The gathering storm

The yacht would have been instantly recognisable to anyone alive before the First World War. The straight stem blended subtly into an unusually beamy hull for modern times, while a glazed mahogany skylight spoke of opulence not seen these days in yachts of this size. The counter stern; the bulwarks pierced with scupper holes at deck level to allow any water that came aboard to drain back into the sea where it belonged; no slim lines or lightweight aluminium rails here!

The rig was also in keeping with the period. The long bowsprit curving slightly downwards under the tension of the bobstay, countering the strain of the forestay that reached to the mast head. Two headsails proclaimed to all sailors in the world that this was a cutter, while the mainsail attached to the solid wooden mast by hoops, proved that the vessel was kept in original condition. The final statement as to the boat’s identity was the gaff mainsail with its long boom projecting over the counter, while a separate topmast supported a jackyard topsail. All in all, the entire vessel was a well-kept example of a gaff-rigged cutter built at the turn of the century.

To modern eyes however, she spoke of antique unresponsive slowness; but her skipper loved her!

She was sailing now, drifting almost imperceptibly through the water, the cat’s paws of wind hardly affecting her as they moved the more responsive modern racers to their destinations.

“Want a tow mate? and other similar jocular remarks were made by those in charge of the faster boats, as they sailed quickly past.

The skipper smiled quietly to himself raising his hand in acknowledgement. He had his eye on the darker water further out, a sure sign that there was more wind to be found in that direction. Before long the topsail found a small puff that helped the cutter on her dignified way. There was still no fuss as she moved through the water, a bit more purposefully now, but being passed even more quickly by the modern boats foaming along beside her.

A sudden heavier gust of wind sent one of the racers onto her beam-ends. The cutter responded to this, heeling slightly as the air struck her lofty canvas, then she came upright again, increasing her speed slightly as she did so.
Then at last the wind came in with a bang. She had a small angle of heel permanently now and left a definite wake behind her as she cut gracefully through the small popple the wind was raising on the water. Gaining in strength all the time, the wind carried her ever faster, a wave crest developing at both bow and stern as she began to approach maximum speed. Several of the lighter boats had already given up and gone back to shore, but by this time the skipper was revelling in the power of his vessel.

‘Not so funny now is it!’ he thought to himself, as he passed a tall-masted Bermudan sloop luffing desperately to avoid a knockdown.

The short steep waves common to the area where they were all sailing began to build as the wind continued to increase in strength. The heavy hull was smashing its way through them, spray coming over the bows more or less continuously. An extra heavy gust pushed the boat over and for the first time on this trip, water bubbled up onto the deck through the open scuppers. There were only two other sailing boats out on the water now, so the skipper was able to concentrate more on the enjoyment of his vessel’s power, than the necessity to watch out for anyone else nearby.

The angle of heel increased yet again as the wind continued to grow in strength. Waves were now breaking over the bows with increasing frequency, the deck almost permanently awash as the scuppers struggled to clear the water coming aboard.

Now the only yacht out there able to deal with the conditions, the skipper grinned happily as he took in the topsail. Relieved of the pressure at the masthead and with the immediate reduction in the area of canvas, the cutter continued to smash through the steepening waves, more upright now but with no apparent reduction in speed, the wake foaming astern in an ever lengthening line.

However the wind was still increasing in strength and every boat has its limits. After all, the cutter was only being sailed for pleasure. Reluctantly the skipper turned and headed for home. As always with a following wind the apparent strength dropped immediately. Even so, new problems presented themselves. The risk of broaching to, where the boat could be rolled over sideways by the following waves was now a hazard. The conditions demanded constant vigilance and a sure hand with the steering.

But at last she sailed safely out of the area of strong wind sought so eagerly only an hour ago and headed for the shore. Several of the other boat owners were waiting, as she approached the hard standing where they had all begun the day’s sailing.

“Well done old son, perhaps there’s something to be said for those older types after all.”

Not risking a reply as he headed for the concrete hard, the skipper once more raised his hand in acknowledgement. Judging his moment with the experience of a lifetime, he headed into the wind and let fly the sheets. The cutter slowed with a thunderous flapping from the unrestrained canvas, coming alongside as gently as could be expected in the conditions.

Then with a sigh of regret that sailing was over for the day, the skipper bent down and switched off the radio, before lifting his model yacht from the water and carrying it back to the car park with his friends.

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