Sailor Mouth Saturday: Mid/Middle

We've talked about midshipmen before here at Triple P, but there are a few other reference points for the words mid and middle at sea. None are particularly surprising, but they are interesting.

The word middle, perhaps curiously, comes from the Anglo-Saxon into Middle English words middel and middle. According to our old friend Webster they both indicate the halfway point between two others. That's fairly straight forward at least.

At sea, this general application of the word applies often but not always. A middle band is the central band on any sail, one of the many that is sewn to the canvas to give it extra strength. Middling a sail, on the other hand, is the act of arranging the sail for attaching it to the yard. A middle-topsail is one usually particular to schooners and sloops. This type of sail was - and still is - set on such vessels between the top and the cap of their topmasts.

Midrib is an old word for a slender or narrow canal. Mid-channel is the center, or halfway point from one shore to the other of a river, channel or smaller lake.

When a ship's position is determined by converting departure/arrival in difference of longitude, the type of navigation used is said to be middle latitude sailing. In such cases the middle latitude is used as a point of reference rather than the meridion.

Middle-timber reference the planking amidships and to the stern. Middle-wales are the strakes or outer planking along each side of a three decked vessel between the lower and middle deck ports.

The middle watch on naval ships was counted between midnight and 4:00 AM. A middle-watcher is no a member of that watch but a light, usually hand-held meal (such as a biscuit or sandwich) which officers of the middle watch might be able to, as Admiral Smyth puts it, "snatch" at about five bells or 2:30 AM. Fortifying oneself is always a good idea in the middle of the night, after all.

To return to where we started, midshipmen were often referred to, particularly as a group, as mids. Either affectionately or derogatorily they may also be referred to as "middies." I suppose it would depend on the individual young gentleman whether or not he appreciated such a moniker.

A happy Saturday to all the Brethren, then. Fair winds, following seas, and a little sunshine is my wish for you.

Header: Lake Superior by Walter Shirlaw via American Gallery ~ an example of a lake more like a small sea and far too large to have a mid-channel

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Cheat

As the Brethren are well aware, sailors are a superstitious lot. Today’s word plays in to that mind set. And it also points up where and when a sailor is not afraid to let superstition go by the board to save his skin, or for an extra few minutes of blessed sleep.

The practice known at sea as cheating the Devil has everything to do with superstition. Bringing the Lord, or for that matter the Arch Fiend, into one’s speech was a sure way to court disaster aboard ship. This lead to what Admiral Smyth refers to as the “softening of very profane phrases” in The Sailor’s Word Book. Thus “God’s death” might come out as ‘od’s depth. Other epithets familiar to the seamen that would otherwise feature the word God might include ‘od’s blood, ‘od rot it, or for ‘od’s sake.

On the other hand, calling up the Devil would never do either, except as an absolute last resort. In such cases, a sailor might offer his hair to the Devil, throwing a lock into the water or up into the wind to please Old Scratch in desperate times. Help in a pinch is help, after all; the consequences can be dealt with later. All things being equal, however, sailors would rather not court Satan. Thus phrases like by gosh, be darned and dang you probably had a seagoing origin. More colorful terms such as deuce take you and see you blown first might also be overheard. Better safe than sorry after all.

The habit known as cheating, or flogging, the glass comes from a time when clocks were not a feature on a ship’s deck. The timing of bells and watches was kept by means of a half-hour glass which was usually hung near the binnacle.  General understanding among seamen had it that the sand would run through the glass more quickly if exposed to vibration. A man might “cheat the glass” by jarring it surreptitiously. As Admiral Smyth aptly puts it:

… hence some weary soul towards the end of his watch was said to flog the glass.

Given that the average Jack got no more than four hours at a stretch of free time at sea, one can imagine a tired soul being desperate to hurry time along.

Happy Saturday, Brethren; watch your language – and the glass – out there.

Header: Sunset by Mykola Yaroshenko via Old Paint

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Larboard

The opposite of starboard, what we now term “port”, used to be larboard. An editor I’ve worked with made the obvious but important observation that the two words could be easily confused, particularly in a tense situation aboard ship. I had to agree with him, even though there wasn’t much I could do about it as far as my prose. This fact was not lost on a far more capable nautical novelist than I: Patrick O’Brian:


All at once her bowsprit was pointing straight into the roaring gale, though the heavy seas tried to force her head to leeward. ‘Up maintack… haul of all. Cut.’

The axe flashed down on the cable. She was almost round, in the balance. Already she had a prodigious sternway, moving straight for the Thatcher. ‘Fetch a cast aft, far aft,’ cried Jack to the leadsman, leaning out over the quarter-rail to judge the last possible moment, the greatest possible impetus to the full starboard helm that would bring her right round. The leadsman turned, swung with all his might: the leadline caught the bellying ensign-whip, the lead shot inboard, struck Jack down to the deck.

On his hands and knees, through the crash of the blow and the roar of the sea he heard Hyde’s voice at an infinite distance shout ‘Larboard all – I mean starboard,’ then an all-embracing thunder as the Ariel struck the Thatcher full on, beating her rudder and staving in much of her stern.

This typically gripping moment of action from The Surgeon’s Mate illustrates the point all too eloquently. Poor First Lieutenant Hyde, a bit of a ding-a-ling to begin with, wrecks Jack’s ship on the coast of France with his hasty and ill advised command. A simple mistake and the entire crew are prisoners of war.

But why larboard originally when the potential for error in a command was so great?

According to our mate Admiral Smyth, the English word may come from Latin via Italian. The Romans were nothing if not direct and, when facing the bow of their triremes or merchant vessels, they simply called the right side “this side” or questa borda in Italian and the left side “that side” or quella boarda. These two were shortened to sta borda and la borda – thus starboard and larboard.

Port as the indicator for “that side” did not come into common use until the mid-19th century. The Sailor’s Word Book notes, however, that it was being used indifferently as early as the late 16th century aboard English vessels.

The use of larboard for left side of the ship also bleeds into the common name for watches. Two watches, the group of men on duty at any given time, was the general rule on ships of frigate size or smaller in the Great Age of Sail. They were named for the sides of the ship; thus a starboard watch and a larboard watch. In the Royal Navy of Nelson’s era and before, the men attached to each watch were often known as the starbolins and the larbolins. Thus the chanty: Larbolins stout, you must turn out; And sleep no more within; For if you do, we’ll cut your clue; And let starbolins in. No man cares to have his hammock cut down from under him.

The switch to port from larboard was made purposefully to avoid mistakes such as the awful error made by Mr. Hyde. Keep in mind, though, that any nautical fiction using “port” pervasively prior to the 1850s is wrong outright. You might want to put that book down and reach for something a little more authentic. Try that Patrick O’Brian fellow; I hear he had a knack for that sort of thing.

Header: A Gaffer near land via In the Boat Shed

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Time

Time is short, of the essence, and there is not a moment to lose. Or so it seems aboard ship. Stephen Maturin famously complained of this situation at sea in O’Brian’s books and in the movie Master and Commander. Jack Aubrey, for his part, could not comprehend what his doctor was whining about. To him, there truly was never a moment to be lost, and so it is with most sailors. There are other uses for time at sea, however, and even words that sound like it from foreign shores.


Time is, first and foremost, the way of keeping track of the day. All ships – from smuggler’s pirogue to pirate’s sloop to massive ship of the line – ran on bells, which mark her time. The bell was rung, or struck in common shipboard parlance, every half hour with the glass being turned at the same time. Thus eight bells signaled the end of a four hour watch.

The half-hour glass was the true time keeper and the margin for human error was great in keeping track of it, particularly under stress. To rectify any errors in time keeping, noon was read daily via a sextant. Thus solar time was set to rights each day. The call of noon was also the official beginning of the ship’s day when a new page in the log would be dated and begun. This ritual goes along with “taking time” when an assistant – usually a youth or Midshipman – would note the time via chronometer each time the officer observing with the sextant called “stop”. In this way, the astronomical observation is rectified as necessary for the most correct reading possible.

A chronometer and later the very accurate hand held watches, many famously originating from Switzerland, were known as timekeepers or time-pieces aboard ship. They were a source of concern for common sailors. Like the compass with its magnetic workings, time-pieces seemed somewhat magical and therefore must be given a wider berth.

Timenoguy is an ancient word for a stay that could prevent sheets or tacks from getting fouled in other rigging. These ropes were particularly used in the fore rigging.

A timoneer is a helmsman. The word came to English via the French timonier and could also indicate a pilot in some cases. Along the same lines is the word timonogy, which is described in The Sailor’s Word Book thusly:

This term properly belongs to steering, and is derived from timon, the tiller, and the twiddling-lines, which worked in olden times on a gauge in front of the poop, in ships of the line, by which the position of the helm was easily read even from the forecastle.

And with that, happy Saturday, Brethren. Keep your timeonguy and your twiddling-lines taut and, whenever possible, make time for yourself and those you love.

Header: Frigate Rose as HMS Surprise by Scott Kennedy

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Idler

According to my particular friend Mr. Webster, the main definition of idler is:


One who does nothing and wastes time; a lazy person; a sluggard.

The word comes to us from the Middle English word idlen, meaning useless which may have been influenced by either the Anglo-Saxon word idilian or the Old French word idutile (modern inutile), both of which also mean useless. By land, an idler is what a friend of mine used to call a “minimum participator in life”. But at sea, the word is a fond reference to some of the hardest working people aboard a blue water ship.

An idler, in seamen’s terms, is a person who, due to their need to work continuously throughout the day, is not expected to stand a night watch. This allows these sailors to be up with the sun and back in their hammock long after supper has come and gone. The only exception to their schedule is during times of stress such as battle or storm when all hands are expected to be on deck.

The main officer jokingly referred to as an idler was the bosun. His constant management of all sails, rigging, anchors, cables, flags, pennants and so forth made him – and the knowledge he brought with him – indispensible at almost any point during a cruise. Of the four main idlers, it was a good bosun who probably saw the least time in his cot.

Along with the bosun, the sailmaker, carpenter and cook where also considered idlers. By the 18th century, surgeons and their mates, marine officers and paymasters had also been added to the list.

Much like waisters, who were simply given their name because they tended to work at a ship’s waist, idlers were so called as an amusement. Sailors love to name a thing, and if they can make its moniker worth a chuckle so much the better.

With all that, the occasional grumble was doubtless heard on a particularly unpleasant night: Damn idlers; sleeping while we stand the graveyard watch.

Header: Royal Navy Bosun c 1829 via Ancestory.com

Tools of the Trade: Mind Your Bells

I don't think I need to tell you, Brethren, that ships don't run themselves. Being the original "don't drink and drive" vehicle they had to be watched constantly (and soberly) during the age of wooden ships and iron men. And watching the ship gave us the term "watch" and being on watch meant that the ship was at no time left to her own devises.

Watches, originally adopted of course by the great navies, were - and still are - common to all ships. Even the most undisciplined freebooter afloat had a watch system of some kind. There's no pay in running aground or wrecking on a reef regardless of your chosen profession. The general watch system was simple and easy to follow, and it ensured that no man had the same watch two days at a time. This was helpful given that sleep could only be got in a maximum of four hour increments for the average, healthy sailor. Here's how it worked.

A ships company was divided in half, each half being a "watch" (on very large men-of-war and ships of the line which could carry upwards of 800 men, the company might be divided into thirds). They were named for the sides of the ship with one being the larboard (now port) watch and the other being the starboard watch. A man identified with his watch and there was often a friendly rivalry between them. Each group stepped in to mind the ship alternately during the periods - also called watches - that divided the day. They were as follows:

Middle, or Graveyard, watch: midnight to 4:00 AM
Morning watch: 4:00 to 8:00 AM
Forenoon watch: 8:00 AM to noon
Afternoon watch: noon to 4:00 PM
First dog watch: 4:00 to 6:00 PM
Second dog watch: 6:00 to 8:00 PM
First watch: 8:00 PM to midnight

As you can see, the "dog watches" were each two hours long and they were the mechanism by which no man had to serve the same watches two days in a row. Obviously it was a grueling schedule but doubtless once the daily routine set in no one thought much about it.

Virtually everyone aboard ship was subject to the watches which were kept on track by careful timekeeping (with a half hour glass) and a system of bells (which is another topic all together). While the Captain was entitled to take watches as he saw fit, and non-service officers like surgeons and chaplains did not participate in the system, every other healthy soul aboard - even boys as young as seven - were subject to their watch.

Makes you appreciate an eight hour day and a good night's sleep a little more, doesn't it mate? Me too!