Before there was “port and starboard”
to refer to the left and right sides, respectively, of a ship, there
was “larboard and starboard.” The etymology of these terms may be more surmised than certain, but starboard is said to derive
from steorbord, or “steering side,” because many vessels
had a steering oar hung on the right-side of the stern, most rowers –
most people – being right-handed. Larboard, by analogy, is
thought to come from laddebord, or
“loading side,” since a ship with a steering oar hung on the
right side would bring its left side to the dock for loading. When
shouted the length of a ship or over the roar of wind and waves,
however, the two similar-sounding words led to much miscommunication. In the nineteenth century, larboard gradually (or likely by British Admiralty Order) gave way to the term port, a term that may refer to the loading (access) port on the left side of the vessel or the fact that it docks with its left side toward the port.
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| A boat this size would need more than good hand signals to communicate between helm and bow. |
Clear communication between crew
members is essential for many aspects of cruising and living aboard.
Over engine noise or wind noise, or if one person has
less-than-perfect hearing, it is annoying and often difficult to
shout information loudly enough to be effective. Lip-reading can be
useful, but established hand signals are probably better for critical
business such as anchoring, when one person is at the helm, the other
is at the bow, and the engine
is running. We use a version of the hand signals described by
Nigel Calder in his Cruising Handbook: point left or right to
indicate “turn to port” or “turn to starboard”; point ahead
for forward gear and aft for reverse; point upward to increase speed
(we jab repeatedly for a quick increase) and point downward to decrease
speed; hold palm up for neutral; swipe hand across throat for “shut
down engine.” On a 100-foot boat, like the one we saw leaving Burnt Island before we arrived, the crew would probably use technology such as walkie-talkies, wireless headsets, or a hardwired intercom to communicate from one end of the vessel to the other.
Even with a standard anchoring routine and an agreed-upon set of hand
signals, there are many opportunities for mishearing and
misunderstanding. Sue has a particular beef with the word OK,
a favorite of Curtis's during almost any multistep procedure. “What
do you mean by OK?” she asks, trying to parse its sense in
the moment. Curtis fully admits his "OK" has multiple meanings:
- Keep doing what you're doing (such as motoring in forward or turning to port)
- Stop what you're doing (such as motoring in forward or turning to port) and go to the next step in the sequence
- Stop – that's enough (motoring in forward or turning to port...)
- Hmm, I'm not sure, let me think for a second...
- I'm lovin' it!
Sue would like to ban OK from
the list of acceptable helm-to-bow communications, but Curtis is quite attached to his verbal habit. (Aren't we all.)
“Gannet, Dammit!”
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| Sue after a long day, probably trying to interpret Curtis's hand signals at the bow. |
On one of our early sails, we were both
a bit irritable for some unmemorable reason – probably simple fatigue. “I'd
like to come about,” announced Captain Sue, as we sailed on a close
reach just west of Pemaquid Point and its shoals. First Mate Curtis
was fixing something at the stern or checking the snaps on the dodger
or some such task, and he wasn't ready. “Huh,” he grunted.
“C'mon, we're getting close to the buoy,” Sue repeated. “Mmmpf,
can't you wait a minute,” from Curtis. Sue likes to tack well in
advance of shorelines and shallows. Curtis is into safety, too, but
his tolerances are calibrated differently than Sue's, and this is our
constant dance. “Ready about!?!” We came about. Not a lot of
conversation (but an efficient tack).
Curtis went back to neatening the lines
in the cockpit and rearranging the contents of a locker. A large
white bird flew over. “Gannet!” shouted Sue. (It was the first gannet sighting of the summer.) Curtis didn't look
up. “Gannet, Curtis!” “What are you swearing about now,” he
grumped. “It's a gannet, dammit – the bird!” she responded. Curtis looked up.
“Oh. Cool.”
Fifteen minutes later, on the same
tack, we heard a snort and looked astern. A large black back with a
very hooked dorsal fin rose and disappeared beneath the waves. Sue
ran below for the marine mammal guide. Probably a long-finned pilot
whale, we agreed. OK.
