“There’s plenty of warp, so keep going till you can’t stand it,” I told him, looking up from my own splice. “You can’t have too many of these handy six-footers.” As the voyage progressed, I found out just how true that was. When my fancy jib-sheet downhaul block shook its shackle pin out, I just lashed the sheet down with a bit of pot warp. When the drifter needed a tack extender to clear the lifeline, pot warp was there. The dinghy oars and mast, the sculling oar, the dinghy itself—all made fast for mere pennies a foot. And when the gaff saddle proved its poverty of design by tweaking most disastrously, well, you guessed it: I climbed up the mast with a length of warp in my teeth, made myself fast with one of Sal’s six-footers, and lashed up the throat of the sail. It could almost be said that it was pot warp that got us safely into harbor.