While on the subject of tight nocks, let me regale you with my most spectacular screw up of all time in the field.
'Twas long, long ago, shortly after the end of the dark ages. The Age of Enlightenment had dawned upon me, and I had given up shooting with a clumsy tab and was now shooting like Robin Hood himself, bare fingered.
I had triple-served a string where my fingers contacted it, and had double-served the string where the nock fit. I shot the same arrow all summer long on this string, and was loving everything about being a bare-fingered shooter.
Then. . . elk season loomed on the horizon like a great screaming stag on the skyline. 'Twas time to hunt the mighty beast. I loaded up the pack animals (llamas), scrounged up a wench (uh, my wife Tracy) to accompany me for a few weeks in the dark forest, and off we went.
Leaving the well-hidden tent and small camp long before dawn, we climbed a craggy mountain face in the dark and Lo. . . the mighty beast answered, and charged.
This was no common beast, he was a prime stag in all his glory, and he was coming to fight. In less than five seconds I had pushed the wench back out of the way to keep her behind me and safe (her arrow was nocked, but it was my time to shoot), and the beast was upon us.
I drew the mighty bow fully to my cheek and let the arrow fly. "twas a perfect shot. . .no. . WAIT A MINUTE. . . what just happened? NOOOOOOOOO!
Alas, the triple-served string had served me well all summer, but the double-served area under the nock proved too thick for the new arrows which had brand new nocks. The string split the nock, which made the arrow corskscrew 15 yards and strike the mighty beast sideways. He ran away, back to the thick, dark canyon from whence he came, but I had safely protected the wench from danger (actually, she would have killed the beast handily with her arrow, but that's a tale for another time.)
I put a second "new" arrow on the string and shot. Same result, the nock split and the arrow flew every which way but straight. A third arrow did the same. I was crushed. I was devastated. I was a buffoon in archer's clothing.
And that, my friends, is the end of the sad, sorrowful tale of a lad who learned a painful lesson about only single-serving strings where they contact the nock—but still saved a wench from danger.