BOSUN’S BAG
nce upon a time I sailed a smart boat that had varnished ash blocks. They looked great at first, pale in colour and made a nice contrast with the golden pine spars, but as time went by they took a few knocks and it was a different story. They suffered those small dings inevitable in a gaffer that goes sailing. The rain and salt slipped under the edge of the abrasions and the lovely blocks began to show horrid black stains. If I’d had nothing else to do with my life, I could have carefully patched the
