A lady who sat next to me . . . said, “Do you reef in your gaff-topsails when you are close-hauled or do you let go the mizzen-top-bowline and cross-jack-braces. . .” I hadn’t the slightest idea what she was talking about . . .
One reason for this was that none of the principle words (except “reef”) is pronounced the way it is spelled: “gaff-topsails” is pronounced “gassles,” “close-hauled” is pronounced “cold,” mizzen-top-bowlines” is pronounced “mittens,” and “cross-jack-braces” is pronounced “crabapples” or something that sounds a whole lot like that. Thus what the lady really said to me was, “Do you reef in your gassles when you are cold or do you let go the mittens and crabapples.” – James Thurber, “The Story of Sailing”
The New Year can be a time for reflection, and evaluation of past successes, failures and the personal endeavors, large and small, that could have been done better – or not at all. People who say they have no regrets are either liars or without conscience. I have a major regret – one that I will carry to my grave – that was spawned near the start of my marine-publishing ride.
The source of this remorse occurred long before I’d grasped the true gravity of the life-experience, when an impish boating editor, who worked for another publisher, and I pondered the esoteric nature of boat design and construction lingo. Shortly, an idea was launched: In the spirit of James Thurber, we’d invent words for various boat designs, gear and components, and use these terms in correspondence with one another, using noms-de-plume, in the letters department of a particularly abstruse (and fascinating) periodical. The object was to see if the new words would pass under the scrutiny of a talented editorial staff. The real terms for these parts are so obscure, we rationalized, who would ever question the words we contrive?
My co-conspirator’s letter was published – a request for explanations of imaginary boat parts, if memory serves me correctly – as was my response, with outlandish definitions, in the following issue. When I saw my creation in print – this sophomoric prank – I felt sad, deflated, and disappointed in myself, realizing that I didn’t want to mock anything or anybody in print, let alone disciplines I passionately loved.
Yes, I have regrets, and, because of this particular one, I made a sharp course-change toward the editorial principles I expected of myself: From then on, I never made light of anything or anyone in any magazine again. You see, Thurber, in his article in “The Bermudian,” could poke fun at our sport, industry and recreation because nobody or nothing would be offended, hurt or damaged. In my case more than 40 years ago – in which I lampooned a periodical earnestly expanding coverage of a then-arcane topic – I’m not sure I could have expected the same pass.
“Give me a fruitful error bursting with its own correction,” said Italian sociologist, engineer and economist Vilfredo Pareto, “and you can keep your sterile truth to yourself.” But don’t give it to me if it’s an error that sows negativity and unkindness. The “power of the pen” is great; the potential for hurtfulness is even greater.
There are forty-five major parts [to a full-rigged ship], beginning with “bowsprit” and going on up to “davittopping-lifts,” Thurber continues. Included in between are . . . these items: the fore-top-mast staysail halliards (sic) (pron. “fazzles”), the topgallant mastyard-and-lift (pron. “toft”), the mizzen-topgallant-braces (pron. “mazes”), and the fore-topmast backstays and topsail tye (pron. “frassantossle”). The tendency of the average landlubber . . . is to turn to “Sanskrit” in the encylopedia and study up on that instead . . . .
Now that’s funny. And nobody gets hurt.
