WLL SWL MBL MWL TTFN

Working load limit (WLL), safe working load (SWL) and minimum and
maximum rated loads explained.

The term safe working load, (SWL) was the cornerstone of engineering, particularly with regard to load carrying equipment, for many years.
It was generally considered to be the breaking load of a component divided by an appropriate factor of safety giving a ‘safe’ load that could be lifted or be carried.
About 20 years ago, however, the USA ceased using this term, because of legal implications.
The European and ISO Standards followed suit a few years later. However, while this was a
clean-cut move, for some time there has been indecision as to exactly what replacement terms could be used.
Over the past two or three years, both the Americans and Europeans have agreed that working load limit (WLL) should replace safe working load (SWL) in describing the capacity of items such as hooks, slings and shackles etc.
A general definition of WLL was:
the maximum mass or force which a product is authorized to support in general service when the pull is applied in-line, unless noted otherwise, with respect to the centreline of the product:
i.e. the WLL of a component is specified by the manufacturer.
However, while the definition for working load limit was originally confined exclusively to the manufacturer’s specified maximum load that the item could lift, it is now generally extended to include both of the following:The maximum load that an item can lift and the maximum load that an item can lift in a particular configuration or application.
If the WLL is thought of as an assessment of the maximum load an item could lift under ideal conditions, the SWL (if the term is going to be used) can now best be thought of as being a derating of WLL, following an assessment by a competent person of the maximum load the item can sustain under the conditions in which the item is being used.
Example:
If a 3 tonne (t) sling hook is attached to the bottom end of a 3 t single-leg wire rope or chain sling in a general use application, it retains its inherent WLL of 3 t. This is its maximum load.
However, if a two-leg sling consists of two such legs, the WLL for the sling hook in such a
configuration is (1.73 x 3 t) / 2 = 2.6 t.
If the hook is to be used in a non-general application (e.g. in a mine shaft or in a hazardous situation such as a hot environment), it may be derated further. Its SWL (as determined by the competent person) in this particular application will be less than the original WLL of 3 t.
Some British (BS), European (EN) and International Standards (ISO) for personal protection against falls from a height have introduced the terms maximum rated load and minimum rated load into revisions of standards and into new standards. The maximum rated load equates to the WLL. Some components require both the minimum and maximum rated load to be marked on the product.
In the UK the Construction Lifting Operations Regulations 1961 defined it such that it actually became the load which could legally be lifted.
The minimum rated load is required where the performance of a component is
affected by a low mass. An example of a product where both a high mass and a low mass can affect performance is a descending device.

Crikey, that’s all as clear as mud then.

P1010053.jpg

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Erith, when it was in Kent

The following poem, ‘an Ode to Old Erith’, Robert the Devil’s stomping ground, written by Pat Watson in 1982, mentions ‘Bob the Devil’.

ODE TO OLD ERITH

It was always a shabby, funny town, when I was small:
It’s only claim to fame, I suppose, was the River,
which ebbed and flowed in muddy brown and grey regularity,
providing an ever changing picture of dreams for the eyes of the young and old,
or the idle, to dwell upon.

It was always a strange, little, sprawling town,
with nothing at all of importance to merit a place in the shape of things to come.
Here it nestled, like a favourite, comfortable, patchwork shawl, the fringes of which tapered towards the creeks of Slades Green and Crayford;
dwelling a moment at Bexley and Welling;
crossing to Bedonwell and Bostal.
Beneath the folds haphazardly tumbled Northumberland Heath, with upper and lower Belvedere here, and Barnehurst there;
in between glowing a patch or two of changing green, as the woods and parks filtered through the embroidery of stitches
that held it together with fields and ditches;
eventually sweeping around and down
past abbey wood marshes
and back to the river.

It was always a friendly, squat, little town,
with industry forming a warming collar
around it’s neck; the ribbon of water wandering by firmly held in it’s place,
loosely tie-ing a flexible knot of strength
against the fogs and mists
of all that threatened the pattern of sleeping security.

Quickly, quickly, write it down
before those that remember have long been forgotten,
with nothing to show
and no-one to know how reshaping
and raping could possibly happen,
and why such a garment lies in tatters,
threadbare and worn, and all that matters
is sadly forlorn and desolate now,
abandoned, exhausted-
and those that permitted such devastation
have gone, long gone …
moved on.

Just for a moment indulge in nostalgia,
name a few names for memory to conjure
the magic that hustled and bustled under
the harlequin cloak, before the plunder
of planning and banning and closing
tore the patches asunder.

The Causeway of old, with convenient railings
on which you could lean to gossip, and yarn,
and gaze on a scene of rocks, and mud,
and pools of water in which you could paddle,
when the tide was out, with wagers to swim
to the other side of the river –
there was even sand
for children to dabble.
Piers and jetties, chains and things,
wet warm timbers, ropes and rings
which held the dinghies and yachts and boats
buoys and floats bobbing
when the tide was in.

The fat black barges gliding by
with ochre brown sails riding high in the water
like graceful swans;
the diligent tugs, tooting and fussy,
pushing and shoving, eternally busy.
Tramps and Cruisers and Men-O-War;
Coasters and Colliers and Steamers galore;
port and starboard, for and aft,
every conceivable waterway craft,
casting off and heaving to –
the Pilot’s Hut with the tide times on view.
Regattas and pennants and flags a –blowing,
never-endingly coming and going watermen,
merchantmen, rowing and rowing-
straining backs and muscles aquiver,
Doggett Men too-
the pride of the River.

The coal, the grain, and the flown mill;
Fraser’s Pond and Bunker’s Hill-
the Cinder Path, the Rec’. the Terries,
the Seamen’s Home; picking blackberries.
The Ritz, the Rialto, the Oxford, the Rex;
the Locomotive- Sunday School texts.
The Cobbler, the Smithie; the disinfect can;
the Sea Scouts, the Saw Mills; the School Board Man.
Frank’s Park fireworks, Callender’s Band
tightly packed in the small bandstand.
The betting slips; the Registrar;
the Library Museum; the four-ale-bar;
little boys fishing with tiddlers
in jar.

The ‘Rose and Crown’ and the ‘Wheatley Arms’ ;
gipsy weddings, the crossing of palms.
St. Fidelis; ‘Bob-the-Devil’ ;
running round tombstones in the
Old Church yard to ward off evil;
the wicket gates at the level crossings.

Swiftly, swiftly, paper and pen,
put down the words and
remember them ……..

Gone are the Cobbles, the alleys,
the paths, the trams, the prams,
the open air baths.
Bye-Brothers; Linwood’s the Salvation Army
on Burton’s corner every Sunday.
The gutters, the shutters, the Home-and-Colonial;
the World Stores, the Maypole, the neatly professional
patting of butter with spatulas wooden;
kippers for tea, faggots, pease pudding.
the Fibro; Selfe’s; Penton-and-Deans;
shrimps and cockles and coffee beans.
Starkey’s, and Randal’s printing presses;
the local paper done on the spot;
gammon from Davis; the wet-fish shop.

The hub of it all was Mitchell’s Store,
the very core of the town, with personal
assistants, yards of material measured
with care, the buttons, the cottons,
the crimping of hair; second hand furniture
round the corner; three brass balls if you
wanted to pawn a thing on two;
the Knackers’ Yard; the Late Night Final;
the Laundry; the Dairy; the Men’s Urinal.
checks of tin from the Co-op Stores;
Mence Smith’s; Dales; and pails
of manure yours for the taking;
barber’s poles; Groom’s and the smell
of baking.

It was always an honourable, vulnerable town ….
that could be the reason for knocking it down!
Tear out its character, flatten its face-
we’ll soon think of something to put in its place.
Never mind what, and never mind where …..
move it around a bit- up in the air!
Let’s have some changes- let’s have some ‘go’-
What were we putting here? Someone must know!

And so it went on, and on, and on …….
until all that we knew of Old Erith had gone
It took them some time to take it apart;
dying by stages, a work of ‘art’ you might say,
in a way –
All that was good was whittled away, and all
that was bad was left to decay
of its own accord.

………………….

I could write more but I’ve gone on too long,
progress, we know, has got to go on- but
why did it happen and where did it start?
We’re left with a town without a heart,
not better but worse than we had before!

There’s very few left who remember it now,
the new generation could not really care
about something they never would know or share.

Sadly, sadly, read it through,
the ones who recall it all-
you, and you …….
the ones who grew up with me
when I was small – born here,
and taught here, and worked here-
you know what I’m writing of-
you understand and,
if you’ve a moment or two in hand,
go down by the River …….
yes, it’s still there- and stand
and share with me dog-eared regrets
for the ‘used to be’-
of the rough little, gruff little
Erith we knew, and read to yourself
this Obituary.

…………………………………………

Written by Pat Watson
March, 1982.

Posted in Maritime, Prose | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Sea sung ditty

Eeeh you can say what you like about the arts but a good old sing your heart out verse of song can work wonders. They say.

How’s this then? Filched from ‘The Campfire Songbook’ by the plagiarisors  at the towers without shame or regret. Speaking personally, it was the last line that did it for me!

UP THE IRISH SEA

       D                                                        A7                 D

When I was one I sucked my thumb and sailed away to sea,

                                                                 A7               D

I jumped aboard a pirate ship and the Captain said to me

                      D                                         A7               D

“We’re sailing north southeast west and UP the Irish Sea

         G                     D                      A7                    D

“A bottle of rum to fill my tum, and that’s the life for me”.

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Not Southampton then?

What is this that stands before me

Figure in black which points at me

Turn round quick and start to run

Tomorrow’s plans are now in tatters

Helia crane too smart human contact

Commercial considerations are all that matters.

With a quick fankyoo to Ozzy Osbourne for helping me with the above, it’s time to say:

go to

Master-Mariners.org.uk

Now

P1010472

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More from the haharchers.blogspot.com

Sunday, 13 November 2016

Well Played, Lilian And Oliver!

On Tuesday evening, Lilian took a phone call from Rob – he has seen an AmSide property – Hillside – on the website and it looks just what he’s looking for, so when can Lilian show him round? She is stunned – how did he know about the property, as it has only been on the website for about 10 minutes?

That’s the question she asks Justin the following day and he admits that he might have mentioned it to Rob. Lilian cannot believe that Rob would have the nerve to ask her, but Justin, who seems to have no idea of the depth of anti-Titchener feeling among the majority of inhabitants of Ambridge, doesn’t see what the problem is. Lilian says, somewhat incredulously, “You’re talking about the man who raped my niece and you want me to put a roof over his head?” Justin points out that Rob hasn’t been convicted of anything and he is lucky to escape without being struck.

Later on, Lilian is still in a bad mood and Justin apologises if he had been insensitive. Lilian refuses his offer of lunch and tells him “How do you think my family would feel – how would I feel – if I became his landlord?” Justin suggests that it could be a good thing for Helen, if Rob is free to start a new life, but “the decision has to be yours alone. As ever, I trust your impeccable judgement.” That’s not strictly accurate, as, when Justin was thinking of taking Rob on, Lilian advised against it and Justin ignored her advice.

Lilian mulls it over and, on Thursday, she tells Rob face to face that she has ‘other plans’ for Hillside. He retorts that he has found a better property on the Edgeley Road anyway and drives off. For her part, Lilian goes to The Bull, inviting Neil and Eddie to join her (“my treat”) to celebrate turning Rob down as a tenant. Eddie is all for it, but Neil says better not, as Susan will smell beer on his breath and bang on about the diet again. “But I wouldn’t say no to one of Wayne’s pork pies” he says, brightly. Well done, Lilian!

You do have to wonder about the blind spot that Justin has when it comes to Rob – he treats him as a normal, human being. The only other person who does that is Alan, and he has to, as that’s his job as vicar. On Friday evening, Justin invites Rob round to discuss an upcoming takeover – he wants Rob to help him with the research. Justin asks if he was disappointed at not getting Hillside? Not at all; in fact, Rob says Lilian has done him a favour, as he’s away from all the petty prejudice that he encounters in Ambridge.

Justin seems genuinely concerned, asking Rob if that bothers him much? “I barely notice it now” Rob tells him, to which Justin observes that it still cannot be very pleasant. “Water off a duck’s back,” Rob says, adding: “I shouldn’t have got tangled up with one of the oldest families in the district. I was never going to get a fair hearing, was I, so why bother fighting it?” Justin calls this attitude “very philosophical” and Rob replies that that’s the way he’s always been. “Even at school, I’d rather be right than popular” he says, inviting the comment that one out of two isn’t bad.

Justin describes this as “a refreshing approach” and expresses the hope that Rob stays that way. Is the man insane? The two talk of Charlie Thomas and his shortcomings and Justin says that Damara and BL are building for the future and what will be needed in 10, 20 or 30 years’ time. Rob isn’t averse to a bit of crawling and tells his boss “I don’t have divided loyalties – whatever the job, you can always count on me.”

Going back to Thursday, it wasn’t a good day for Rob. As well as getting blown out of renting Hillside, he receives an unexpected visit from Oliver. Rob is very affable, inviting him in and Oliver is icily formal, refusing offers of drinks and seats. Rob apologises for missing the first meet of the season, but he will definitely be at the next meet. “That’s what I’ve come to see you about” Oliver tells him.

We learn a bit later that Rob has been thrown out of the Hunt and he tells Oliver bitterly “I didn’t think that you’d been taken in by Helen’s slanderous allegations” and “If the foul things she claimed in court were true, why haven’t I been arrested and charged? It’s because the police know I’m innocent.” Oliver replies that it’s nothing to do with Helen; it’s Hunt business. Specifically, the fact that Oliver knows that Rob lied about the incident with the Hunt saboteur. It is revealed that Shula has grassed Rob up and he is furious, saying “Shula is Helen’s cousin – she’s doing this to get at me.” Still maintaining his dignity, Oliver says “I trust Shula implicitly.” “More fool you!” Rob rants “The whole family is two-faced!” Oliver calmly lays Rob’s subscription cheque on the table and says he’d better leave, as Rob shouts “There are better Hunts in the county who’ll be delighted to have me join, so you and Shula and all the rest can just go to hell!” This was the day before Rob told Justin that he barely notices the prejudice he encounters, incidentally. Well done Oliver – pity you didn’t have your horsewhip with you, but I commend your restraint.

Toby returns from Brighton on Sunday and begins unloading boxes at Rickyard Cottage. It turns out that he has brought back a still and is going to distil his own gin. Is that strictly legal? Toby thinks it is, telling Pip that he doesn’t need a licence if he’s not selling it. If that’s true, why aren’t we all doing it? He tells Pip that they are “Two pioneers, laying down foundations for a massive business” and she, while still angry because he went off to Brighton and only told her just before he left, nevertheless reluctantly agreed to act as his guinea pig gin taster. I’d watch it Pip – knowing Toby, he’ll distil the sort of alcohol that kills you, rather than makes you happy. It’s a pity that bullshit is not a valuable, marketable commodity – if it were, then Toby would be the richest man in Borsetshire, or possibly the world.

I understand that whisky has to be aged for at least three years, but Toby’s gin is ready for tasting on Thursday. It’s revolting – he appears to have added herbs etc by the shovel load and Pip takes one gulp and that’s it. She makes various derogatory comments, and a suddenly-earnest Toby says that he’ll start another batch tonight and tweak the recipe. “I need the money, Pip I’ve got to make this work.” Well, good luck with that, say I.

Elizabeth is worried because Freddie doesn’t appear to be making any friends at college and she asks Johnny to keep an eye out for him and talk to him. The two lads travel home on the bus together on Wednesday and Freddie says that his classmates tend to keep themselves to themselves. He is regarded as posh (a couple refer to him as ‘Downton’) and living at Lower Loxley doesn’t help – if he invites people back, they might think he’s showing off, and if he doesn’t, then he’s standoffish. Johnny recalls his first few days at college, when people mocked him for his northern accent. “I’m sorry, I can’t understand a word you’re saying” Freddie replies, perplexedly. OK, I admit that last bit was a total fabrication, but it would have been good. In an effort to cheer Freddie up, Johnny invites him home to share pizza and beer with him and Tom. I’m not entirely convinced that that is what Elizabeth meant when she asked Johnny to keep an eye on her son.

At Home Farm, Adam is being pursued by Brian, moaning about the state of the autumn crops and how they mustn’t let Justin see how bad they are. Adam unloads his woes on David, telling him that things at Home Farm are pretty grim – Kate is bemoaning the lack of people signing up for the panto, Lilian is miserable (this was when she was a bit arsey with Justin) and Brian is the worst of the lot. “The main trouble with Brian is – well – he’s Brian” Adam tells David and apologises for Brian’s rudeness earlier in the week (Brian interrupted their conversation on Monday to drag Adam off to inspect the bad crops). “I wish he had more faith in me” Adam says. David tries to be positive, saying how good the no-till and herbal leys are and Adam mustn’t let Brian wear him down. “I’m not sure how much more I can take” is Adam’s despondent answer.

On the subject of the panto, we learn that Alice thinks it won’t happen and she and Kate are resigned to having a talent contest instead. One person who won’t be in any panto is Susan, who is extremely annoyed when Kate approached her, saying that she had just the part for Susan – that of Esmeralda. Susan was quite pleased, until she saw the description of her character, which read “a gossipy old crone.” Tact and finesse were never Kate’s strong suits, but her judgement was spot on in this case.

Having said that, when it comes to tactlessness, Susan can be right up there with the best of them. The saga of the Carter family photograph grinds on, as does the moaning of Neil about his enforced diet (Neil had mushrooms on toast for Sunday lunch and carrot batons as a snack at the village bonfire), but at least Susan has finally chosen a photographer.

Even better, she tells Emma that, as she (Emma) recommended the firm, she will get a ‘finder’s fee’. Emma is delighted, as she is always short of money. And this is where Susan’s lack of tact is given free rein, as she wonders in front of Emma whether Ed will want to be in the photograph? After all, it will be very prim and proper and “Your father and I will be very dressed up.” The temperature falls a few degrees as Emma replies “Ed won’t mind.”

This is where Susan should keep her skate-mouth-sized gob firmly closed, but she cannot help herself, suggesting that perhaps Emma could use the finder’s fee to pay for Ed to have “A real good grooming session first, at a proper salon.” “Why?” asks Emma sharply and Susan makes things worse when she goes on “So he won’t feel out of place,” adding: “As long as he gets his hair cut properly and his nails tidied up.” The atmosphere is positively glacial now as Emma retorts that Ed can look very smart and there are about 100 better things that they can spend the money on. “It’s a really stupid idea” Emma tells her mother, who sighs and says “OK – I got exactly the same reaction from your dad when I suggested getting his nose hair layered.”

Never mind, Susan, if you ensure that Ed is positioned on the edge of the family group, he can always be cropped off, or Photoshopped out.

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Uppydate

Still cable laying off the south coast. The actual cable length is only 15.6 km (beach to sub-station) but the installation was protracted by the added complications of cropping out a dodgy length, laying it on the bottom (wet storage), sealing the ends, relaunching the plough and burying the last few km before finally recovering the dodgy bit into the carousel and laying the good end down with an abandonment head. Coo, I’m fatigued just thinking about it. The weather on this occasion has been wonderfully cooperative throughout, unusual for this time of year. Not a minute lost to it since plough launch. What are the odds on that Mr Ladbroke?

The Polish chief cook left to go on leave last Wednesday and was replaced by a Dutch lad. The replacement seems to spend more time goggling at his smartphone than he does thinking up interesting menus or experimenting with an alternative cooking method to deep frying. I thought that lacklustre and idle way of doing things in the galley had long gone from our industry. Seemingly not. Pity. Most of the Dutch run construction vessels set a very high bar when it comes to feeding crews, this one did until last Wednesday. There’s a message there, somewhere.

That said, any ship that ensures there’s oodles of fresh fruit available  AND keeps a ready use 500 litre freezer in the messroom stuffed full of Magnums and Cornettos can’t be all bad :o) It’s a vitamin C rich ice-cream enthusiasts dream! You’re just a bit cattle trucked if you enjoy green vegetables.

With a bit of luck allatsea will be returning to the bosom of his family in the next day or two. It’s good to get away for a while and smell the briny again but come the 10th or 11th day and the call of The Towers becomes very tangible, difficult to ignore. Dental and knee (orthopaedic clinic) appointments next week, got to sort renewal of the BOSIET and dreaded HUET too. Allatsea’s expires in January and that’ll soon come round. Not all the colleges offer the renewal courses in December or early January, don’t want to get caught out. Expensive business if you do. Four days playing silly buggers instead of one.

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It’s all in the mind

For years I’ve put her ‘challenging’ behaviour and ‘off the wall’ decision making down to her alcohol abuse and Lawlor cussedness. Until recently whenever a third party would use the term ‘’dementia” to explain her behaviour I would dismiss it as being without foundation. How wrong can a chap be?

Full blown vascular dementia it is. My pocket electronic dictionary has dementia as.

Noun,

‘a chronic or persistent mental disorder marked by memory failures, personality changes and impaired reasoning’

Yep that sums it up perfectly!

Deep joy it is not.

Change of course, metaphorically speaking. Am back off the sarf coast and laying cables again. Not array cable but export cables. Bigger, heavier, stiffer, brokier. Brokier in that the myriad of optic-fibres wott run the length alongside their conductor cousins, have some way or other, been subject to an event that has left them ‘cattle trucked’. Well and truly ‘cattled’ according to some reports.

This means that the affected section will have to be cut out, removed and replaced by new stuff. That will involve leaving the ends, suitably sealed, on the seabed over the winter until the better weather arrives next spring when they can be brought to the surface and joined and made happy again. Expensive, delayed. Compromised. All pertinent. It also means that allatsea’s attendance here might be longer than he’d hoped for. Bugger and pooh.

Being a decadent so and so, the normal routine is to spend the summer months offshore and then the autumn and winter clutching warming mugs of cocoa whilst sitting by the fire and watching endless reruns on ITV3 or reading. Not so this year. Where did it all go wrong :o)

At seven thirty this morning the Fillipino steward popped his head round the door of the deck office and offered us apple pie and syrup soaked pancakes. This just an hour after a breakfast that seemed to come in only two variations, ‘huge’ and ‘death by calorie’. It’s going to take a bit of effort to keep the weight off this trip.

The cable layer, using an anchor spread of seven Delta Flippers is slowly, steadily ploughing in the cable to a depth of around one and half metres and moving ahead at the dizzying rate of a hundred metres an hour. A quick look at the screen says we’re at KP 2.885. The cutting doesn’t start until KP12 so providing the weather cooperates and there are no breakdowns, there are another four days before the excitement starts. Will allatsea survive? Does he want to? Is there any point?

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