DICK
DURHAM
Selling a boat is like
running a gauntlet
S
eller beware... For now, the days are getting
lighter, the long and the short and the tall
of the purchasing fraternity are heading
to boatyards at all points of the compass.
But who among them will kick the tyres
of the travel hoist and never be seen again?
I’ve lost count of the number of hours I’ve
spent over the years at the whim of the boat-
buying time waster. The trouble is, without a Masters degree
in psychology, it’s nigh on impossible to tell the daydreaming
dilettante from the serious seeker of captainhood. You have to
treat all as if they are the leading authority on gelcoat decline as
they sniff around trying to fi nd osmosis blisters. We sellers must
accept that the fellow with the paint-spattered deck shoes sat at
the adze of Noah as he sticks a blade in your poor boat’s garboard,
or may be descended from Cook as he
rubbishes your confi ned nav station.
So much for the experts.
Next come the virtual sailors. These
are always clad in the latest, very
expensive foul-weather gear, and as
they go through your boat, peel off
various layers, always revealing
another brand name. They also have
expensive cameras. ‘Would you mind
if I took a few photographs of the interior?’
‘Please do,’ I say, going on deck and leaving the cabins
vacant so as not to spoil their illusions of ownership.
Then, it is as if a survey is taking place: every locker is
opened, every bunk cushion lifted, fenders thrown aside, charts
unfolded, as the click and fl ash of forensic imagery is made.
I can only assume that when they get home, they download
the images and recreate the interior of my boat on a bedroom
wall, rendering unnecessary the need to ever put afl oat and
certainly never to, as they always promise, ‘get back to you shortly.’
And while we’re at it, what about the day trippers? I recall,
some years back now, a jolly chap turning up at the boatyard
car park along with his wife and a sailing pal. They took an
age to unload a collapsible chair, blankets and a coolbox. After
making their introductions, the wife was guided to a part of the
sea wall out of the wind, where the chair was erected, the blanket
laid on grass and the coolbox placed beside it.
‘Okay dear? Shan’t be long,’ said the potential ‘buyer’. Thehungry wife then got stuck into her picnic while I rowed the
prospective new owner and his pal upriver to the boat, which
was on a swinging mooring. As I slugged at the oars against
the fi erce running ebb, my rotund passengers took great
interest in passing fauna.
‘Look, Bert, an egret,’ said the ‘buyer’ excitedly, at which
Bert swung round with his binoculars, upsetting the
balance of the dinghy.
‘Can you trim the dish?’ I asked as nicely as possible.
The fellow swivelled back into position, ‘Is it much
further?’ he asked.
Once at the boat, I rowed them around her to give them
a full view. No comment was made, mainly because they
were looking the other way at a sheep on the sea wall.
‘Need for a shepherd there, Bert,’ said my ‘buyer’.
On board, they both sat in the
cockpit, training their binoculars
on the world around them.
They didn’t go below and they
didn’t ask a single question.
‘Seen enough, then?’ I asked
with barely concealed irritation.
‘Oh, yes, thank you very much.
Will you join us for a sandwich?’
According to the boatyard manager,
they spent the rest of the day dozing on the sea
wall, until dusk when they repacked the car and drove away.
Then come the Memory Laners. If you own a boat with history,
you will meet all sorts of people who once sailed on her as a kid,
or who remember those who did. That’s a rewarding experience
until the time comes to sell – then you will fi nd them returning,
like sell-by-date zombies to revisit the scene of their youth.
Inevitably, the damp cabin was remembered as a much bigger
space and in any case, the layout has been altered or the varnish
removed and replaced with paint, or ‘What have you done with
that wonderful old Primus stove?’ as one person who thought
he wanted to buy her once said to me as he stared at a gas hob.
‘It came with the boat,’ I said limply.
‘That’s a shame. How well I remember those mornings
with the smell of paraffi n announcing breakfast. It was so
romantic. Anyway, it’s been so nice meeting you. Look after
her for me, won’t you?’
It’s time the YBDSA devised a dreamer-deterrent course.‘IT’S TOUGH TO TELL
A DAYDREAMER
FROM A SERIOUS
SEEKER’
COLUMN