Adrian Morgan
L
ooking back, it was like the time I was summoned
to the oak-panelled office of my first bank
manager; no, it was worse. To be frank, I had
been proud when my overdraft had risen to the
alarming heights of £10 14s 6d, equivalent in these
post-decimalised days to a tidy sum An overdraft
meant I had come of age.
Well, no, as my bank manager pointed out, it was
more a warning sign that I was on my way down
a slippery slope to penury, crime and a disappointing
end to the hopes of my parents.
Far from extending my credit further, as would be
the case today, I was made to pay my overdraft back
at the painful rate of 17s 6d a month. Painful, but
at least it ensured that when I did own my first boat- aside from Gulls, Mirrors and a National 12 called
Fesquie – a Waarschip 570, I was just about able to
pay my yard bills. Just, for in those days one was
expected to work for yachting magazines for next to
nothing. “You should be paying us,” was the general
feeling among the top brass at IPC, where I apprenticed
first to Bernard Hayman of Yachting World, then Des
Sleightholme of Yachting Monthly, across the road in
the NatWest Tower, as it was then called.
But one spring morning, having put the finishing
touches to Yellowhammer’s topsides, I climbed the
wooden stairs to the office of the owner of the yard in
the muddy corner of who’s creek I had been entrusted
a berth. He was ex RN, and if
memory serves, may once have been
in charge of an aircraft carrier. By
“in charge” I mean, captain. It may
have been Ark Royal, or perhaps
Hermes. Whatever, he was used to
dealing with recalcitrant ratings let
alone junior officers who had let out
100 fathoms of Admiralty chain,
when asked for 75, or yacht owners.
No matter how much I prepared
my little speech: “My salary gets
paid in a week; maybe I could give
you something towards it today.
Would a cheque be OK, but could
you not cash it quite yet...” etc,
all went to hell in a hand basket
as I entered the wooden shack that
served as the bridge deck of his little
enterprise. “This is not a charity
for privileged young boat owners.
Perhaps you could do me the favour
of settling your account now. In full,
if you will” or words to that effect.
Since then I have been in awe of
yard owners, or at least as careful
as I can not to antagonise them,
mostly unsuccessfully, as there are
so many ways you can do that,
the first is by not paying up promptly, but other pitfalls
abound. Antifouling their cradles, trailers or travelhoists
for starters. I learned that one early on when I returned
a launching trailer liberally coated with International’s
finest, now banned, TBT. Some of it went on
Yellowhammer, too.
Borrowing tools and either, bending them, forgetting
to give them back, or coating them with antifouling.
Yes, I’ve done that too. Creating such a miasma of toxic
dust that every boat owner downwind is forced to run
for cover. Guilty.
Sometimes you just can’t get it right, no matter how
hard you try and pick up every scrap of paint-soaked
rag and paint tin lid. In days of yore, you could scrape
off old antifouling and leave it where it lay (or deposit
it guiltily in the bushes.) These days you must, in theory,
collect every scrap and take it to a recycling depot,
a good thing.
Sally once over wintered in a very well-run yard in
Portsmouth harbour. It wasn’t so much the owner who
was intimidating, as the painters he employed and the
shipwrights. Recognising trouble in the form of a
younger, un-house-trained Morgan, they struck first.
Do not, they said, god forbid, even think of borrowing
one of our badger-haired paint brushes, or leave a mess
on the work bench.
In my defence, I did try, honestly. Some people are
just mucky by natureAdrian is wary of antagonising yard owners and painters
“Do not
even think
about
leaving a
mess on
the work
bench”CHARLOTT
E^ WATTERSMucky by nature