By Isle of Wight Observer
It’s almost that time of year and my red trousers are pressed and ready. It’s rumoured only members of the Royal Yacht Squadron should wear them – they’re a kind of uniform, reserved for posh people. I’ve only actually worn mine once – to a Cowes week ‘Chamber Lunch.’ My intention was amusing irony; I think I pulled it off. My companions seemed tickled by my snazzy attire.
There’s a certain kind of chap who always knows what to wear. His look is essentially ‘shabby chic’. His red trousers are usually threadbare, because they were bought years ago. He teams them with well-worn Sebago deck shoes – but for the rest of the year, he sports hand-made brogues. When necessary, he sends those off for repair to his shoemaker. I have an old public-school friend who’s been doing this since his ‘Oxford days.’ His shoes have been repeatedly soled and heeled and the uppers replaced. Those battered shoes are the posh equivalent of ‘Trigger’s broom’ – same broom, lots of different heads and handles.
Years ago, I was invited to dinner, at Bembridge Sailing Club. Naturally one asked what to wear? “Anything you like,” came the reply. We arrived late to find around 100 men already seated with their partners. Every single lady wore a floral summer dress; the men, chinos teamed with blazer and tie. No-one commented on my shorts, nor the absence of a jacket and tie, but I’m sure they noticed my social faux pas.
I believe the excellent ‘County Show members’ lunch’ has a similar dress code. There’s no mention of it with the invitations, but those present know what to wear. I never do!
We live on a beautiful island, surrounded by water. We’re blessed with sailing clubs of every kind. Surely, we should all know their dress codes, not just the difference between a tack and a gybe. Are you familiar with the ‘no go zone’?
I’ve been messing around in boats all my life. Rafts, kayaks, paddleboards, even a narrowboat, kept on the tidal Thames. It was meant to be a sort of London flat that I didn’t use. Twenty-five years ago, I had a smart flybridge motor cruiser, moored in Yarmouth. When Covid restrictions were lifted, despite never having learned to sail, I bought a sailboat, probably believing I had ‘grandfather rights.’ Basically, if you’ve done something long enough, you think you know how to do it.
Because they grew up here, I forced my kids to take sailing lessons. They were reluctant but thanks to me, must have certificates somewhere. Last week, I presented myself at Yarmouth Sailing Club – to begin my own RYA sailing course. Later that day, having grasped the basics, under supervision, my fellow students and I rigged and launched our boats and sailed. The following day, we even took command of our own dinghies. All alone, out there on the cruel sea, heeled over, I could only think of the raging Southern Ocean, Francis Chichester, Robin Knox-Johnson and Ellen MacArthur. OK – Yarmouth River isn’t quite like that, but our instructors had prepared us well for our own adventures. Pete, Joy, Richard and Laura were endlessly patient, our success was entirely due to them.
My confidence grew, until the inevitable occurred. I capsized but quickly righted the boat again – exactly as taught. The instructors took it all in their stride. Like falling off a horse, I was straight back at it and had a thoroughly good time. A hard-earned RYA sailing certificate is now among my most prized possessions; I’m an actual sailor!
Yarmouth Sailing Club isn’t the least bit snooty. They clearly don’t care what you wear, provided you wear a flotation device on the water. Whatever your age, you should give it a go – you’ll love it.