Solent Sojourn
A Colonial in the House of Lords
(a tale from the archives )
by Martin Van Der Wal, from his Substack page, TELL TALES
For those of us privileged to have Sydney Harbour as our playground the Solent is a very unprepossessing stretch of water. This muddy ditch between the Isle of Wight and the mainland is ripped by large tides from both directions, strewn with shifting banks of sand, mud and shingle, and heavily trafficked by very large commercial shipping. Beggars can't be choosers I guess, so the British yachtsman stows his stiff upper lip aboard every time he sets out and makes a virtue of necessity. Cowes is at the heart of British sailing, the summer season is hectic. Panerai Classics starts it off and there I was fronting up to the Press desk with my credentials in hand. As with the others I had attended the first offer was a ride on the Press R.I.B. "Mmmm," I mumbled to the kind person attempting to create order out of chaos behind the desk, "would rather crew on a boat and get some first hand stories." "Oh," she exclaimed, surprised at the request. "I tell you what, Jonathon was just in looking for foredeck, are you up for that ?" "Sure thing!" Was my swift reply. "Wait about, he's here somewhere, I'll grab him and put you together". I thought it best not to mention to her that for the past thirty years the sum total of my foredeck experience consisted of loudly yelling over the roar, crash and hiss of Hoana's bow-wave largely redundant instructions shouted to foredeck crew as to what the hell they were doing wrong, how to get it right, and (please) shake a leg about it.
Well, Mr Know-it-all, here you are on a very skinny foredeck belonging to 'Athena', a gorgeous racing 8-Metre yacht, owned by a Peer of the Realm, Lord Jonathan of Cork, who has assumed from your Australian accent that you are the very bee's-knee's of foredeck hands, (despite being the oldest person on the boat), and miracles of calm efficiency are expected ! Oh, and did I mention I am nursing a shoulder cuff injury from a previous attempt at biting off more than I could chew. Perhaps also worth mentioning that in lieu of a toe-rail most of the vessel has a rather pretty rounded varnished edge, (no life-rails of course).
Awkwardly reaching to leeward to grab a poorly passed spinnaker brace I smartly find myself in the ignominious position of 'overboard' with a death grip on the aft-lower turnbuckle. Helpful members of the rearguard exhort me to "hang on !!" It's gusting mid twenties, we are on a screaming Port tack ducking an opponent, I'm quietly congratulating myself on the waterproofness of my jacket. Quite snug really. On my back, head up, avoiding at all costs the sudden inrush of water down the neck. Opponent ducked, quick head to wind and I'm back on deck, forget how I did it, rounding ahead, a pole to get up, clip the guy on, stand by the halyard, check the kicker !! Time is such an elastic thing in the heat of battle. The 8-Metres under kite are exciting in winds over twenty, positively unruly over twenty-five, and time to go home at thirty.
Home was a large Georgian Terrace in the best part of town, a short walk to the Squadron. The last time I had visited - the Americas Cup Jubilee - the gates of the Squadron had been impassible to a vagrant Colonial. An introduction from a Peer of the Realm does wonders, I was now on first name terms with the gate-keeper and the place was mine to roam. They would not take a non-members money at the Bar. Fellow crew-members stepped up willingly, quite certain that Australians required constant lubrication to keep heart and lungs operating.
November/Alpha had been raised for the day, with plus thirty gusts forecast. My phone buzzed, Bambi (see previous story- 'Sky-larking') was bored, she had seen my FB posts and was on her way from Cambridge to lob in for the fun. On the train with bicycle and tent. She was that kind of gal!
The house was packed to the rafters. A bakers dozen of Athena's, including partners. 'Terribly' well connected; casual conversations about last weeks tea with the Queen, bets placed on favourites at Ascot, grumblings about the standards slipping at the current grouse shootings on their various Scottish estates. Noblesse-Oblige notwithstanding I felt tarred with the Paul Hogan brush, a little diffident maybe. I girded my loins with the declaration that I would do my bit. An 'at home' dinner would be cooked for everyone that night. A morning spent providoring in town, an afternoon in the kitchen. I sip a cheerful light Beaujolais while further uplift is provided via 'The Sixteen' doing a little 'Stabat Mater' courtesy of Spotify. Slow food, yes, but eventually a Moroccan Tagine with all accoutrements for fourteen people surreptitiously fills the house with aromatic enticements. Australia may be quite different to what you imagine I explain to the occasional nose that sticks around the door.
Over a long enough lifespan I have rubbed shoulders with aristocracy more than once, unfortunately in my experience most are exceedingly dull. Privilege fosters conformity. The resultant clichéd tedium breeds a restless hierarchal shuffle and peck quite dispiriting to observe. Empty stomachs are a great social leveller. Fourteen empty stomachs sat down to silver cutlery, crystal glassware, linen napkins, Spode porcelain, and a Colonial's take on Moroccan meat and three veg. Lord Jonathan sat at the head, various aristo Athenians with consorts comprise the balance of attendance. With enough wine under my belt I am prepared to be pleasantly bored.
Dinner is engaged with a gusto familiar to hungry sailors. A few glasses to wash it down, repartee emerging amongst the second and third helpings. Conversations move from the general, the weeks sailing; to the particular. I had placed myself as the Peer's wing-man high up on the table, not wanting to let the Australian side down.
Amusing tales unfolded. Our Peer, it turned out, had served several decades in command of a succession of Her Majesty's submarines. Playing hide and seek with the Russki's under the North Pole, personally gathering sufficient quantities of porn in Soho to head off mutiny at minus one-thousand feet, sticking a periscope up in the Arctic wastes only to see a combatants periscope looking straight back in. Serious yes, but well versed in the curiously humble humour attendant to those buried in an over-populated steel coffin beneath Davey Jones Locker for months on end.
Suffice to say that by the end of the evening, lazy generalisations about both British Aristocrats and Australian Colonials have proven somewhat elastic.
How I loath heading for a starting line with a hangover; Still! Three triangular sprints later, a merciful refraining from falling overboard again, desperate hoists and lowers, gusting high twenties with a wicked steep chop. Fellow competitors crash gybing, broaching, spilling crew at leeward marks. 'Athena' had gone close to the edge more than once but without a serious hitch. The week was deemed a success, a blazer would be loaned to me for that nights Classics Dinner at the RORC Clubhouse.
The Colonial had 'arrived' ! Yippee !
Aperitivo with Bambi was next. "You're doing what!!", I expostulate. She had snuck her tent into the corner of a nearby farmers field because she couldn't afford the charges at the town campground. Talk about the bold and the beautiful ! "Are you aware of these black clouds?" I sweep my arm to the West, "The mother of all thunderstorms is expected tonight." She protests, "I'll be fine- not the first storm I've weathered." "Bambi, check this out." I show her the front coming towards us on radar on the mobile, 50 knot gusts, the forecast of very serious rain. "Let's see what we can do, no promises, come on let's go up to the house." The eyes of Lady Jonathan of Cork widened, 'Here's Trouble!' - an attitude from women that Bambi was all too familiar with. I'd gained a little leverage from the previous nights dinner. The waif and stray was welcomed, quickly ensconced in hot bath and fluffy towels.
So it was that tugging at the sleeves of an ill-fitting borrowed blazer, I am escorting the beautiful Bambi, to the very best table in the Great Hall. The Hot Buffet and Bambi hit it off — Big-time! The usual yachty hoho-humhum ensues as the promised elements crack, flash and lash against the windows. Breakfast in the morning was a hoot; irrepressible Bambi charming all and sundry. Modelling was not for her, she exclaimed, a life lived in a bulimic cocaine haze, shagging 'creeps' to get ahead would never be for this girl. She wanted to become a professional sailor, it was her passion. Having sailed with her to Crete I could vouch for her dedication and ability. She had been sailing since knee high, becoming a RYA Instructor who ran volunteer training programs at her local club all through her teens. Sailing was in her blood.
I wander down to the quay, Athena's campaign is over, we've pulled her mast at Lallows's, ready-ing her to be freighted to Norway for the World's. "Now that's a beauty," said to myself, looking at a yawl named 'Laughing Gull'. A man emerges from the companionway. "She's lovely" I say. That bloody Australian accent again. Next day I'm wrestling with the pole on the foredeck of the forty-four foot 1949 Sparkman and Stevens, with skipper Barney Sandeman (Classic yacht-broker to the stars) helming. Ratseys's sailmakers dominate the after-guard and the very talented marine-photographer, Emily Harris, is at the sharp end with me. Emily is an Essex girl. Sitting on the rail I mention that when I lived in London I raced Essex Smacks with the redoubtable Gayle Heard for three seasons. She had grown up with the Heard's. Well, thats how it goes when you're in the 'flow'. "You must come down for Mersea Week, I know just the boat for you, and I've got a great place for you to stay."