The more mellifluous the name of the designer, the
sweeter the resulting yacht, it might seem...
ILLUSTRATIONS CLAUDIA MYATT
PARADE OF HISTORY
TOM CUNLIFFE
M
any years ago I signed on aboard the 38ft (11.6m)
cutter Providence bound for Dunkirk from Dover
for the 50th little ships re-enactment of Operation
Dynamo. It was an emotional experience. The fleet
gathered in the locked docks under the castle. At the appointed
hour, the gates opened and we set off across the Channel.
Superficially, the weather was kind, with crisp clear air and blue
skies, but the sting was a Force 6 westerly and a spring tide. The
resulting seas had little effect on the Thames barges and none at
all on a lone paddle steamer, but the pretty motor launches built
for the rivers of southern England were suffering. Pitching and
rolling as they were never meant to, the sludge of ages was stirring
up in fuel tanks more suited to the tranquil waters of Teddington
and several were taken in tow as the last of their filters gave up
the struggle. Cockle Bawleys from Kent battered their way gamely
on while those of us lucky enough to be on sailing yachts had a
different problem. Like all convoys, ours was controlled by the
speed of the slowest. Easy enough for motorboats. Not so simple
for a lively cutter on a beam reach.
As one travels through life a few odd images stick in one’s
head as sharp and clear as photographs taken yesterday. I carry
a “shot” of the white, low-slung gaffer Cachalot on that famous
day. Plunging along, she was trying unsuccessfully to slough off
speed, the tack of her well-reefed main triced high, and a small jib
balancing her from the bowsprit end. Beyond the jib traveller, the
short jackstaff stood upright with her St George’s Little Ships jack
whipping out in the wind, never quite dipping under the blue
waves as the cranse iron danced over the crests. We on Providence
were also struggling to slow down. Tricing up the main wasn’t an
option because it was laced to the boom, but the topsail had long
since been stowed and we’d rolled down three reefs with the
Appledore gear. Sailing by one game motorboat with her green-
gilled crew hanging on in true British spirit, we hove the staysail
clew up to windward to kill the power of the foretriangle without
losing balance. That worked and for a while the two boats surged
along a few feet apart.
We were in mid-Channel and from what the radio was sending
out, morale in the smaller craft was taking an understandable
beating when our whole world changed in an instant. Looking
astern to where the cliffs of Dover glowed white in the morning
sun, I noticed a dark speck in the sky that rapidly materialised
into an aeroplane. In what seemed like seconds it was on us in
a shallow dive, the thin-section wings tilted up from the fuselage,
sunlight glinting off the canopy like laser beams.