MAX EBB — "Darn right. It's a sexless mongrel." "Maybe back then, in the central Bay in the summer, boats like this had all the sail area they needed, without a gaff mainsail and without a normal topsail," I suggested. "Or more likely," answered Lee Helm, who had suddenly appeared from around the other side of the chart house, "they have to limit sail area to be certified by the Coast Guard to carry passengers for hire. That's why they have a reduced sail plan that won't, like, cause too much wind heel." "That might answer," the old sailor allowed, while sucking thoughtfully on a pipe that was apparently unlit in compliance with museum ship rules. "But let's not pretend these recreated utility boats are 'tall ships.' It ain't fair to the real thing." "Sure," I sighed, "but we've got this living-language thing to deal with. These days anything with even a single vestigial square yard gets to use the term, and though there's nothing we can do about it, the Turner, on the other hand, does have some very functional square sails on the foremast." The old salt looked as if he was about to spit over the windward rail, but was brought up short when one of the museum staff, on board to host the tours and answer questions about the ship, came within easy hailing distance. "Ahoy Max! Welcome aboard, Lee!" he greeted us. "We're taking it out next weekend and have room for supercargo. Can I give you two a pair of VIP invites?" "G'day, mate," the old salt interrupted as Lee and I were eagerly accepting the invitations. "I like the way you set
The Bay Model, a 400-ft-by-320-ft analogue computer built in 1957.
her up the traditional way, without the gaff. It's a regional rig, but it's truly authentic for the Bay." "Thank you," said the staffer, as he turned back to talk to Lee. "Smart as paint," added the old sailor, who suddenly had nothing but compliments for the rig. "I'll bet that topsail really powers her up in a smoky sou'wester of a sea breeze, can't wait to see it fly." "Yes, we're very pleased with the Turner's performance under sail," said our host. "I got a collection of old sextants from the tall-ship era," the old salt added. "I can bring a few of 'em out for a sail, and I'll have your guests ciphering latitude by noon sight before we're back at the dock." "Can you really get a good noon sight inside the Bay?" I asked, thinking maybe I should run interference between this character and our host. "Don't you need a clear horizon for a celestial observation?" "Hell, no," he answered. "A couple of miles of water in the true south direction will do, we just figure in the short horizon correction and Bob's your uncle." "We'll talk," the staffer finally agreed, and they swapped contact info. "I had a feeling it would be worth showing up for this," I said as we walked down the gangway and over to the Bay Model, where the snacks were out and the party was already in progress. The mix of Crew List Party attendees covered the full range of sailor résumés: There were novice sailors looking for crew spots, retired racers who had switched to cruising, new racers looking for experienced crew, and sailors of all stripes looking for partners with more than sailing on their minds. But the most interesting category comprised new sailors who had recently spent way too much money on a boat that was way too new and way too big. "We had a hull speed of 8 knots to windward!" boasted one sailor whom I took to be a newly minted owner of a large, upscale cruising machine. "That was in 16 knots of true wind at an angle of 42 degrees." "You can always tell a sailor who skipped U.S. ARMY CORPS OF ENGINEERS
I
go to the Crew List Party every September because of the venue: Two years ago it was Spaulding Boat Works, this year it's at the Bay Model, which will be switched on for observation. Also, if you get there early, there's a deck tour of the Matthew Turner, Sausalito's latest historical ship replica. "It's great to have another tall ship out on the Bay," I remarked to no one in particular as I stepped off the gangway onto the wooden deck of the ship. "Aye," said an old salt in a peacoat leaning on the bulwark near the top of the gangway. "But this ain't no 'tall ship.' That's reserved for full-riggers, my boy. A tall ship means a real sailing ship with t'gallant masts and skys'ls." It had been many decades since anyone referred to me as "boy," but that was OK. My problem was trying to figure out if this was a planted character actor or someone who actually objected to the "tall ship" moniker. "It is kind of under-rigged," I agreed, as my eye caught a display showing the sail plan, which did seem a little light on mainsail area for this type of vessel. "That mule tops'l would be laughed off the water back East," the old man continued. "This vessel should have a gaff almost as long as the main boom, for a real mainsail. And then a proper tops'l over it to fill the space between the gaff and the mainmast." "I had that thought also," I confessed. "But they say they have photos of original local boats of the same genre, showing the same small main and the same funny extra sail they fly to extend the leech. Is that what you're calling a 'mule' topsail?"
