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B o a t Wo r d s PHOEBE WANG A rope on a boat is never a rope, but a line, sheet, or halyard. The boat doesn’t turn left or right, but to port or starboard. If you’re walking to the front of any watercraft, you’re going forward to the bow. When you’re going to the the back of a ship or boat, you’re moving aft to the stern. You could draw a boat and learn to label it, but why do that when you could pick up boat words the way a child might. Tilt your head up toward the shrouds and spreaders. Grab the mast and duck before you hit your head against the boom. Walk up on the deck, sit with your feet dangling between the stansions, your chin on the lifelines as your shoes knock against the fibreglass hull. Pester the skipper with questions—what’s this? what’s that?—as you get in the way in the cockpit or until you’re allowed to hold the tiller for a few moments, feeling the weight of the water streaming against the rudder. Trip, fall, jam your knee and bruise against all the hard, small parts of the boat, swearing to yourself, embarrassed at everyone’s quick concern. You’ll remember the cleat, block, or winch like the name of someone you’ve instantly disliked. Not knowing these names is as clear a sign of a landlubber as those sneakers with no tread that leave skid marks on the deck. Not knowing means you’ll be corrected, quickly and firmly, until you do. Someone will ask you to lug a sail up from below in its heavy, awkward bag. Sails are no longer made of cotton or linen canvas but of polyester fibre known as Dacron. Spread out like wings
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against a southern Ontario greyish-pink sky, their plasticky edges, taut with purpose, curve against the wind like a hand around flesh. The big triangle sail along the mast is the main. It’s printed with a unique number assigned by the boat builder or sailing association. The sail at the front of the boat is the foresail or headsail, either a genoa or jib, depending on its cut. A genoa, affectionally called the genny, extends beyond the mast and is used for lower winds, having a larger surface area. A jib sail is smaller, used for lighter winds. Most boats keep one of each, or different sails for racing and cruising. There’s also the spinnaker, made of thinner nylon, resembling a parachute flown on a downwind leg, giving it its nickname. “Let’s fly the chute,” “We popped the chute,” and “Douse the chute” are common commands during a regatta on endless downwind legs. The sails might power the boat, but it’s the lines that work and control. Their names are shouted at the crew during times of speed and stress, which does nothing to alleviate the pressure. The lines that raise each sail are the main halyard or jib halyard. When they fly to the top of the mast, referred to as “skying the halyard,” it’s a tragicomedy of crew shaking the mast, scrambling to the controls, or gazing helplessly upward in self-blame. There are topping lifts and spinnaker halyards to attach to poles. Lines tied or clipped to the bottom of a sail are known as sheets, such as the mainsheet, which goes through the mainsheet traveller, a device that decreases or increases the boat heel. The jib sheets are attached to the clew end of the sail, threaded through blocks on either side of the boat, then wrapped around winches, big metal spools I fidget with when they aren’t being used PHOEBE WANG 99 because they make satisfying clicking sounds. Other rigging lines include the cunningham, which sounds like something dirty; the boom vang; the outhaul; and narrower utility cords for attaching flags or tightening the bottom edge of a sail. Your brain may be feeling overpowered, no longer maintaining a straight course through the English language. Let out your sails, turn away from the onslaught of words, terms, and phrases throwing you off balance. Reading isn’t how I learned, or how most sailors learn, phrases like “ready to come about” or “raise the main.” You learn when they’re shouted or snapped at you and you scramble for the right line on a quick tack or when they’re patiently handed out by an experienced, empathetic crew member. They’re learned by their colours, plain or braided, white with woven red or blue strands, and by position, feel, and weight. They’re acquired through error, as you accidentally release the spinnaker halyard instead of the uphaul. They accumulate with each race, each cruise and season, attaching themselves to verbs. Despite advances in technology, materials, and instruments, sailing still relies on muscle, timing, and knowledge, as it has for millennia. On hoisting, hauling, heaving to, heading up, bearing off, letting out, easing, trimming, tacking, and jibbing. There’s a beautiful uncomplicatedness or complicated beauty to the pastime. The confusion and obfuscation caused by the language of sailing is, simultaneously, what makes that language practical and useful for its speakers. Sailors value the specificity and efficiency embodied by a command such as “ease the jib.” This phrase encapsulates the following: “The wind has now shifted, as you may have observed, and we are

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B o a t Wo r d s

PHOEBE WANG

A rope on a boat is never a rope, but a line, sheet, or halyard. The boat doesn’t turn left or right, but to port or starboard. If you’re walking to the front of any watercraft, you’re going forward to the bow. When you’re going to the the back of a ship or boat, you’re moving aft to the stern.

You could draw a boat and learn to label it, but why do that when you could pick up boat words the way a child might. Tilt your head up toward the shrouds and spreaders. Grab the mast and duck before you hit your head against the boom. Walk up on the deck, sit with your feet dangling between the stansions, your chin on the lifelines as your shoes knock against the fibreglass hull. Pester the skipper with questions—what’s this? what’s that?—as you get in the way in the cockpit or until you’re allowed to hold the tiller for a few moments, feeling the weight of the water streaming against the rudder. Trip, fall, jam your knee and bruise against all the hard, small parts of the boat, swearing to yourself, embarrassed at everyone’s quick concern. You’ll remember the cleat, block, or winch like the name of someone you’ve instantly disliked.

Not knowing these names is as clear a sign of a landlubber as those sneakers with no tread that leave skid marks on the deck. Not knowing means you’ll be corrected, quickly and firmly, until you do.

Someone will ask you to lug a sail up from below in its heavy, awkward bag. Sails are no longer made of cotton or linen canvas but of polyester fibre known as Dacron. Spread out like wings

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