98 CLASSIC BOAT AUGUST 2019M
y introduction to the Etchells Class came at an end-of-
season race at the Royal Northern Yacht Club (as it then
was). We were going up the beat when a white-hulled
beauty came into sight and in a fl ash overtook us on our sprightly
8-M. “What the hell was that?” I asked. “New Etchells – fi rst in
the country. I doubt it will catch on. Too much string to pull on!”
When I moved south, I passed around word that I was available
to crew in the Cowes Etchells fl eet and soon received a call. The
fl eet was anxious for new members and someone was holding
a house party for likely lads and lasses the next weekend.
Would I like to join them? I counted down the days.
We were all in our 20s, with a similar sense
of humour, and hit it off straight away and now,
40 years on, we are still friends. That fi rst house
party developed into a weekly affair. Friday night
saw a rush for the train at Waterloo, a hearty
cooked breakfast on the Saturday, fun and games
on the water and, as the fl eet numbered just four,
a country pub supper together on the Saturday
night on the way back to town on the Sunday.
Our host’s ageing mother was as welcoming
and kind as one could hope for and not without
some eccentricity, brought on by her failing sight.
She appeared at breakfast one day complaining
that she could hardly see and that she really would
need to see the doctor fi rst thing. It was clear,
however, that when applying her make-up she
had done so wearing glasses. The result was that
her glasses were covered in a dense layer of make-up powder.
How could we point it out without causing embarrassment? One
girl, whose father was a diplomat, gently removed the glasses and
said “Let me see if I can make these work any better?”
One Cowes Week, much of the large house was also home to the
crew of a huge French racing yacht. We were all squeezed around
the breakfast table when there was a piercing scream from our
hostess. “My God, Charles, there is something moving in the bath!”
In preparation for a barbecue that evening, the French had loaded
the bath with live lobster. This was also an Admiral’s Cup year.
Cowes was en fête, all fl ags and bunting on show. Of an evening
one would see the Duke of Edinburgh and the King of Greece
strolling to the Squadron. The atmosphere was relaxed and happy.I was sailing that week on an Etchells. The owner loved his
trim little craft dearly and greatly feared the prospect of a start
line collision. He would hold back until the line was clear, then
we would make our stately way up to the fi rst mark.
In these circumstances, one cannot take the racing too seriously,
but there were compensations. Regular wind lulls at lunchtime let
us fi nish The Times, conversation was always excellent and the
owner’s wife would pack us off with lavish lunches; cold duck
and asparagus was a favourite – and the wine wasn’t bad either!
We fulfi lled, I felt, a singularly important role at the rear of
the fl eet, that of lifeboat. Should a rival crewman fall overboard
unseen, we were ideally placed to save him. I often
reminded our owner of this and I am sure he took
encouragement and comfort from my words.
Our only concern was that we should not be
overtaken by the following class – the Darings. It
was a matter of great honour to the fl eet that no
matter how slow we were, the Darings were slower.
To make it clear, at one end-of-season prize giving,
our boat was singled out for a special award. Once
again we had come last, so this was not wholly
novel to us. We trooped forward to wild cheering
and applause. The master of ceremonies handed us
a large wooden backboard, face down. Surely, we
thought, it must contain an Etchells’ half model?
He turned it over to reveal a mounted water pistol
with the instruction that if ever the leading Daring
got too close, we were to fi re it into the helm’s eye
and destroy his resolve.
We fi nished that week by attending a formal dinner with the
Papuan Admiral’s Cup team. They took one side of the long dinner
table and Team Etchells the other. The Papuan boys had decided to
get us seriously drunk. We were young and up for the challenge.
In the middle of the main course, one of our number fell fast
asleep. At the end of a week fi lled with racing, very late nights and
early rises, it was not altogether surprising, but as she fell into the
arms of Morpheus, she did so by nose-diving into the spuds and
gravy. The Papuans, with great gallantry, encouraged me, sat next
to her, to lift her head up before she drowned. She turned to me,
gave a beatifi c smile and laid down with her ear on the plate
instead. Oh dear, I thought, it’s going to be one of those nights.Martin Black recalls the hilarity of 1970s Cowes Weeks, on and off the water
Etched in the memory
“Our only
concern was not
being beaten by
the Darings”Sternpost
PPL MEDIA