Once in an English Sailing Town

In July of 1974, the long-suffering father of pampered bad boy Shane Patrick Halligan decided that a week-long yachting course in the little village of Lymington on the south coast of England might help him develop some sorely needed moral fibre.
He was to reside for this period in a guest house owned by one Mrs Edith Drummond-Smith, whom Shane came to see as belonging to a type of quintessentially English upper class widow native to the sailing-besotted villages and hamlets of England’s south coast. To him, they were all charming if slightly aloof, immaculately spoken, kind, calm and considerate, and blessed with the most beautiful manners imaginable; although for the little Shane knew about them, she may have been the only one.
For he knew little of the arcane secrets of heartland or rural England, his father and mother having originated from the commonwealth nations of Australia and Canada respectively, while his earliest months were spent in a tiny little workman’s cottage in London’s Notting Hill. His veins could boast English, Scottish and Scots Irish, and possibly also Danish and Irish blood. Yet, he dressed as a perfect English gentleman, or rather how such an individual would have dressed several decades theretofore, which rendered him a singularly bizarre figure in a Britain still dominated by long hair and flared trousers.
Also resident with Mrs Drummond-Smith were Gilles, a Belgian boy of about twenty, and Mr Watts and his teenage son Dylan, and while all were on the same course as Shane, they had different sailing instructors. For example, Shane had been allotted the course director, Captain Peter St Aubyn, which was propitious, as he was an alumnus of his own alma mater of Welbourne College, a private school of military stripe situated in the wealthy county of Berkshire near London.
All four became firm friends, Shane and Gilles becoming especially close. As to Dylan, he liked to listen to Shane’s theories on music and fashion, and was fascinated by his use of brilliantine, even going so far as to dab some in his own hair on one occasion. He did so in the hope it would make him resemble the man who was for him, an icon of “smoothness”, a synonym for cool in those days, this being British singer-songwriter Bryan Ferry who was also a favourite of Shane’s. In fact, Shane’s twenties-inspired wardrobe was remarkably similar to Ferry’s.
On the first day of the course, Shane discovered who would be sailing with him for the duration of the week; these being Corin, a cool, tall, dark, somewhat laconic young man of 28 who sported a fashionable moustache and spectacles combo, Tom, a genial old boy of about sixty or seventy, and Simon and Peg, a deeply pleasant young married couple. To say nothing of the skipper, a charismatic man whose wryly solemn countenance concealed a warm heart and “pythonesque” sense of humour.
That evening, Shane dined in what may have been the clubhouse of that bastion of Englishness and English privilege and English exclusivity, the Yacht Club…perhaps even the Royal Lymington Yacht Club itself.
He did so in the company of Corin, who informed him of his humble origins and the fact that through natural resourcefulness and sheer hard graft, he’d ascended to a managerial position within his chosen profession. They’d become good friends, but it would remain an uneasy liaison nonetheless on account of Shane’s bizarre affectations, and Corin’s suspicion thereof…but the kid had chutzpah to spare, and Corin couldn’t help but warm to him despite himself.
But uncompromisingly masculine men such as Corin were always a little perturbed by Shane, as Hemingway had been of his fellow writer F. Scott Fitzgerald, whom he met in Paris in 1925. In the essay collection “A Movable Feast”, he describes Fitz as having a “a delicate long-lipped Irish mouth that, on a girl, would have been the mouth of a beauty.” Yet, they became great friends despite their differences.
Shane loved to play the clown for those who both liked and despaired of him; and Corin certainly fell into this category, but then so did Captain Peter St Aubyn, as he was to discover once they’d finally set sail.
“Take the helm, Shane, steer 350,” he ordered, and Shane duly did as he was told, before settling himself comfortably at the helm as the yacht meandered peacefully through Hampshire waters under a balmy midsummer sun.
"Mmm, “ he cooed, perhaps a little like the youthful Kenneth Williams, “this is nice…”
"Oooh, you thing," said the skipper, causing Shane to lash out with a sneaker-shod foot, much to the good captain’s amusement.
And then there was the time Corin goaded him for having wrongly plotted a course, and he snapped like a petulant schoolboy.
"Oh shut up,” he hissed, “let's see you do better!"
And once again, the skipper came up with his catchphrase, but with even more glee than the first time:
“Ooh, you thing!”

On the second or perhaps third evening of the course, there was a large informal get-together at the clubhouse which included Shane, Corin, Gilles, Dylan and four or five other yachtsmen, the course’s acknowledged wunderkind Daryl among them.
"He comes alive in the evening, this boy," Corin told the assembled yachtsmen, clearly referring to Shane’s propensity for getting tight each night, and the shenanigans that inevitably ensued.
"I'm not an alcoholic,” said Shane.
"You drink three pints to my one," Corin countered, "so you've certainly got potential."
At this point, Shane decided for reasons best known to himself to have a dig at easy-going course whiz-kid Daryl:
"Daryl,” he said, “how long have you had long hair?"
"What...long hair?” said Daryl disgustedly, “what's that got to do with anything...is my hair long...I don't know anything about that."
"Do you realise that twenty years ago with your hair as it is, even though it's only a little below your ears, you would have been hounded, persecuted, beaten, for being a deviant, a freak, are you trying to ignore that?
"And you would have been accepted?" said Daryl.
"Oh yes, " Shane replied, looking over his attire, "knife edge pressed flannels, blue blazer, white V neck pullover, open neck shirt and cravat, a bit sporty, I suppose, but utterly acceptable."
"How safe!" scoffed Daryl.
"Safe?”said Shane incredulously, “that's something I never am, safe."
"Well, quite frankly, I think you look ridiculous!"
Following this last statement of Daryl’s, Shane could no longer contain his hilarity…but his laughter was like no other his new friends had ever heard, nor would hear again. Hideously shrill, it assaulted the soft-carpeted clubhouse’s quiet and respectable clientele as if it had proceeded from the depths of Hell themselves. Daryl, struggling gamely to control his own mirth, had gone a redder shade of tomato, while Corin, quivering with glee, hid his face in an attitude of mock-mortification.
"I disown him," he gibbered, "he's insane, insane."
Gradually the hysteria subsided, and Corin decided that it was time Shane had a taste of his own medicine.
"How do you get those bracelets on your wrist?" he queried, referring to the four or five bangles Shane liked to wear on one wrist in those days:
“Easily”, Shane languorously replied, displaying his remarkably slender wrists, “I have very graceful wrists.”
“Let me see,” said Corin, almost in a whisper, and Shane duly handed him one of his bangles, before it was passed around the entire group, each member attempting, with considerable difficulty, to put it on his own wrist. Presently, it was back in Shane’s possession, but rather than express his relief, he cried out in his distress, having discovered it had been cruelly mutilated by one or another member of his party.
"My bracelet,” he hollered, “look what you’ve done to it…I entrusted it to you and you've gone and twisted and bent it."
The group stared as one at Shane, not knowing whether to look sincerely sorry for what they’d done, or merely laugh at his distress, and so settled for a nervous cross between the two. After several uncomfortable moments, Gilles broke the silence by requesting to see the injured bracelet.
"Let me see eet," he said, "I weel try to feex eet."
Everyone was hushed as the Belgian contemplated the bangle, touched it, turned it round and rattled it, and finally, with considerable calm, placed it on the floor. He scratched his head, as if trying to settle on a decision, and ended up extricating one of his shoes. Shane looked a little concerned at this turn of events, but in a desperate attempt to preserve his cool, lit a cigarette, which promptly fell from his slim white hand when a terrible crack like a tree hit by a sudden flash of lightning echoed throughout the clubhouse.
Gilles was attempting to persuade the bracelet to revert to its original shape by raising his shoe, profuse with studs, before repeatedly bringing it down on the trinket with all the strength he could muster, much to the delight and disbelief of his fellow yachtsmen.
"Oh come on, it's not funny," Shane protested, reaching out to retrieve his precious bauble, which a grinning Gilles now held out for him, but which, far from being shattered beyond repair, was barely altered from its original slightly misshapen state.
"Ees all right, Shane," Gilles chuckled, "I was eeteen’ zee floor wiz my shoe, not your brezlet."
Shane looked at Gilles, then he looked at the other lads, then his eyes began to sparkle, his throat to gurgle, before it all came out at once, that terrible infernal laugh:
"Hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi..."
"I'm not with him!" cried Corin
"We'll get thrown out!" said Daryl.
"He's insane...in-sane!"
"Come on, drink up, lads,” Shane barked suddenly, having made a rapid recovery from his latest paroxysm, “let's go where the action is, let's go and find a party or something!"
"No, it's not worth it," said Daryl, "we're having a good time here. You're a real laugh, Shane, just so long as you don't go too far. We might as well stay."
"Not me,” Shane announced, “I'm getting out of here. I need a change of atmosphere. Who's coming?"
"Yeah, might as well," Corin volunteered
"Yah, me too,”the boy from Belgium followed suit.

So, the trio left the clubhouse, and before long, they were heading along a main road, although to precisely where they hadn’t the slightest notion. Shane performed his manic laugh to each passing car, sometimes even going so far as to stand in the road as he did so, before fleeing at the final second. After a time, though, he tired of this lethal activity and took to chatting to the gentle Gilles, with whom he felt such a strong rapport
"That Belgian girl in your group is nice, isn't she?" he said
"Oh yes," said Gilles, "eef only 'er farzer wuren't weez 'er all zee time."
After a time alone, they found themselves being trailed by two pretty teenage blondes; and perhaps urged by Corin or Gilles, Shane turned around to confront them with an unlit cigarette in his hand.
"Can I have a light, please?" he said, looking intently at one, then the other of the two young women, one of whom was slim and petite, the other, far taller, and yet with the same long blonde hair; but he was equally terrified of both. After he’d succeeded in getting his cigarette lit, he made a timorous effort at conversation.
“So, what shall I do, stay here with you, or go back to my friends?”
"Stay ‘ere," one of the girls mumbled, almost inaudibly, in a strong London accent.
"Pardon?" said Shane teasingly, and both girls answered him by smiling coyly, so Shane bid them goodbye, while his hormones were screaming for him to stay. The trio then continued on their way, with the two girls in hot pursuit.
"Why don't you turn around?" Corin suddenly said.
"Why?" said Shane.
"They like you,” Corin announced.
"Really?"
"Course they do. If you can't see that, you're more short-sighted than I thought you were."
So Shane shakily returned to his admirers.
“What are your names?” he asked them.
"My name's Julie," said the little one, "and this here’s Sue...what's yours, baby?"
"Why do you call me baby?" asked Shane.
“Because you look like one," said Julie.
"I happen to be all of eighteen years old,”said Shane, feigning indignation.
“We thought you was abaht twen'y,” said Sue.
"Really? Well I'm eighteen and my name's Shane.”
"Wha's your name?" said Julie, gesturing towards Gilles.
"My nem eez Gilles,” he replied.
"Where are you from?" Sue asked Shane.
"London. Why?"
"You sahnd Ameri'an or somefing."
"Well, I am half-Canadian."
"Oh, that would explain it," Julie resolved.
"Why," Shane went on, "where do you girls come from?"
"We come from London an’ all, sarf, “ said Sue.
"What are you doing down here?"
"We're spendin' a few days on 'er dad's boat," Sue went on, pointing at Julie.
"Has your dad got a boat?" Shane asked, as if amazed that these two cockney waifs should be associated with the super-posh world of yachting.
"A yacht!” cried Julie, “not just a boat. Don' come from any old family, I don'."
For reasons best known to themselves, the three young men set on their way once again, and once again, they were followed by the girls, who took to kicking a stray tin can around to make their point.
"I weesh Coreen were not 'ere," Gilles whispered into Shane's ear.
"Why?" said Shane.
"Eez prezence eez deesconcertin’ zem."
As if to confirm what Gilles had just said, the girls suddenly turned a corner and left their half-hearted suitors to their own devices.
"See ya, then!" they cried.
"Bye, girls!" said Shane.
"Bye, Shane darlin’!"
And with that, they disappeared, doubtless feeling, quite reasonably, that they’d given Shane and Gilles every opportunity to demonstrate their romantic interest in them.
"I wonder where zey went?" Gilles wistfully enquired.
"I shouldn't worry about it,” said Shane, “you've got your Belgian girl, haven’t you?"
" ‘Ave I?" said Gilles.

The Isle of Wight is separated from the mainland by a strait of the English Channel known as the Solent, and on Shane’s penultimate day, a trip to this island county lying to the south of Hampshire took place, and the entire course was involved.
Lunch was in a public house in the port of Yarmouth to the east of the island, where tall, slender English gentlemen of the old school, clad in double-breasted reefer jackets and flannels or white duck trousers, were apt to take a tincture or two between sails. Some sported bow ties, and others, magnificent handlebar moustaches which appeared to betoken a former membership of the Royal Air Force. Their wives favoured large navy-blue pullovers, silk scarves and slacks, although by nightfall, they’d be in full evening dress.
Back in Lymington for tea, Shane happened to bump into Sally, a fresh-faced young sailing ace, possibly in her early 20s, who typically scorned the use of beautifying products, but for whom Shane had a soft spot nonetheless.
"Hello," he said, “where are you going?"
"Back to my room,” Sally replied.
"Oh”, he went on, “hey, apparently there's a get-together of all the crews on the course tonight, you know, a few drinks, a bit of dancing, a lot of laughs, are you going?"
"I don't know, I..."
"Oh, go on,” he urged, “I’m going.”
"Well...okay," she said, "I suppose I'll go...uh...this is where I turn off."
"Oh. Well..."
"See you tonight then."
"Yes, bye...hey wait! Do you know my name?"
"Yes, of course I do, Shane, bye!"
"Bye, Sally!"
Back at the guest house, the clock struck five to find Shane dressed to the nines as was his wont, and taking tea with Mrs Drummond-Smith, who’d have been scandalised had anyone suggested he was anything other than a deeply likable young man with a single, glaring fault: forgetfulness. She had a duty to charge her guests for the packed lunch she made for each of them every day, even if they forgot to take it, but never did in Shane’s case, even though he was the only one of her guests to routinely leave his lunch behind.
The truth is she had more than a soft spot for him, as he may have reminded her of the bachelor dandies of her youth.
A little later, Shane, Corin and Gilles set out together for the dance, briefly stopping off at a pub for some much needed Dutch courage, although Shane’s was the greatest need by a hectare or three.
"Half of bitter, please," Corin ordered.
"Half a shandy, pleez,” came Gilles’ modest request.
"Double scotch for me please,” said Shane…and a mere ten minutes later, he was ordering a second one, while Corin wisely passed, and Gilles ordered his usual half of shandy. Some ten minutes after this, Shane started up on the pints.
"Come on Shane,” said an exasperated Corin, “let's go”.
"We mus' go," Gilles agreed.
"Drink up!" Corin went on, "we don't want you in a disordered state before the dance, now, do we?"
Shane swallowed his pint and the three departed the pub. Shortly afterwards, they arrived at the site of the evening’s festivities which was a large hall filled with tables and chairs with a space left for dancing. But Shane’s first concern was locating Sally.
He saw her sitting next to a slim, smart, casually dressed young man with fashionable light blond collar length hair and a neatly trimmed beard, and promptly approached the apparently happy couple, perhaps half-expecting she’d quit her date just to be with him.
"Hello, Sally," he said.
"Hello," she replied.
"Do you want a drink?" he asked.
"Er, no thanks," she said, "but I will have one later on."
"Okay then," he agreed, before making his way to the bar, feeling decidedly rejected.
"Double scotch!" he ordered…and then some ten minutes later, he ordered a second one, soon after which, things went a bit hazy for him, and he had no
further recollection of the remainder of the evening. However, one thing is certain…it ended with his jumping fully-clothed into the filthy waters of Lymington harbour.
What happened is that Corin and Gilles had spent some time wrestling with him, pretending that they were about to throw him in, and then relented as if exhausted by their efforts, at which point, to their amazement, the deranged Shane launched himself in by his own volition, before spending some time in his soaking wet clothes discussing music with a coterie of hippies encamped nearby listening to “The End” by the Doors.

The final day of the course was a melancholy one for Shane. Someone had told him it was possible to catch some deadly disease from swimming in the waters of Lymington harbour, and he was worried sick about it.
Around lunchtime, Dylan’s father Mr Watts found him gazing anxiously into the very part of the harbour where the previous evening he’d elected to project himself, and, genuinely nice man that he was, set about reassuring him that in all probability he’d escape from his injudicious dip unscathed.
Soon afterwards, Shane set off for the final time for Mrs Drummond-Smith’s elegant domicile in order to pack in anticipation of his father’s arrival, expected later in the day. On the way there, he had a chance meeting with Captain Peter St Aubyn, who was very sweet to him, urging him to mend his ways in a spirit of paternal concern:
“Shane”, he urged, “stop the drinking and the chasing of the birds…it’s a hard world out there…”
While he was touched by the skipper’s kind words, he might as well have told him to stop breathing. He was only 18 after all
That’s not to say, however, that the vast majority of young people at any given time aren’t equipped for success, because they are. It’s just that the Shane Patrick Halligans of this world are never among them. For them, the party never ends, until it’s forcibly closed down forever.
Soon after reaching the guest house that had been his home for the past fortnight, Shane discovered that his dad had already arrived. In fact, he was getting on famously with Mrs Drummond-Smith, with whom he was engaged in an animated discussion, whose central topic was: Shane himself.
“He is a little eccentric,” he told her at one point, which caused the gracious lady to almost cry out in protest, as if it had been a mortal insult.
“Eccentric?” she exclaimed, “oh, anything but…but he does have one fault, I’m afraid to say….he is rather forgetful.”
She then went on to tell Shane that Gilles had been looking for him earlier on in the day, and was sorry to have missed him. Of course, were this today, the two young men would have already exchanged e-mail addresses or cell phone numbers. But in those days, precious friendships and romances forged over extended periods of time were all too often discarded overnight to be lost forever. The reason being that the only way to stay in contact in was via telephone or snail mail, which required a certain amount of dedication, and not everyone had the patience for it.
The words of singer-songwriter Carole King’s “So Far Away”, from her classic “Tapestry” album from 1970, “So far away, doesn’t anyone stay in one place anymore?’, could be said to be an apt description of social life in the mid 1970s for some people. You could say goodbye to a person you loved on any day of the week, in any month of any year, and never see them again as long as you lived.
Indeed, after the summer of ’74, Shane never saw Gilles, or Corin, or Dylan, or Daryl, or Sally, or Captain St Aubyn, or Mrs Drummond-Smith, or the two blonde teenagers who’d tried so hard to elicit his romantic interest ever again. But he never forget them, nor the extraordinary events of that faraway summer of so long ago.

Epilogue

That he never forget them was in no small part thanks to an account he wrote about them a few years after the events depicted therein had taken place. As to his future, it transpired that words spoken to him by Corin proved prophetic:
"I'm not an alcoholic…”
"You drink three pints to my one, so you've certainly got potential."
Indeed he did, for alcoholic is what he ultimately became, and the quantities he drank over the course of a typical night in ’74 he might already have consumed before lunch in the months leading up to his final alcohol-related crack-up of January 1993. Following this, he was forced to forswear serious drinking forever, notwithstanding a long series of relapses during which he drank less and less until by the late 2000s, a single sip of wine or beer would be sufficient to cause him to fall ill.
That’s what happens to those who run after strong drink for a sufficient length of time. They become locked inside a prison of sobriety, their choice of whether to drink or not to drink having been taken from them forever. Not that that was a bad thing in the case of Shane Patrick Halligan, who became a born again Christian following his drink-related crisis, as the Bible makes a very strong case for total abstinence from intoxicating beverages.
Some decades earlier, possibly in 1977, he’d penned a first rough account of the events of the summer of ’74, although somehow or another, Lymington became transformed into the similar little sailing village of Bosham in West Sussex. There’s no hard and fast guarantee of its accuracy, and the dialogue would necessarily have been an approximation. Moreover, the central character of Shane was named Kris.
Then, in 2006, an edited version was fashioned without altering a single word of the original, although Kris was renamed Carl in keeping with the tale’s autobiographical nature, for indeed Shane’s story is of course that of your narrator, or viewpoint character.
Finally, it was transformed into its present form, with many additions and fresh dialogue, while remaining faithful in spirit to its predecessor. Carl became Shane, and all the other characters were renamed, and while Lymington kept its original name, Welbourne was a fictional one, based on an actual public school, located in the royal county of Berkshire.
In Shane’s case, alcohol would go on to facilitate the perfect social life of a person who while a manic extrovert, was also paradoxically timid and self-conscious. At the same time, it would ultimately wreck the very social life it once enabled, as well as bring about the destruction of an enormously promising career as an actor and musical performer. Such was its devastating effect on his psychological health, that it ultimately reduced him to the status of a recluse.
For the Shane of 2010, the life of a recovering alcoholic was little more than one lived on the fringes of existence, a twilight existence as one of life’s passengers as opposed to participants. But there was also much joy for him in knowing what he’d been saved from, where so many had been less fortunate, not in the sense of being smug or exultant, but of being safe in the arms of his Saviour. If any heart mourned for those who’d been conquered by alcohol, it was the shattered heart of Shane Patrick Halligan.
And if the joie-de-vivre that was so apparent in the exalted character of the eighteen year old Shane had never been returned to him despite his pleas, then he contented himself with what God himself told Paul when he complained about his mysterious thorn in the flesh:
“My Grace is sufficient.”