The mainsail, folded down on the boom, and the companionway entrance from the cabin - pretty much directly aligned. There are times on our boat when someone does something less-than-brilliant. Often, that person is me. The most common idiotic thing I do that you'd think I'd learn from is to bash my head against the bottom of the boom when emerging from the cabin. Sounds painful, I know, but it's really not that bad.
The thing is, when we first put the boom on, I had no problems. I could stand under it with a bit of room to spare. That's probably where my whole problem started. My brain knew in that moment that the boom left about 5'4" of space to stand in. I'm 5'3", just enough clearance. Then we put on the mainsail, and when not in use, the sail comes down, folds up along the boom, and drapes a bit against the support of the boom. Tie it up so it doesn't flop all over the place, and now the boom has a cushy layer of sail around it; a layer that takes up more than an inch. My brain hasn't yet caught on and constantly declines to remind me of the lack of sufficient headroom between the boom and, well, my head. So up I come from the cabin in the morning and, bam -- head against boom. With the sail as a cushion, it doesn't hurt, even though I manage an "ow" most of the time. More like walking into a firm pillow. OK, so maybe I'm sleep-fogged and I'll clue in the next time I emerge from the cabin.
I haven't yet. In fact, more often than not, the next time I pop up from below-deck, I still manage to whack myself, morning, noon or night. Maybe I'd learn if it actually hurt, but as it doesn't, I've chosen to laugh whenever it happens. And it happens so much that I'm pretty sure I have a very specific chuckle for my brainless act, one Mike knows well even without having to witness the blunder. (Even after Mike rigged the boom to lie off-centre when not in use, I still manage to hit it with my noggin. It's a gift I seem to have)
The thing is, when we first put the boom on, I had no problems. I could stand under it with a bit of room to spare. That's probably where my whole problem started. My brain knew in that moment that the boom left about 5'4" of space to stand in. I'm 5'3", just enough clearance. Then we put on the mainsail, and when not in use, the sail comes down, folds up along the boom, and drapes a bit against the support of the boom. Tie it up so it doesn't flop all over the place, and now the boom has a cushy layer of sail around it; a layer that takes up more than an inch. My brain hasn't yet caught on and constantly declines to remind me of the lack of sufficient headroom between the boom and, well, my head. So up I come from the cabin in the morning and, bam -- head against boom. With the sail as a cushion, it doesn't hurt, even though I manage an "ow" most of the time. More like walking into a firm pillow. OK, so maybe I'm sleep-fogged and I'll clue in the next time I emerge from the cabin.
I haven't yet. In fact, more often than not, the next time I pop up from below-deck, I still manage to whack myself, morning, noon or night. Maybe I'd learn if it actually hurt, but as it doesn't, I've chosen to laugh whenever it happens. And it happens so much that I'm pretty sure I have a very specific chuckle for my brainless act, one Mike knows well even without having to witness the blunder. (Even after Mike rigged the boom to lie off-centre when not in use, I still manage to hit it with my noggin. It's a gift I seem to have)
The cleat with the black line around it has pointy ends ready to jab the funny bone. The cleat behind it with two pincers is called a cam cleat. Something a little more painful are the cleats at the edge of the cockpit, designed specifically to jab into the funny bone when you're not paying attention (OK, so they're actually for securing lines, but it's good to have multiple uses). Mike whacked his elbow the other day and I've got to admit, I laughed. I wish I remembered his comment at the time, because it was quite brilliant, but it was definitely designed to turn the curse into a chuckle. The best part is when, less than a minute later, I managed to turn just right and whack my own elbow on the opposite cleat across the cockpit. I laughed harder, and so did Mike, as we wiped the tears from our eyes.
When out sailing with my best friend Jen, one of the cam cleats that helps secure the starboard jib sheet had a bit of an issue. It didn't attack anyone or cause any pain; it jumped ship. Literally. Cam cleats have two important parts that act as a kind of pincer. You can pull a line through them one way, and the teeth on the other side grip it and keep it from pulling back again. Until one half of the pincer pair breaks, and then flops around uselessly. On a tack, I thought maybe I could still use the cleat for a bit of extra grip (it had worked once already in it's impaired condition), but the wounded pincer had other ideas. It waited until both my hands were busy, then just popped off and leaped into the bay. Jen watched it sail away with great amusement, combined with my blank stare, and we both burst into laughter as I tied off the line to the more solid, funny bone-hating cleat. Mike just shook his head and grinned at us, no doubt biting of a curse at the lost part that we all had thought only seconds before that maybe we should have removed to see if we could salvage before it disappeared. Yet another "oh crap" moment turned into a chuckle.
When out sailing with my best friend Jen, one of the cam cleats that helps secure the starboard jib sheet had a bit of an issue. It didn't attack anyone or cause any pain; it jumped ship. Literally. Cam cleats have two important parts that act as a kind of pincer. You can pull a line through them one way, and the teeth on the other side grip it and keep it from pulling back again. Until one half of the pincer pair breaks, and then flops around uselessly. On a tack, I thought maybe I could still use the cleat for a bit of extra grip (it had worked once already in it's impaired condition), but the wounded pincer had other ideas. It waited until both my hands were busy, then just popped off and leaped into the bay. Jen watched it sail away with great amusement, combined with my blank stare, and we both burst into laughter as I tied off the line to the more solid, funny bone-hating cleat. Mike just shook his head and grinned at us, no doubt biting of a curse at the lost part that we all had thought only seconds before that maybe we should have removed to see if we could salvage before it disappeared. Yet another "oh crap" moment turned into a chuckle.
The handrails are the two raised wooden rails you can see to either side of the cabin top here. I have banged into so many things on the boat that I constantly find bruises on my legs and arms that I know I got while sailing, though I don't remember most of them. In fact, after our first weekend out, when I got back to work, my boss asked how many bruises I had, which led me to suspect that such "beatings" were common among sailors. Or that she thought I was accident-prone. She's probably not far off on the latter.
But the worst one (so far), and the one that should have set me down crying if I could have taken a moment (and there weren't other people around to see) happened one day just after docking. I don't remember exactly the rush -- after all, we were safe in our slip, so it's not like the wind or waves would cause any "uh oh" moments -- but I was securing some-thing that took me from the bow of the boat to the cockpit. I sat down on top of the cabin to grab a line, and managed to hit the very edge of the handrail. With my tailbone. Thankfully, the handrails have rounded ends, but still ... they REALLY hurt when they connect with the tailbone as you sit. I managed to keep it from Mike for a while, but eventually, I winced one too many times when I moved that I had to tell him what dumb thing I had done this time. Have you ever had a tailbone injury, and tried to find a comfortable way to lounge on a boat later? It's not easy, and with every twinge, I managed a gasp, and then a chuckle. Because, let's face it, it's better to laugh than to cry.
But the worst one (so far), and the one that should have set me down crying if I could have taken a moment (and there weren't other people around to see) happened one day just after docking. I don't remember exactly the rush -- after all, we were safe in our slip, so it's not like the wind or waves would cause any "uh oh" moments -- but I was securing some-thing that took me from the bow of the boat to the cockpit. I sat down on top of the cabin to grab a line, and managed to hit the very edge of the handrail. With my tailbone. Thankfully, the handrails have rounded ends, but still ... they REALLY hurt when they connect with the tailbone as you sit. I managed to keep it from Mike for a while, but eventually, I winced one too many times when I moved that I had to tell him what dumb thing I had done this time. Have you ever had a tailbone injury, and tried to find a comfortable way to lounge on a boat later? It's not easy, and with every twinge, I managed a gasp, and then a chuckle. Because, let's face it, it's better to laugh than to cry.
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