong Quebecois accent.

But, in fact, I had an unsettling dream that a small tugboat worked in behind me and cut the line during the night, sending us spinning around through the anchorage. So much for a good sleep! I was forced to stay an extra day, laying around napping, to recover from the ordeal. Such is the life of a sailor.

It’s spring, and boaters new and old are again facing the prospect of passing through the Hiram M. Chittenden Locks to get from freshwater moorages on Lake Union and Lake Washington to the saltwater cruising grounds of Puget Sound. A recent trip through with some friends reminded me how glad I am not to have to pass the locks every time we go out, but also made me a little nostalgic.

Well-meaning boating guides and magazines put out the same articles every year on how to transit the locks, all covering basically the same information: have at least two fifty foot lines aboard, fender up on both sides, watch the currents, don’t cast off until instructed. It’s good information, but it doesn’t calm the nerves, and the locks still provide plenty of opportunity to look really dumb in front of a large audience.

I’ve been there, and I’ve looked pretty dumb sometimes, so I thought I would tell you what I learned that the guidebooks never mentioned.

• Be there when no one else is; weekdays and early hours. The locks run 24/7 but overnight the staffing is low and commercial vessels (which have priority over you) are more likely to be there, which can make for long waits. But if you get up before the tourists and other recreational boaters, you can get through quickly and without an audience. This is good for early, confidence-building trips.
• Pay attention before you get there. The gentleman’s rule is first come, first served, and on days when only the small locks are available for recreational vessels this can result in a long wait. Be polite and keep track of your place in line. Be patient when others fail to do so… as much as we might prefer otherwise, few of our vessels are currently equipped with torpedos, so there’s not much you can do about it anyway.
• You can tie up at the concrete piers on the freshwater side or at the wooden breakwaters near the rail bridge if you’re waiting. Be ready to fend off the breakwaters or you’ll have to clean a lot of sticky creosote off your hull or fenders. If you’re a sailor approaching from the Sound, you have another factor to consider: whether or not the Burlington Northern rail bridge is up (or the tide low enough that you can clear it; a tide gauge on the southern breakwater can help you calculate clearance). It’s permissible to jump the line if the bridge is up so that you can wait on the eastern side, but when the locks actually open, hold back and don’t enter until the boats there before you have done so. Hand signals and a little yelling as you pass them on the way in helps keep the situation clear to everyone.
• If there’s no room to tie up, you may have to circle or hover in the current. Stay out of the traffic lanes as you do so; every moment you delay a vessel exiting the locks is a moment longer before you can go in.
• Watch the lights. Signal lights on either end will tell you when to hold or proceed and which lock to enter. There are also loud hailers toward the end of the concrete piers, but they can be very difficult to hear.
• Put a crewmember on the bow. Further from the engine noise, they’re more likely to hear instructions, and without the stick in the way, they can see hand signals from the attendants atop the walls more clearly. I like to have the crewperson mirror the hand signals and repeat any instructions they hear, both to confirm to the attendants that the message was received, and to relay the information back along to whoever is at the helm.
• If you’re directed into the large locks, as the guides all say, larger vessels enter first. You will continue to have to pay careful attention as subsequent vessels may be directed to almost any position as the attendants try to build a secure jigsaw puzzle from many different shapes and sizes of boats. Just as in the small locks, the rule is to double your lines back to your own vessel. If someone comes in outboard of you, you’ll have to take their lines and pass them back after going around something solid aboard your vessel. It’s your job to make sure the leads are all fair and they can clear off of you quickly when given the okay by the attendants to do so.

As you enter, the attendant will usually give additional instructions… which boat to tie up with in the large lock, or what bollard to catch in the small locks. The bollards are all numbered in the small lock, and the attendants are amazingly good at estimating how to position the lines for your length. If it’s a slow day, they may well take the lines with boat hooks and slip them on themselves, saving much trouble and potential embarrassment. You can use the same trick if you have a boat hook handy; loop the bight of the line over the end of the hook and reach out and drop it on the bollard, keeping both ends led back to cleats aboard.

Attendants may also reach out and snag your vessel directly with boat hooks or toss down messenger lines to help pull you into place. Be prepared to go with the flow if this happens, and enjoy… it’s much easier than doing it all yourself.

Most commonly (and common-sensically) you’ll be told to catch your stern line first, but not always; again, it’s vital to pay attention to instructions… but also be ready to ignore them if necessary. Literal adherence to sometimes confused shouting from above can get you into as much trouble as failing to heed it. We’ve wound up sideways in the small lock due to contradictory instructions from attendants at the bow and stern.

You may have noticed that the common thread to all these observations has been pay attention. I can’t emphasize that enough. Every time I’ve gotten in trouble in the locks or seen someone else get in trouble, it’s been because someone wasn’t paying attention. Watch the attendants but don’t over-focus. You’re still the one driving the boat.

Finally, have fun! Once that last line is secured, grab a seat near the rail and have a chat with your neighbor. As we all know, by and large boaters are just great folks to be around. Some of the best parts of the trip are the impromptu conversations in the locks. I mentioned at the start of this post that going through the locks is a prime opportunity to look like an idiot in front of a large audience. The flip side to that is that it’s also an opportunity to look like a pro to a lot of tourists and fellow boaters alike. One of my most cherished memories of years going back and forth through the locks is of a crowded summer day coming back into Lake Union through the large locks. As one of the smaller vessels coming in that day, and one of the last, the attendants directed us into a very tight slot deeply nested in the middle of the crowd already there. Heart in mouth, I fought the currents, jockeyed the rudder, and slid right up to our neighbor with inches to spare. After taking our lines, the other skipper looked up and nodded at me. “You made that look easy,” he said.

Every time you hit the locks, you have an opportunity to make it look easy to someone. Go impress them!