(12.2m) yachts that shouldn’t work, but somehow do. Going
a little further back, we find the inestimable Linton Hope. Hope
was born in 1863 and served his country by winning the Olympic
races in France in 1900. His design spectrum was far-reaching, but
for me, the favourite must be Duet, his 1912 50ft (15m) yawl now
run by the Cirdan Trust. Many years earlier, owned by Christopher
Courtauld, the vicar of Knightsbridge, she was one of the founding
boats that served to give Ocean Youth Club members a taste of
classic yachting.
Another notable example is Albert Strange, 1855-1917. Perhaps
most famous for his small Humber Yawl designs, Strange was first
and foremost an artist, who exhibited many times in the Royal
Academy. He fell into yacht designing as an amateur
for no better reason than that he loved sailing,
had a famously good eye, and couldn’t resist.
Strange gave us Tally Ho, winner of the
1927 Fastnet Race, being restored with
a spectacular video record most of us will
already have enjoyed (CB passim).
No list of memorable names would be
complete without Dr Thomas Harrison Butler.
THB was a distinguished ophthalmologist born
in 1871 who, like Albert Strange, rejoiced in
small-yacht cruising and felt humbly that he might do
a useful job when it came to drawing a decent little yacht. So
meticulous was he that he sourced his paper with acute care lest
the tiniest stretch or shrinkage generate imperfections in his flowing
lines. No money was exchanged as he handed over his plans to
favoured clients. A contribution to the church organ fund was
sufficient, coupled with the satisfaction of another creation on
the water. Meanwhile, back on the day job, there were always
sore eyes to be seen to.
Leaving out the platoon of quaintly-named Americans,
including Starling Burgess and Olin Stephens, the last on my
roll call is Harley Mead, the Falmouth boatbuilder who designed
my daughter’s 28ft (8.5m) gaff yawl Lady Belle in 1909.
Inspect the list of Classic Boat contributors and you’ll see
excellent men and women all, but not a Jack or a Jill among them
with a name to remember. Cunliffe, Peake, Morgan, we’re all pretty
workaday, but hope is not lost. If, like our unremarkable crew, your
parents failed to dig deep into the realms of individuality and you
still fancy turning your hand to a spot of unpaid designing, never
forget that the Spitfire, the noblest artwork of them all, came from
the board of a man prosaically entered on the Angel Gabriel’s List
of the Great, simply, as RJ Mitchell.
“Sptifire!” someone called from the motorboat. And so it was.
He came down on us with that unmistakable whistling sound, so
that we all forgot what we were doing and stared transfixed. As
he passed low overhead, for a second we saw the full splendour
of the elliptical wings, then he was past, pulling back on the stick
and soaring away into the fair-weather cumulus as though
weightless, the full growl of the Rolls-Royce Merlin putting the
roar of the wind to shame. Rolling off the top of his climb, he
waggled his wings, then was gone back to the Kentish Downs,
perhaps to a pot of tea served on a chequered cloth in an old-
fashioned café, but his intervention had transformed our day.
I believe it affected some lives permanently, because to be
confronted with beauty in function like that when
already in an emotionally vulnerable condition
makes an impression that goes beyond the
power of words to tell.
We dried our eyes and pressed on with
lightened hearts, comrades all now, and
although the passage was long, every little
ship arrived to tell her tale, to remember
what she was and why she was there.
Which brings me back to Providence. Built
by Gilbert and Pascoe in Porthleven in 1936, her
draftsman was a young amateur designer called Nigel
Warington-Smyth. Constructed very strongly, she had an easy
motion and although suffering from a poorly cut suit of Duradon
canvas that was doing her no favours, she sailed those awkward
Channel seas with genuine grace. In 1940 she still had no engine
and it seems likely that she was towed to Dunkirk, but whatever
the truth, she did her bit for the free world, somehow gave the
Stukas the slip and came home to cruise on into our modern era.
Looking at Providence, it’s impossible not to note a distinct
similarity to the rather larger Laurent Giles classic, Dyarchy,
which came a few years later. Had Jack Laurent Giles admired the
young chap’s work and carried it forward? I don’t suppose we’ll
ever know, but listening to the mellifluous names of those two
pre-war British designers throws me onto a new tack altogether.
What, I wonder, went wrong at the christening font between now
and then. The names of some of their contemporaries flow off the
tongue and it does seem that the more harmonious and eccentric
among them were responsible for some of our sweetest creations.
Take Norman Dallimore, 1883-1959. That’s not a handle
you’ll find in every phone book, but this master of the spoon
bow drew cruising yachts that are a legend for their sweeping
sheerlines. He also contrived to produce doghouses on 40ft