In the days before ‘technical’ foul-weather gear,
I discovered a jacket of some calibre
ILLUSTRATION CLAUDIA MYATTNAVAL STYLE
TOM CUNLIFFE
I
f you are one of those heroes who sail all winter you’ll have
invested heavily to keep warm and dry. By comparison with
what passed for foul-weather gear as recently as the early
1970s, today’s kit is far from cheap, but, unlike some of its
forebears, it really does the job.
There’s a catch, though, for classic boaters.
When we’re talking yachts, we squeeze the wallet dry in the
quest for authenticity: sailmakers cut panels the same width as the
standard bolt of navy cotton canvas, ropes look like hemp even
though they’re polyester, traditional anchors take precedence over
lighter, more effective alternatives, and wooden blocks with
‘rest-and-be-thankful’ bearings lord it over friction-free wonders
that cost far less. We may opt to ignore the fact, but deck hardware
has come a long way since the Second World War. So has sailors’
outfitting, yet, like the fisherman’s anchor, the best of traditional
sailing clothing can still deliver some gratifying results.
For day racing in the Caribbean or the Med, we’ve only to turn
the hands out in navy shorts and white shirts or white overalls and
we’re sorted. Even if the pants get soaked at the weather mark,
today’s wearer will sleep dry in their bunk as the overnight washing
machines go about their stealthy business deep in the forepeak.
That said, it’s a long time since I saw a helmsman looking as
dapper as Charles Nicholson in the 1930 Beken photograph of him
steering a big-class yacht with Britannia under his lee. He sports
duck trousers, a reefer jacket, a stiff collar, a tie and a white-topped
yachting cap as the quarter wave sizzles over his immaculate deck
shoes. In a contemporary image, Sir Philip Hunloke is similarly
attired helming Britannia. Sir Philip, the King’s sailing master, is up
to his waist in heavy water as he stands in the lee scuppers. The
skipper sits coolly to windward with brass buttons giving away the
professional, while the rest of the gents cluster around in various
stages of general shock and awe. One, who presents the appearance
of being fatigued or well into his third cocktail, is sporting an
oilskin coat. Others huddle on a fore-and-aft bench modelling an
assortment of what must then have passed as quality foul-weather
gear. Among them is the unmistakable figure of Brooke Heckstall
Smith, the gentleman journalist, secretary of the InternationalYacht Racing Union and sailor of enormous influence, sometimes
affectionately referred to in Cowes as ‘Bookstall Smith’. His texts
on how to run a serious yacht were standard works that are still
referred to by captains who want to get things right. No attempt
was made at uniform among the ‘quality’. Only the paid crew wore
standard Guernseys bearing the yacht’s name.
Whether appropriate to the yacht’s period or not, there’s no
arguing with the fact that modern foul-weather gear is any sane
person’s choice on a filthy night down-Channel. Back in the 60s
and 70s, this wasn’t an option because it wasn’t there. Disposable
income was thin in those days, so we tended to make do with what
someone else had left on the boat or cobble up a suit from the local
fisherman’s outfitter. In this respect I was lucky. In 1967 I was in
the eastern States working as a deckhand on a schooner. The
season was well advanced, the evenings were growing cold and I
needed a warm coat. My skipper was an elderly ex-Grand Banks
doryman whose heart of gold was camouflaged by an exterior of
70-grit sandpaper. I still follow the advice he gave me.
He advised: “Forget about them fancy clothing stores. Get your
ass down to the Army and Navy outlet a block back from the
front. Tell ’em I sent you for a US navy pea jacket. And don’t take
no substitute for the real thing.”
The outlet store reeked of mothballs and dust. It was hung from
floor to vaulted ceiling with combat jackets, forage caps, bandoliers
and racks of highly polished boots. They were all used, but the
price tags were encouraging so I pressed on. A pea jacket is a sort
of heavy-duty, dark-blue reefer, double-breasted with a deep collar
that would turn heavy machine-gun fire when snapped into the ‘up’
position. The characteristic buttons are black with a fouled-anchor
symbol. It is quilt lined and the woollen cloth is so tightly woven
that it keeps out just about anything. I picked an XXL that looked
as if it had only been worn by a single titled owner. It fitted, with
plenty of room inside for more pullovers and, best of all, it looked
great too. It cost me seven US dollars out of my weekly pay of 90.
Eight years later I still had it. When my wife and I were faced
with a late-season passage from the Caribbean to the UK via Nova
Scotia, funds were tight so we decided to take our chance on theCB353 Tom Cunliffe No23.indd 78 26/09/2017 12:40