The Hay Field
"Some pony on the landing told me that 'Cress is the weirdest boat design he ever saw," said the little filly to her uncle as she flipped the stern dockline free and hauled it aboard. "But she's just an ordinary ol' hay scow, isn't she?"
"Well," her uncle said thoughtfully, as he tightened the main sheet enough to get a little air into Watercress's mainsail, "they must be new to the valley. The scows are common enough here, but they don't build 'em anywhere else I know of. An' they sorta grew into what they are now over the last decade or so. Nopony really designed them."
The two ponies were busy for a few minutes, easing their unwieldy boat out of the farm canal and into a side channel of the Hydra River.
"Why's that, Uncle?" Catspaw asked the skipper when they'd gotten out into deeper water. She knew he loved to tell stories, and they had a long, easy run down to the river proper.
"It wasn't until Twilight Town started really growing that they needed to import hay from the Hydra Valley. No way they was going to haul it bale by bale over the Black Ridge, so the logical way was by boat."
"So, they built the scows, Uncle?"
The old stallion cleared his throat. "Now that you're my official crew, you oughta call me Captain— leastwise, when you're aboard."
"Yes, Captain!" she said, brightly. "Uh, izzat Captain Kedge or Captain Uncle?"
The skipper chuckled fondly and then snapped, with mock gruffness, "None of your sass matey, or I'll stop your cider ration!"
"Mom don't let me drink cider," Catspaw said. "I like juice better, anyway." She thought for a minute and then asked, "If they didn't have scows back then, what sorta boats did they use?"
"Why, in the early days of the hay trade, you might see somecreature on the bay in little rowing skiff, with a half-dozen bales packed in around 'em, pullin' like mad for Twilight Port!"
"There's no way they could move all of that hay in skiffs!" she protested. "There's over a hundred farms all along the river!"
"Well, there are, now," her uncle said. "Before folk figured out how much money they could make growing grass, and Queen Twilight cleaned out all the hydras, there was only a few scattered farmsteads. Anyway, whatever they are, the Twilight Folk aren't dumb or lazy, so they started building boats that were better and better at hauling hay 'cause the more hay they hauled in one trip, the more money they made. The boats had to be small and shallow draft enough to get up the sloughs and canals where the loading landings are, but they had to hold as many bales as possible."
"So that's why they're built like boxes? 'Cause hay bales are rectang'lar shaped?"
"Yep! That makes loading a whole lot easier, and you can pack in more bales. Didn't happen all at once, cause there was a lotta folks who thought you'd have to have pointy bows and such for when they got down the river and onto Crescent Bay. Turned out they was wrong about that."
"They was wrong about another thing too—" He broke off and squinted at their course ahead. "Nip forward and ease that jib sheet a bit, Cat. There's a bend coming up."
Catspaw trotted over the top of their cargo to her station at the bow. She was fairly young, but forward crew had to be short to fit under the jibboom. Any pony taller than her risked getting their brains knocked out during a jibe, and so there were several capable fillies and colts, and chicks, and calves, and such among the crews of the fleet.
Catspaw was a natural sailor. She had her own little scow skiff and knew the tidal channels of the Hydra as well as anyone, and had explored the upper reaches of the river as far as her parents would allow her. Truth be told (only when she thought her parents weren’t listening), she'd gone even farther than that on a few outings with adventurous friends.
She adjusted the sail smoothly, matching the skipper's easing of the mainsail exactly, then scampered back aft to hear the rest of the story.
"Now, in those days ponies would make the run with only two layers of bales on deck."
"What? Izzat true, Unc… Um, Captain?" Catspaw knew her uncle loved storytelling, but she also knew that the strict truth held a very distant second place in his affections. She looked down at the towering load they were both standing on and counted the layers. "They'd have to make four runs to carry what we got here! You sure they weren't stupid back then?"
"Not a bit of it! First off, they couldn't stand at the wheel and see over more than two layers, not until they fixed up wheels like this one that they could unship and put up on top of the load. Soon as that happened, the race was on!"
The filly looked down thoughtfully at the hay. "Could we get another couple of layers on here, d'you think?"
"Not without risking sinking at the loading dock or capsizing in a stiff breeze. Believe me, some folks tried it. Besides, we look silly enough as it is. Big ol' cube of hay, sailn' down to the bay!" Captain Kedge caught sight of a big green marker set on a post on the shore. "We're comin' up on the confluence with the main channel. Get forward!"
Catspaw went to her station, and remained there. The scow schooner jibed twice while they ran down the last league of the Hydra, and Cat handled the big headsail perfectly each time. She hauled in the sheet as they came dead downwind with just enough oomph to swing the heavy boom across the centerline, and then eased it out, as smooth as silk, as the wind filled it again.
She'd been out on the bay with her griffin friend Gar to do some fishing quite a few times. She didn't care much for fish, but timing the ebb and flow of the tide and puzzling out the subtleties of the currents they caused was good experience. Navigating the sometimes tricky bar at the main channel mouth had been a bit scary the first couple of times, but soon she could judge just the right line to take in almost any conditions.
She called out to Captain Kedge as they reached the bar at the river's mouth, letting him know the position of the clearest channel. In her skiff, it was hard to tell where the standing wave might leave a hollow only inches above the sand of the bar, or where a cross-current might create a dangerous whirlpool. From on top of eight layers of hay bales, on the other hoof, she had a nearly birds-eye view. It was just as simple as looking down on a chart, and they scooted across with a minimum of wallow, even though the tide was nearly at full ebb.
The filly was ridiculously pleased at her uncle's quiet, "Nicely done, Cat."
And then they were out on the Crescent Bay and about to make history. It's not every day that ponies give a name to a geographic location.
The trade winds generally blew from east to west, across the mouth of the bay, so there were rarely any significant waves in the sheltered waters—just wind riffles and whatever cross chop was reflected by the big rocky headland at the western end of the bay. That didn't mean it was always a comfortable ride for a big flat-bottomed craft. With even moderate chop, it could feel like sitting on a piano that was being pushed off of a curb every few seconds. Not dangerous, unless the craft was old and decrepit, but far from pleasant.
Then there were the times that some distant storm in the South Lunar Sea kicked up waves that rolled directly into the mouth of the bay. This day was one of those times.
Catspaw was rarely seasick, but the rough pitching, yawing, and rolling of the schooner was too much for her, and her breakfast decided it was time to abandon ship. Like a seasoned sailor and thoughtful merchant, she went to the leeward side of the boat and leaned out as far as she dared before letting go.
"Good lass," her uncle called out to her from where he had a deathgrip on the wheel. "Nopony at the Grassmarket will want to buy a hay bale with some filly's chunder on it!"
She would have laughed if she didn't think it would make her barf again.
A few minutes later, the captain called out again, "Shoals ahead! Keep watch!" It was purely a formality. The underwater continuation of the jagged basalt ridge that separated the Hydra Valley from Twilight Valley[1] was something that the big, ocean going cargo ships had to avoid, and it was well marked by several large buoys. But even at low tide, a fully-laden scow schooner could cross the mid-bay shoals with a fathom or two to spare.
----------------
[1] Yes, nearly everything in the western Crescent Bay region was named for Twilight Sparkle. Her subjects were unreasonably enthusiastic about her at the best of times, and it caused no little despair among mapmakers.
Watercress and her crew had almost crossed the line of marker buoys to the west of the shoals when they were hit hard. It happened so fast that neither of them had any time to react. One moment they were juddering along and the next, several tons of water overtopped the cargo, and the scow smashed over on her beam.
Catspaw was thrown into the water, a heavy hay bale smacking down on top of her then bursting its bailing cords and practically exploding all around her. She spit out salt water and sodden hay as she surfaced, staring wildly around.
The deck of the schooner was canted above her, slewing around and making a horrible grinding noise as the choppy waves raked the submerged, starboard side of her hull against the jagged rocks of the shoal.
Catspaw realized that 'Cress was only kept from completely capsizing by her masts, which wouldn't last long under the punishment they were taking. She swam away from the hull as quickly as she could and shouted for her uncle. "Captain? Captain, where are you?"
She had a hard time seeing anything because of the mass of floating hay, and the noise the poor scow was making as she was ground into driftwood was so loud that she wasn't sure she would be able to hear her uncle even if he shouted back.
With a rending crackle, the masts gave way, and the scow schooner turned turtle with a hollow boom! At least she was floating again—and without the constant grinding noise, Catspaw heard a desperate cry from somewhere nearby. She splashed toward the sound and found her uncle trying to climb up onto one of the few intact hay bales. All he was managing to do was to roll it over and over in the water.
Catspaw grabbed a piece of broken plank in her teeth and dog-paddled over to her uncle. "Grab this," she said, pushing the floating piece of wood to him.
He hooked his forelegs over the plank and gasped in relief. Like a lot of sailors, he couldn't swim worth a clipped bit, and had nearly exhausted himself in panic.
"I'll tow us over to the hull," Catspaw offered. "It's still floating and we can get out of the water."
"Right," Kedge gasped. "Good lass."
When they had clambered up onto the slightly green and slippery bottom, Kedge peered across the water to the docks at Twilight Port in the distance. "Sails up. They've seen us!"
Catspaw found that once she was safe and eventual rescue was certain, she had started shivering. "What happened? Was it magic? A sea monster?"
Kedge shook his head. "Dunno, lass. I wouldn't think a monster nor a bad magician would dare set hoof in these parts. Not 'less they was tired of living, leastways. All I saw was a wave taller than the cargo suddenly jump up outta nowhere."
The sailing craft were having to beat against the wind, so the little crystal-powered pilot boat belonging to the harbormaster's office reached them first.
"Ahoy there!" the pony in the little skiff called out to them from the edge of the hay-spill. "Anypony hurt or still in the water?"
"No, just us two, and we're okay," Kedge called back to her.
"Alright then. I'll stand by here if you can hang on until that big ketch arrives. If I try to motor through all that grass, I'll foul my prop for sure."
"Thank you," Catspaw called out to her in a squeaky and somewhat shaky voice.
The pilot took a better look at her and asked, "You sure you're okay there, filly? I could work my way over—"
Kedge interrupted her by laughing. "This little filly is the one that pulled me outta the drink! She's not just okay, she's damned excellent!"
The pilot grinned and glanced over her shoulder. "You've drifted west of the buoy line, so the ketch should be able to put alongside, no problem."
Catspaw cleared her throat and said, "Ma'am, we didn't see what happened. We didn't hit bottom, just one minute we were cookin' along and the next it was like a whale slapped us with its tail. Did anyone at the port see anything?"
"Harbormaster's assistant did," the mare replied. "He had a spyglass on you wondering how you were dealing with this miserable chop, and he said a big wave just came up outta nowhere and buried you. A couple other folk said they saw the same."
"Some sort of magic?" Catspaw asked.
"No," the pilot shook her head. "Rogue waves, they call them. Queen Twilight once explained it all with graphs and such at a meeting of the Merchant Sailors Benevolent Society. Only happens under rare conditions over shallow water. Most sailors never see one. You ponies just got lucky!"
Somehow, the pilot joking about the disaster made Catspaw feel better.
"Ahoy!" came a cry from one of the crew of the big ketch as it neared the wreckage. "Everypony alright?"
"We're fine!" Cat called back.
"We'll come alongside to leeward, so make ready to swing across sharply. Can you manage?"
"No worries!"
The ketch's crew put her alongside the ruined hull no more than a hoof's width away, and once Kedge and Catspaw were aboard, let her sails fill to get her quickly out of the debris field. It was a neat bit of sailing, and Cat wondered how different a ketch was from a schooner to maneuver. Probably easier, she decided.
Then she looked back at the scene of the wreck and gasped. The scow's floating cargo completely covered the water for acres. "That's no shoal!" she yelled, "It's a whole darned hay field!"
Cat’s indignant exclamation tidily skewered the lingering tension, and the crew of the ketch fairly fell about laughing. As such things go, the story got around, and the shoals appeared on all future charts of the bay as The Hay Field.
= = =
=
Jordanis made me rewrite the whole opening section, and he was right to do so. I do know that dry exposition is to be avoided at all costs, but sometimes it takes a little tap of the don't-be-stupid hammer to remind me.
Thanks, man! 
I don't usually do extensive author's notes, but as this chapter contains a lot of complex nautical stuff, I thought that some additional information might be useful here.
A "catspaw," in nautical usage, is the pattern a gust of wind makes on the water.
A "kedge" is a type of anchor, and in the verb form, means to haul a becalmed craft along using an anchor.
"Chunder" is nautical slang for vomiting, and is a shortened form of "watch under!", a cry to warn deckhands that someone aloft in the rigging is losing their fight with seasickness.
A schooner is a craft with a main and a foremast. A ketch is a craft with a main and a mizzen mast, the mizzen forward of the rudder post. (And if I may betray a bit of nautical prejudice, if a craft has a mainmast with a mizzen aft of the rudderpost it is a yawl, or (IMHO) a badly-balanced ketch.)
The above story is true. Or true-ish, which is the best sort of true. Way back when, scow schooners were very real:
And a few of them are still around:
Unfortunately, rogue waves are very real as well. Here's one over the Potato Patch shoals:
And here's an artificially generated rogue wave in a testing tank (Start@3:13):
And for those of you that might like even more detail in your nautical notes...
Tacks and Jibes:
When a sailing ship "tacks," she swings her bow across the direction the wind is coming from, and her sails and booms swing gently to follow the wind direction.
When a ship "jibes," she swings her stern across the wind, and that means her sails want to stay where they are until the last moment, when they want to suddenly swing all the way to the other side of the craft. The boom has to be carefully managed to make it move as slowly and smoothly as possible. And unplanned or badly managed jibe can not only sweep crew off the fore deck, but actually damage the rigging or capsize the craft.
Sometimes, when a skipper doesn't trust his crew or craft, he will loop around in a 270 degree tack to avoid a 90 degree jibe. The nautical slang for this maneuver is a "chicken jibe."
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Huh, and here I'd been waiting for the other meaning to kick in.
Ah, Catspaw. Always a promising name for a young pony.
(Before reading the author's note, I only knew the term as a criminal accomplice. Which, to be fair, is probably also a viable occupation in Twilight Town.)
The Queen would approve, I'm sure.
Lots of Twilights, lots of Sparkles, and the occasional Winnifred.
Delightful non-entry. I do love a good, terminology-rich slice of life.
Guessing that this is set a good few decades after Twilight Town was founded then?
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Whenever Catspaw introduces herself, ponies always do an immediate cutie mark check... and then relax. Or sigh in disappointment, if they're a certain type.
Winnifred Wells is a nice little spa, I'm told.
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Only about 15 years; Boomtowns grow fast!
D'oh, forgot to favorite this.
A rich incident in the life of a young sailor
There might not be any more hydras, but the water holds many secrets still.
Interesting; thanks. :)
Truly, I am a tyrant mad with power!
Your rewrite came out almost perfect on the first pass, though. Very nice.
👌
I love Grand Admiral Bisquick's not-a-contest(s). The entries almost invariably end up completely fascinating to me. There's just something about watching ponies function that's arresting. As such, I really enjoyed this chapter.
About the packing efficiency. I work shipping sometimes. 1 of the problems with more than 2 dimensions is that we do not of efficients like 1:√2 of 2 dimensions (ISO 216). Usually, if the dimensions do not reflect the size and shape of the packed, we use crates with the dimensions of 1:2:3 on pallets with dimensions of 6:5 with 5 crates on a layer, 6 layers high. we also have an hierarchy:
Did Twilight just kill off all the apex predators in a delicate ecosystem? What did Fluttershy say when she found out?
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Yep. Anybody involved in shipping knows it's a very complex and detailed craft. Only in the movies does a ship's hold look like the jumble of grandma's attic.
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She carefully and gently moved them to the Central Manehattan Monster Sanctuary and Petting Zoo where they're very well cared for.
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How often are there mixups between the sanctuary and the petting zoo sections, I wonder?
I, as a nautical noob, liked the extended author's notes, BTW. In fact, I'd argue that me still not knowing what in the bloody hells "jibbing" is probably makes a decent argument for them not being extended enough.
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For BreakBulkCargo, he now have the InterModal Container, capable of going from truckbeds, flatbed railwaycars, to general cargoships. This has lead to containerization. Because of containerization, ships carrying BreakBulkCargo looks like it is full of stacked blocks instead of "the jumble of grandma's attic".
Where mares glow and stallions chunder?
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¡I see what you did there!:
Personally, I prefer New Zealand. Unfortunately, in my country, our leader is Trump, the leader we deserve, but the leader we need is New Zealand Prime Minister Jacinda Kate Laurell Ardern —— ¡she is the bestest!
You could take your name off this chapter and I could still tell that you wrote it just from all the sailing terms
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Wow! Scow Schooners! I would never have believed it but for the pictures, so thanks.
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Now I am imagining a giant hydra in a park with fillies and colts all over him, one neck arced down into a slide position, one asleep, and the last noming cotton candy.
I've heard of tacking before, in the context of sailing against the wind. Because that's something you might want conceivably want to do in some circumstances.