BLIGHTED HOPE

(RMYC’s New Letter in the 1960 by Mrs. Josephine Felton)

 Masefield’s poem had nothing to do with my initiation into the art of sailing.  The reason was much more basic. Men. The young man who taught me to sail I did in fact marry in the end, but when he first asked me if I’d like to go down to the Yacht Club, visions of gorgeous, bronzed, handsome young men in blue jeans and striped T-shits came to mind. With alacrity and a smile he probably thought was for him, I accepted the invitation.Alas, my frivolous heart sank when I arrived. With due respect to current members, all appeared to be ancient and married (to each other, so not even a little harmless flirting). Worse still, all they could talk about was boats. Jibs and judders, benders and pleats; I supposed that they were quite sane people who kept the wheels of industry and domesticity turning all week, but one would never have thought so from listening to them.We had a rather wobbly trip in the dinghy across the oil in which the boats were moored (someone tried to tell me there was water underneath, but I’m not that daft), during which I had time to notice that my escort not only didn’t wear  a striped shirt  , but that he had no shirt at all and was displaying a hairy chest and three folds of stomach, each resting on the one below, with the bottom one draped gracefully over the top of his shorts. We gently bumped THE boat and clambered in.“Rigging the boat” was the next excitement. I managed to thread two bits of rope through two metal rings with what I hoped was a nautical air, and was informed that these were my responsibility. Up went the mainsail and I was told (not asked, told – manners seem to be forbidden in boats) to ‘push off”.  This involved crouching on a tiny piece of triangular wood at the front, with a small sail flapping round my ears, so that just when I stuck out my hand and shoved, the sail blocked my vision and I pushed nothing and nearly fell overboard.  Eventually I managed to push against something which resisted me and we slid quietly backwards into clear oil. “Haul in the fenders” yelled The Voice, a finger indicating the four lumps of melting liquorices hanging outside the boat.“Right, now sit down and take hold of the jib sheet”. The only thing even vaguely representing a sheet which I could see was the sail, and that wasn’t the snowy white or pastel blue I’d dreamed of, but a filthy, patched setsquare of terylene (where was the canvas of legend and song?). I dutifully grabbed the only bit I could reach, thinking that whoever designed such things could at least have put in a few extra handles, when a verbal blast from the back end made me let go and seize one of my original two ropes. Why couldn’t he have said that’s what he meant in the first place?We sailed smoothly into the main harbor (real water now) and I managed to carry out some simple instructions fairly successfully. I was fascinated by the cargo ships, the different coloured flags and the fretting little tugs. We headed straight for an enormous,  gray vessel which was obviously in Madras to deliver aeroplanes, as these were clearly visible on the fat deck. This was moving sedately in our direction; the gap between us  closed to a couple of boat length but I knew that steam had to give way to sail, so that was all right. Suddenly, “Ready about, NOW” bang went the boom, almost scalping me; slither, rattle went the oars and bailing can across the floor-boards; flap, crack went the sails; lurch, crash, “Ow” went me. I howled, unraveling ropes from around my feet and nursing a battered knee. “What do you mean slowly, can’t you blasted well see an aircraft carrier ahead, you’re supposed to keep a look-out’. How was I to know that the rule about steam and sail doesn’t apply within a harbor?About this time I decided that sailing wasn’t such fun after all. My hands were sore, I couldn’t pull any tighter for all the tongue-lashing I received. The brass cleats which some idiot had chosen to screw into the middle of the plank on which I was sitting had  hooked and torn my shorts and as I was not then married, my dignity was suffering. I had a crick in the neck from ducking under the boom and a rope burn in a place unmentionable, caused by the centre plate being drawn up sharply with no warning. I’d had just about enough.Shortly, to my relief, we turned and sailed slowly back to the club House in the now dusky evening. Why we had to zig zag all the way instead of going straight, which would have been much quicker, I don’t know. I suppose my helmsman did it for the fun of making me leap from side to side, knowing that I daren’t hit him or go on strike in case we capsized. (It’s so easy to convince a beginner that if he so much as breathes too deeply the boat will tip up and he’ll DROWN).We moored alongside the other boats, transferred wearily into the dinghy and I silently thanked Neptune for releasing me back on to dry land. The greatest surprise of all was that not only did my man revert to his usual good temper once his feet lost contact with his boat, but he asked me out to dinner that night. Perhaps I was wrong when I assumed that sailors are sane. They’re not, they’re all schizophrenics at heart.                                                                                                                        J.R.F.  

This building was leased from the Binny's work shop and housed the first sailing Club in South of India.

On Thu, May 13, 2010 at 4:11 PM, Royal Madras Yacht Club wrote: ---------- Forwarded message ---------- From: Hinkins8686@aol.com Date: May 13, 2010 2:30 PM Subject: Re: Royal Madras Yacht Club Centenary Celebrations. To: rmyc.sailingclub@gmail.com
Here is a short article about an incident in 1963/4 I arrived in Madras in February 1963 having spent many happy years racing Enterprise's. On my first Sunday I found my way down to the RMYC and was made most welcome by all and sundry and was offered the job of crewing for Freddy Crook in his Bembridge. It quickly became apparent that Freddy was one of those unpleasant Skippers who felt it was his right to swear at and abuse the crew. Having been trained to do exactly what the skipper asked I bit my tongue---until we reached the shore when I made sure he understood that was the last time I would be on his***boat. We later became good friends but we certainly never sailed together again. During the race I noticed that the AGA light was a mark on the course and as we rounded the end of the harbour arm we lost all the wind and were at the mercy of the swell within a few inches of the granite! This seemed an unnecessary risk so the next weekend I asked the Commodore who shall be nameless why we did not put a mark away from the wall and remove the hazard. I was told in no uncertain terms,' We have sailed round the end of the arm for 40 years and do not intend to change now' So as a new boy I retired defeated. Some time later, perhaps in 1964 we were rounding Aga Light in a Waterwag (Phillida I think) and were following a Waterwag which was very close to a Bembridge which was in the lead. Unfortunately the Bembridge stopped in stays and then fell onto a Port tack and very soon hit the rocks on the outside of the Arm. In doing so she hit the Waterwag behind which in turn collided with us. Both Waterwags were now on a Port tack with the end of the wall straight ahead only a few feet away. Needless to say there was some confusion but I remember looking up and seeing the Bembridge on its side on the rocks with a big hole where the keel should have been. There was no sign of the crew. For the moment we had more than enough problems of our own and I can still feel and see the bow hitting the wall with a tremendous crash and then a roller from Singapore swept us a few feet towards the harbour and we managed to sail to the steps on the inside of the arm Even this was difficult as we were totally in the lee of the wall and the Wag was never good in light airs. We were very concerned about the Bembridge crew and the crew of the other Wag reached the steps first and we all rushed to the top of the wall to find that most of the Bembridge crew were already on the wall but they were all covered in blood! They were initially swept onto and under the rocks which were covered in sharp Barnacles which cut them all over but remarkably there were no broken bones. We ferried them all back to the club and after a good shower and a few miles of Elastoplast they all recovered in no time and were back sailing the following weekend. With a rounding mark at Aga light! Note to the Editor We were all too busy to take photographs but if Aga light is still there perhaps a modern photograph would allow you to illustrate what happened. It may be that the configuration of the harbour has changed. If this is the case, please feel free to alter the article so that it is understandable to today's audience. I did not have a Bembridge, all I could afford was a Waterwag and even that was a struggle. All the best Brian Hinkins