sort of vessel which was then seen merely as a useful old boat. We
fancied a double-ender, and the first promising candidate showed
up across the Channel in Le Havre. Lotta had a nice Colin
Archer-style hull and white-painted deck. The owner picked us up
from the ferry and took us out in his dinghy. In those days the
marina was still only a dream and the boat was out on a mooring.
As we approached, I was disappointed to note that the bermudan
conversion we’d seen on the advert suited her even less than I’d
feared, but the price was inside our budget and judging from how
eager the owner was to please, it was probably further negotiable.
Maybe I could rectify the rig in due course. Once aboard, she
might give us cause to fall in love with her. One never knows with
boats.
Alas, it was not to be. As we drew alongside, a gurgle sounded
deep within her and a jet of smelly water came gushing out of a
pump outlet just below the deck. It discharged straight into my lap
with what felt like the force of a fire hydrant. Before I could dodge
it, my best yacht-viewing trousers looked as though I had suffered
the sort of nasty accident best kept private. We went through the
motions of clambering on board, but only a fool ignores a sign like
that. It wasn’t that I minded her leaking. Most unrestored boats do
a bit, but she had made herself eminently clear. She didn’t want us
and, on reflection, we didn’t want her either.
The boat we finally settled on cost us our full whack; it took us
a further year to pay her off and sail away, but the crux of the tale
is that when we started a family half a decade later and needed
more space, we sold her. With the proceeds we bought, for cash, a
cottage in Devon and a 27ft 1895 gaff cutter.
That little gaffer was a peach. We hadn’t paid a lot for her and
considering her age, she wasn’t in bad shape. Her decks didn’t leak
and she was fitted with a pre-war Coventry Victor single-cylinder
diesel that was a source of satisfaction to hand start and a joy to
listen to. Marishka was her name and we had a lot of fun with her.
She reminded us of the year spent paying for the bigger boat,
during which we had lived on the Hamble River in a community of
general ne’er-do-wells on “Debtors’ Jetty”, all sailing what today
would be classics, every one. Most were between 26ft and 32ft on
deck. We cruised the summer seas together and in winter the
boats were warmed by solid fuel stoves. Many a wild night
was shared under the golden light of their saloon oil lamps.
Because these treasures were modest in size,
maintaining them was generally not onerous. The good
ones are still around 40 years later, while a new
generation of wooden yachts built in the 1940s, 1950s and 1960s
have now graduated to classic status. Researching the ‘for sale’
pages in the OGA organ, the excellent ‘Gaffers Log’, reveals several
jewels every issue. I look at them and wish I were young again.
What adventures one can have for such insignificant money.
Learning to look after one if you haven’t been born into the culture
can feel intimidating, and I for one wasn’t raised with a
marlinespike in my hand. Instead, I worked on my boat at the
Elephant Yard at Bursledon, surrounded then, just as one is today,
by old salts who know how to do it. They are generous with their
comments and quick to lend their precious tools, but you have to
learn to take the wind-up. The yard foreman back in the day was
the late, great Davey Elliot. One time I was manoeuvring my boat
into a difficult berth. I had an offset propeller, the tide was
rip-snorting towards the A27 bridge and I cocked it up royally.
Instead of heading neatly between the rows of yachts moored
fore-and-aft between piles on the trots, I found myself about to
T-bone a varnished 8-Metre, re-launched, gleaming, for the season.
Just when all seemed lost, Davey appeared from her
companionway. Like a pantomime genie he stood in the cockpit
lighting his pipe and indicated I should steer between him and the
stern pile of the yacht. I managed this by the width of a thin shim.
As I squeezed into the gap with the next row of moorings ahead
and disaster imminent, he reached out and whipped a couple of
turns off the yacht’s mooring line, bringing me to a quiet stop by
surging it round the cleat. I was now halfway
through the gap and face to face with him.
Still puffing on his pipe, he said: “Next time
you’re planning on smashing up a row of boats,
Nipper, make sure you pick a cheap one.”
His spirit lives on in the creeks and back
yards of the world. So if you don’t already
have one, find yourself a proper little boat
and don’t worry if she needs some
attention. There’s always assistance at
hand. The help is half the pleasure,
and no matter how it may seem,
every one of us has had to learn at
some time.