Long ago, in the prosperous times before any oil crisis or world trade recessions, I met a man who was sitting in a boatyard dumpster. I tactfully lobbed my bag of garbage well clear of him and we fell into conversation, as one does with strangers in dumps.

"Looks like rain again," I observed.

Tom Cunliffe at the helm.

"Sure does," the stranger replied. "Guess I'd better get a move on. Don't want all this stuff to get soaked."

He spoke with a cultured accent, but I noticed he had the weathered hands of a deep–sea sailor.

"Which stuff's that?" I continued. He was eyeing up a piece of metal poking out from under his pile of junk. And with a heave he dragged out his prize. It was a substantial bronze turnbuckle that looked seized–up.

"Perfect for the forestay!," he announced. "Mine's on skid row. It saw me home from Rio just now, but that's its last trip. I'll soak this one in diesel overnight then I'll get it into the vise. It'll soon be moving again."

THE ART OF DUMPSTER DIVING

My new friend turned out to be an old–school ocean adventurer. He paid his way, but he never parted with a dollar unless he had to. We were in his home port, where he returned every so often for a major refit. The place was notorious for high prices and well–heeled customers, but he pointed out that by paying out for a week's marina berth he gained access to the best–stocked dumpsters in the seven seas.

He timed his arrival to coincide with the spring fit–out weekend, and the dumpster harvest settled his yard bill many times over.
I was an impecunious young man in those days and I'd just visited the chandler who had shamelessly levered five bucks out of my skinny wallet in exchange for a halyard shackle.

Where are the bargains found? Sometimes, in the parking lot.The next item that surfaced from the dump was a nasty–looking length of wire. Ignoring the jags, the sailor from the other side of the cultural fence grabbed this and extricated it, foot by foot. At the bitter end was a beautiful stainless shackle complete with captive pin. He pocketed it with a flourish and was inspecting the contents of a half–used can of anti–fouling paint when I wandered away with my hand clapped to my forehead.

I'd learned a lot in the preceding ten minutes. Since then, I've never passed a dumpster since without a discreet peep into its depths. This policy has stood me in good stead.

Not so many years back, I strolled down the yard to empty my trash one Sunday evening after everyone had gone home. As I tossed it into the bin, I performed my usual rapid survey of the contents and was richly rewarded for my diligence. Without even having to clamber inside, I hooked out an echo sounder, half a bottle of gin, a 25 fathom coil of ¾–inch polyester rope and a folio of charts.

My own sounder had just died. The unit under the rubbish was the same brand and model. Some prodigal individual had thrown it out imagining it didn't work, but a casual examination revealed its only problem. The aluminum socket for the coaxial transducer plug had suffered minor corrosion. A few moments with sandpaper and it was good as new. I fastened it to the bulkhead, hooked up the transducer and connected the power. Ten feet, it said, and it was right. It read out flawlessly for another four years until I sold the boat. For all I know it is still in service.

The gin didn't last long. I leavened it with tonic which, alas, I was constrained to purchase with ready money.

Every boat should carry a long, stout length of line. You never know what you'll need it for, but need it you will one fine day. I scrutinized it carefully, because 150 feet of serious cordage costs a lot of money, but it didn't have the usual chafe right in the middle that effectively undermines most ropes found in the dumpster. It was a bit fluffy, but that apart, it looked up to snuff, so I whipped the ends and stowed it up forward.

The author outfitted portions of his 22-ton, gaff-rigged cutter with parts found in marina dumpsters.Sure enough, two years later it saved my boat one filthy night in northern Norway. I ran it out to a mighty pine tree ashore over the top of the dubious dock to which we were secured. Without it, the whole shooting match would surely have floated away in the sixty knots of solid katabatic wind that hammered down from the local glacier from midnight until breakfast. It's back in the foc'sle now, waiting for its next moment of glory.

BARGAIN BASEMENT

Probably the best deal of all that Sunday evening was the charts. All neatly labelled, they nestled in one of those old–fashioned oilskin wrappers; a complete set for Atlantic Spain and Portugal. Since I was in Europe at the time and likely to be cruising Spanish waters, this was a haul indeed. The fact that that they were out of date and uncorrected was a bit of a drawback, but as a Greek of my acquaintance once observed after his dinghy sank in deep water, "You can't have everything in this life."

As it happened, the charts had their month in the sunshine that very summer. I'd never have been able to afford so comprehensive a package so, although they looked as though the Admiral of the Invincible Armada might have been the first user, not having to buy them was a blessed relief. As a penniless operator I was used to dealing with charts whose recent history was in question, but a whole folio out of Noah's Ark was a novelty, even to me. The experience reaffirmed the general rationalization that the rocks don't change, but the fact that everything else can alter – a lot – was rammed down my throat more than once. In particular, the lights and buoys that mark the trouble can rapidly become unrecognizable.

As soon as a chart has been re–issued as a new version, it passes beyond the reach of Notices to Mariners, so correcting mine was difficult in the extreme. However, I found that a good almanac or a tide and pilot book generally has a list of lights and buoys, so if you're in doubt about a mark that matters, you can always look it up and check. Out–of–date charts may not be what the doctor ordered but, if they're all you have, you're a lot better off than a sailor with no charts at all.

American authorities have a surprisingly healthy attitude about this issue. Not so long ago it fell to me to write a navigation text book for American sailors. Back home in Britain, anyone suggesting that old charts are a fact of life for many people would be hung out to dry off London Bridge. Imagine my delight on being invited to pen a brief section on how to live with a chart that's past its sell–by date. I won't go so far as to say that all US citizens should join the man who fitted out his yacht from the dumpster, but it did come like a breath of fresh air.