"And next time, I'm assuming the yard won't be so cracked that I have to bring the sail down from the middle."

With the lines squared away, Crowley hoists up his end of the rolled sail, walking it towards Wellard's until the long length of it is folded in two.

"'S what I was doing for the topgallants - coming down from the end of a yardarm, you're a lot clearer of that mess," he finishes, nodding up at the intricate tangle of rigging above their heads. "Less chance of things getting caught."