Page 13 - Frank Rosenow "Seagoing Knots"

INTRODUCTION

Emil Landell, Master Pilot retired, came down the lane in his dark-blue Sun¬

day best, sober and freshly shaven. The children came the other way,
escaping from the small island’s church.
“Good day to you, Uncle Emil,” we greeted him, bowing smartly.
Brightening under the gilt-edged visor of his master’s cap, Uncle Emil
pulled out his big leather purse and selected a small silver coin for each of
us. To further please him, one of our number said,
“May we look at your knots, Uncle?”
The old pilot glanced only briefly towards the place of worship.
“All right, you scamps,” he said.
We trooped after him up a garden walk which was bordered with pink
emperor helmet shells from distant shores. Under the gingerbread eaves of
his villa, Uncle Emil’s study was lined with varnished display boards. On

them crowded sisal, hemp, and cotton lines, knotted, spliced and served
over in every configuration known to a deep-water sailor with a fair mem¬
ory of the 19th century. There were bits of rope colored in ochre, straw,
and a full chalky white. The servings were tarred over in jet black, or a red
as bright as a stick of sealing wax. The room smelt of Stockholm tar mixed
with the new-mown scent of sisal fibers.
The boards, brimming with knots that had had their vigor of movement
arrested, seemed to the children like a great butterfly collection, pinned
down and deprived of life. Taken out of the natural context in which they
would be tied, the knots made little sense. So we took our leave and ran off

to a nearby pond to catch tadpoles.
Crewing on my grandfather’s fishing boat and sailing the family skiff, we
did learn the clove hitch, half-hitches and the flip-over bowline knots we
could see a reason and use for. Add the square knot and a slipped hitch
and you have my knot vocabulary for a great many years at sea.

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