What with advances in technology, modern weather forecasts are at least 100 per cent accurate, if not more. And although dog walkers, keen gardeners, leisure sailors and anyone who goes outside may contest this, it is backed up irrefutably by the science, as I can prove. For example, when they say it’s going to rain it does, and to the very minute, as if commanded by some higher being; and when they say the wind will be northeast force three it will most certainly be, beyond any possible doubt. It is not the fault of meteorologists if dog walkers, gardeners and sailors happen to be in a different place from where the weather’s actually happening, or on a different day. In other words, it’s the weather that’s right and us who are wrong. 

The other problem with the weather is that there’s just too much of it, but thankfully now that the BBC has ditched its longwave transmission of the shipping forecast, there’s a little bit less. The resulting reduction of anxiety is worth the licence fee alone, and if only they’d also can the shipping forecast, particularly the one at 05:20, the whole nation would sleep more peacefully and be more on-side with the recent licence fee hike.

When I first started sailing there were only two weather sources I relied on. One was the three-hourly Channel 16 VHF announcements, which told you to go to another channel that was either silent, buzzing with interference or occupied by motor boaters asking each other where France is and what time the duty-free wine warehouse in Calais closed. 

Of course, these days there are myriad phone weather apps that allow you to choose weather suited to your liking and temperament. Though they’re all unerringly accurate, there is a spectrum of opinion among Maldon’s waterfront sages in the Queen’s Head as to which is the best; this is not dissimilar from the range of views on which greyhound-cross is the ideal lurcher for hunting, legal or otherwise. Those with a sunnier disposition tend to favour Wind Optimist, while those who spend more time in the pub swear by Wind Pessimist.  

It is, however, wooden boat sailors who are most keenly attuned to the weather. This is because before you go sailing you have to varnish your boat every spring, on a day without rain or sun in a temperature range between 11.7 and 12.3 degrees Centigrade and relative humidity of 40.3 to 41.2 per cent. This year that occurred between 2 and 3.15pm on the third Tuesday in April amid a frenzy of activity, as that’s a relatively narrow window to varnish and sand seven coats. Unfortunately, as some people were sanding while others were varnishing, a fight broke out. 

I avoided the fracas by varnishing the mahogany surround of the barometer attached to the bulkhead of my own wooden boat. Barometers, it should be explained, are operated first by tapping, followed by tutting, because whatever the needle does it’s bad news. If the needle falls that means rain and/or wind; a quick rise after low is a sure sign of stronger blow; and if the needle doesn’t move, it’s broken. Thus, a barometer not only measures pressure but creates it. Indeed, one of my heroes, Blondie Hasler, who came second in the 1960 solo trans-Atlantic race, eventually threw his barometer overboard because he realised there was nothing he could do to outrun the oncoming weather. 

When it comes to weather forecasts, and whether or not to go sailing, I rely on local oracle Adi, our boatyard manager, who not only tolerates berth holders, but is less keen on the ones who actually try to move their boats. Adi is in effect a one-man nautical care-in-the-community programme, whose range of advice services encompass everything from anti-fouling and anodes to unusual rashes of an intimate nature, or, as he terms it: “saving you lot from yourselves.” 

In my case he’s done it countless times, which I think may be something he regrets. Typically I’d ask him something like: “I’m thinking of going to Brightlingsea, what do you think?” He’d study the sky for a minute – possibly to avoid eye contact – and then say: “Go for it, Dave, you’ll be fine.” And to be fair, he’s never yet been wrong, as I haven’t died once, even though I’ve never encountered anything less than a Force 7 north-easterly. When I asked him if this was always the case, he replied: “No, Dave, it’s normally a 9 or 10 – I told you I was saving you from yourself.” That just made me appreciate all the more how lucky we are to have Adi’s kindly forecast guidance, knowledge and infinite wisdom. I did go out in a Force 3 once, but Adi was on holiday that week. 

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The post How to Read the Weather: Dave Selby’s Secret Sailing Forecast appeared first on Classic Boat Magazine.

Sailors have long had a troubled relationship with water ever since biblical times when Noah failed his Day Skipper practical on tidal heights and got extremely neaped on top of Mount Ararat, only to be abandoned there by the rest of the crew. Frankly, they behaved like animals, which is not that unusual on a flotilla holiday.

And as for Moses, the so-called miracle of parting the Red Sea did earn him a pass as it  demonstrated a better understanding of tidal calculations, but suspicions remains to this day about whether the work was really his own. Remember, he’d just come down off Mount Sinai where a very tall and imposing figure with a booming voice and luxuriant white hair gave him some kind of tip-off. I don’t know exactly what Tom Cunliffe was doing up there, but whatever it was it took Moses ages to tap it on to his tablet. What really puzzles me about that is why when they already had tablets were later versions printed on reeds?

In the event Reed’s Almanac, which today is printed on paper, only encouraged more sailing on water, mostly with calamitous and embarrassing outcomes. Take Columbus, whose “discovery” of America involved confusing Cuba with India. I made a similar mistake once when I made landfall in The Hamble and thought I’d found Monte Carlo. It wasn’t just the mooring fees, nor the traditional costume of hedge-fund haute-couture. What threw me was the strange dialect, which was nothing like the King’s proper Essex English. When I said “ow much? You’re avin a larf, mate!,” they just shrugged their shoulders and went “pfff” and “phoo” with arms outstretched and palms splayed upwards. Call it intuition, but that gave me an idea and when I tried “Çòmbîén? Vôùs êtès fóùs, mátè!” one of them stepped forward and said: “Aah indubitably, I think we have a visiting yachtsman here. As deputy vice rear second sea lord of the Royal Asterisk Yacht Club founded ages ago in the olden days it behoves me to extend to you a most cordial welcome. I’ll have a page sign you in forthwith. Of course we’ll need to see your vaccination certificates and family tree – just a formality, you understand – but once you’ve quarantined for 14 days and we’re satisfied you’re not contagious or common we very much hope you will avail yourself of our facilities and buy us all a drink at the veranda bar – it’s members only inside, as I’m sure you appreciate, but we do have an umbrella at your disposal should it come on to precipitate. If you leave a £25 deposit with the steward he will provide you with the code to the umbrella.”

My point is that none of this could have happened without water, which is why Jesus tried to turn it into wine, and that in turn led to the establishment of Royal Asterisk Yacht Clubs all over the place as a means of drowning your sorrows… in preference to just drowning. Indeed, thanks to science and amateur experiments by Classic Boat readers there’s a growing body of evidence to suggest that water is the main contributing factor in 99.98% of incidents of boats sinking. In fact it’s probably even higher than that because the other 0.02% are Old Testament Gaffer’s who still insist with biblical zeal that a boat full of water is not sinking, but “taking up.” The story of Jonah is just one of countless examples, and I’m sure there’s another one.

Water for sailing on is variously categorised as short, steep, shallow, confused and mountainous, but it can also be hard. Hard water is terrible for washing machines and did even more damage to the Titanic.

As with everything else it was British ingenuity that provided the solution – by outlawing water altogether in 1655. Until then navy sailors had received a daily ration of one gallon of weak beer, but as it was diluted with water it was highly offensive to them, as well as unhealthy. 

In 1655 matters improved when the daily ration of watery beer was replaced by half a pint of rum of spectacular 95.5 proof (54.6% ABV). That’s an actual true fact, and though many sailors found it solved everything, it’s a wonder that the Royal Navy ever left dock, let alone once ruled the seas. 

An explanation of sorts was provided centuries later by solo circumnavigator Sir Francis Chichester, who countered aspersions about his aversion to having water on board by saying: “Any damn fool can navigate the world sober. It takes a really good sailor to do it drunk.” And that’s another true fact.

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The post Dave Selby’s Problem with Water: Drinking Alcohol at Sea appeared first on Classic Boat Magazine.

Here’s the latest classic pieces seen at auction from Sothebey’s, Eldred’s (USA) and Bonhams.

RM Sothebey’s

Ferrari flyer still on the pace

In October 1953 Arno XI catapulted across Italy’s Lake Iseo to shatter the 800kg world water speed record and raise the bar to an incredible 150.19mph (241.7kph) – propelled by a 4.5-litre Ferrari V12 grand-prix engine that had been hopped up with twin superchargers and tuned way beyond 385hp race-spec to produce 600hp. That 1953 class record still stands. In 2012 the restored wood-framed, ply and mahogany-skinned hydroplane sold for $1.1 million. More recently it’s been rumoured to be on the market for $15m.

Arno XI, still with its original engine, is a one-off in the rarefied world of exotic Ferraris. So too is this remarkable large-scale model. Hand-crafted in exquisite detail to 1:3 scale, and leather upholstered, the model measures 2m in length (79in) and sold for €20,400.

As for the full-size craft, engineers at Ferrari managed to extract 700hp when restoring its engine. Should anyone dare, it’s quite possible Arno XI could today beat its own record.

On Auction at Eldred’s, USA

Whalers’ labours of love

Moby Dick author Herman Melville reckoned a whaling expedition could be counted a success if a crew of 40 took 40 whales on a typical four-year voyage, with a month or more often passing between whale sightings and the frenzied bloody chase that ensued. In idle periods sailors whittled the discard into intricate folk art that is today highly prized.

A sperm whale tooth, carved in the 1830s by the maestro of scrimshaw art, Edward Burdett, recently set a world record auction price of $475,000. But it’s the tenderness and care with which sailors crafted a myriad of domestic objects that speak most poignantly of their longing for their loved ones left languishing at home, not knowing if or when they would return.

Surviving whalers returned with whale-bone love tokens ranging from clothes pegs, rolling pins and corset stays to cribbage boards, children’s toys and walking sticks, but the most intricate object of devotion was the swift, a folding yarn winder of more than 100 articulated parts. Records of the time indicate that sailors would typically take two to three years to complete the complex umbrella-like contraption, with the number of unfinished swifts found in sea chests bearing silent witness to the effort and skill involved. 

Whale bone had little commercial value, but the folk art crafted from it has considerable worth today. While simpler swifts can be acquired for a few hundred dollars, this exceptionally complex example made $40,625; unusually elaborate pie crimper made $10,080; scrimshaw sheep pull-toy made $8,190 

Dave Selby’s finds at Bonhams

Horror shocker/A plastic classic

While Classic Boat readers of more delicate disposition will be horrified so see an image of a plastic motor boat in these pages, this poster for a B movie shocker triggered in me an altogether more terrifying childhood flashback of one of our more successful family charter holidays on the Norfolk Broads. The 1977 Peter Cushing movie sank without trace, and now the poster has also plumbed new depths. The most prized film posters can sell for hundreds of thousands, yet this piece of whimsy sold for just $12.80 – including frame! That’s shockingly cheap, both for a picture frame, and a poster for a film regarded as a cult classic. That must have left the vendor with a sinking feeling. On the other hand, the buyer of this auction bargain artwork, which deserves pride of place in any downstairs loo, will flush with joy.

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The post Classic Saleroom: Dave Selby’s Finds at Auction appeared first on Classic Boat Magazine.

Safety at sea is something you can never ever take too seriously, as I well know as a sometime third hand in a customer service role on a Thames sailing barge that operates in the highly hazardous and perilous cream-tea trade. In general, most barge skippers prefer a less explosive cargo… such as explosives, for example, as the sticky tea business has landed many a captain and crew in a jam and driven them to easier professions such as smuggling brandy from France. In more recent times of desperation and famine following Brexit some skippers have even resorted to carrying highly volatile French cheeses, but never in July, as vapours rising from the hold have been known to render entire crews unconscious. In the infamous “Brexit Brie Blast” incident reported in The Daily Star a barge was found adrift mid Channel and with not a soul on board and the hatch covers blown off. As is the way with the British tabloid press, the cargo turned out not to be brie at all, but was in fact extremely ripe camembert. 

But that’s as nothing compared with the terrors of cream teas, which are enough to make you yearn for the good old days when barges carried hay and bricks outward and returned with a load of steaming horse dung from the streets of Victorian London. Sadly those days are long scone. 

On land cream teas are merely a threat to your cholesterol levels, though in some of the rougher tea rooms in Maldon brawls have also been known to break out over the unresolved controversy of which goes on first, the clotted cream or the jam. The sea, however, is a great leveller where such polite niceties are of no consequence because the cream-tea crowd prefer to spread it all over the deck and spend the day slithering into the scuppers on a 95ft-long skating rink resembling a giant Eton mess. 

This is entirely the fault of customers who, despite endless safety briefings and cautions about the inherent dangers of scones at sea, will insist on trying tricky manoeuvres such as standing up. Worse still are the ones who think they can do this with a china plate in one hand and a cup and saucer in the other. And even worse are the ones we call “walkers,” of which there are two types: the “admirals” pace the decks, either with both hands clasped behind their backs, or one inserted into the opening of their reefer to suggest a past act of naval heroism possibly involving an amputation; the “Hornblowers” also do a lot of strutting about, but with a hand raised to shield their eyes from sun as they scan the horizon for Frenchies. 

All in all, as no one is actually looking where they’re going it’s a recipe for disaster, when you consider that the deck of a Thames barge is basically a maze of trip hazards with more obstacles than the Grand National – and in fact one of them is even a horse. No one knows why anything is called anything on a Thames barge, but for some reason this is the name of the massive round beam that runs across the aft deck at knee height and along which runs a huge iron ring which is attached to a main-sheet block the size and weight of an anvil. 

After several seasons on barges I’ve just about become adept enough to trip over the horse and skin my shins before the main-sheet block swings by to whack me on the bonce. And it’s with the same degree of inevitability that we watch the acrobatic antics of the cream-tea customers. First off, you’ve got your standers standing there and looking thoughtful with a pyramid of scones on a plate in one hand and cup and saucer in the other. It’s at about this time that they realise that evolution hasn’t given them a third hand with which to feed themselves. Some of them have wives to feed them, which is a great relief for us, but it’s when the bachelors start to show initiative and take matters into their own hands that the chaos really ramps up. It’s a law as immutable as gravity that they will ponder for a bit, then put the scone tower down on the deck and occupy one hand with the tea cup and the other with the saucer. 

Then along comes an admiral, who promenades around for a bit and then plonks his plump posterior down on top of a scone volcano, spewing strawberries in all directions. Hornblower, mistaking this for enemy fire, cries “avast behind,” which although anatomically correct shows a lack of respect for higher rank, and then wades waist deep into a mountain of buttery goo. 

Of course, you might think that there’s a simple solution to all this carnage, but we had to ban tea trays after a particularly rowdy bunch from Switzerland turned the deck into something resembling the Cresta Run and started tobogganing. And now we’ve banned the Swiss too, but that was on account of the yodelling which, like sea shanties and, have no place on a boat… or indeed anywhere on land below 12,000ft up the Matterhorn. Rather ill-advisedly, in my view, the skipper has just accepted a last-minute booking from a bunch of Germans for a Black Forest Gateau themed cruise, which he says will be a cake walk. I fear it will.

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The post What is a Thames Barge Skipper’s Most Feared Cargo? appeared first on Classic Boat Magazine.

No Need for a Running Aground Masterclass

Like everything else to do with sailing, running aground is a lot easier than the experts make out. Of course, the experts are the true experts at it, and do it frequently and on purpose, purely to demonstrate the myriad techniques for getting off again for magazine articles that illustrate both their depth of knowledge and our lack of it in what is a relatively shallow field of endeavour.

Most of these ‘expert’ and ‘masterclass’ type techniques involve throwing everything that’s in the boat into the water – or what’s left of the water – including anchors, life rafts, cushions, outboards, ceramic loos and loo doors, flat-screen TVs, mobile phones, people and wot not. As a rule of thumb, if you manage to create a scene reminiscent of the aftermath of a particularly muddy Glastonbury Festival, you’re on the right track.

In truth, jettisoning the mobile phones doesn’t help much, but I’ve never once come across an expert masterclass that actually tells you to take them out of your pocket before jumping. On the other hand most sea-survival experts strongly caution against jettisoning hair dryers, particularly if the hair dryer’s owner is on board. This is for the safety of any married man on board who hopes to remain married and single ones who hope to reach retirement, and perhaps even form a meaningful relationship along the way. However, under no circumstances should you kedge a hair dryer overboard while it’s still plugged in. The consequences would be truly shocking.

After outlining any given scenario, experts cheerily conclude “if you’re lucky that’ll do the trick,” then proceed to describe 23 other techniques that might also do the trick.

Then, once all hope is lost, experts advise crew to pass the time by swinging off the end of the boom or other bits of rigging to provide amusement for passing boats and put maximum distance between yourself and the skipper. And here there’s an important distinction often overlooked by experts. Whose boat is it? If the boat isn’t yours, and if the ground is firm, simply walk ashore and leave them to it. Prior to that, if your mobile phone still works, it’s good practice to first ask the skipper the lat and long, and then call a cab before walking ashore. If, however, the boat is yours, you’ll have different priorities, mainly to explain to the authorities that you are not aground, but have “careened” the vessel for: a) a mid-season scrub and anti-foul; b) to replace the impeller; c) inspect the anode, prop, stern-drive, lower rudder pintle, gaping hole in the bottom of the boat etc; or d) to save face. In the last case we’d advise bringing along sporting equipment such as cricket bats, stumps and balls, or croquet hoops, polo mallets and ponies to lend credence and plausibility.

Become an Expert at Running Aground

And so you see, it’s not as complex as the experts make out. And in fact I’m something of an expert myself, as boats with lifting keels, like mine, are even better at running aground than bilge keelers. I’ve been so far aground I once nearly made it to IKEA; on another occasion I got a parking ticket.

In fact it’s reassuring to know that any novice can acquire a secure grounding in this field of sailing completely free of charge and without buying costly charts or going to the expense of night classes. Indeed, there’s nothing like learning from experience as demonstrated by those Learning From Experience articles, the enduring popularity of which ably demonstrates that we do indeed never learn from experience. And I can prove it.

My chums Mark and Dave, who keep a 24ft bilge-keeler at Orwell Yacht Club, invited me sailing – just once, as it happens – and within an hour we noticed that we’d stopped going forward. That’s not unusual in a bilge keeler, but some time after that we noticed we weren’t even going sideways, which is quite unusual in a bilge keeler. I was at the helm, but that’s not strictly relevant because I assumed they’d let me know where to point. They assumed, unfairly I thought, that I’d been looking at the echo sounder, but I’d assumed, fairly, they’d tell me where to point, then Mark said they’d assumed, just as fairly, that I’d been looking at the echo sounder, and I said I’d assumed even more fairly they would have told me where to point.

Then abruptly, our learned discourse was stopped in its tracks by a dazzling display of nature. All around us an impressive plateau was emerging, the receding waters uncovering oysters the size of base-ball mitts which, as they snapped shut, squirted jets of water skyward. It was like the fountains of Versailles or the Taj Mahal. Then more nature, like sunset and stuff, happened and we returned to bickering and Mark said: “Anyway, I thought you’re supposed to be an expert cos you write for yotting mags.”

“I am,” I countered. “I’m doing research for an expert masterclass article.”

“You should leave that sort of thing to Tom Cunliffe,” Mark replied, adding “I think you’re out of your depth, mate.”

“No I’m not,” I retorted.

“Too right,” said Mark. “That’s the problem.”

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The post Masterclass for Running Aground: Dave Selby’s Expert Warning appeared first on Classic Boat Magazine.

Sinking in Plastic vs Wood

For sheer entertainment there is very little more enjoyable than watching a wooden boat sink. I know that sounds heartless, and that’s exactly what it is, because plastic boat owners like me are a soulless and heathenistic bunch. Now that I’m also a wooden boat owner, with soul, character, discernment, taste and a lot less money, I find it less amusing, particularly if the boat doing the sinking is mine and I’m on it at the time. And for the edification of you Tupperware louts – a hopeless task, I know – I would also point out that the correct nautical term for what you illiterates call “sinking” is in fact “launching.” 

Saving Snipe of Maldon

Snipe of Maldon, my 3½-ton Blackwater Sloop, had been out of the water, being varnished and painted in the very boat shed where she was built back in 1953. How romantic is that! The whole process took me about five months: that was six weeks choosing the right varnish; another six choosing the paint; and two weeks to do the work. I know that doesn’t add up to five months, but choosing the right brushes is trickier than you’d think… particularly if you’ve read that so-called ‘instructive’ Classic Boat how-to article titled “Choosing The Right Brush For The Job;” in which case I’d allow at least nine months for the job, as it’s devilish hard these days to get hold of top-grade unicorn hair. But, boy, was it worth it, because at the end of it all Snipe looked a picture – and almost as good as the results achieved by Photoshop in the pages of Classic Boat – with her subtle cream topsides over red antifouling, as she swayed above me in the air swinging perilously in the strops from the ancient Ruston-Bucyrus crane with a slipping clutch. 

As Snipe was lowered jerkily over the quayside, boatyard boss and shipwright Aidy told me to hop aboard, and as my pride and joy returned to her element I felt quite emotional, and even more so a moment later when I screamed to Aidy “she’s sinking,” while all the plastic boat rubberneckers fell about laughing. Next thing, Aidy cast me adrift – with no engine, no electricity to run the electric bilge pump and not even an oar. His son Sam, however, was on the other end of two long warps, and as Snipe settled lower and her floorboards started to float, he hauled her into her mud berth. It’s the most terrifying voyage I’ve ever undertaken, and it was only 100 yards. We made it… just.

Three Tides Time

The thing was, Snipe had been out of the water too long (for which I blame Classic Boat for giving me the false impression that I was capable of DIY) and was about as watertight as a venetian blind. This is all “normal,” apparently, so much so that Aidy, casual as you like, sauntered along the pontoon, stopping to give boat owners the odd estimate and quote and advice on varnishing and caulking, before passing down a generator-powered shore pump. Then he said: “You’ll have a long night, but she’ll be tight in three tides.” 

As the pump gurgled and chugged, it just about kept pace with the inrush spurting through the seams, and with the ebb, as Snipe took to the mud, the water inside was eventually drained, but not as drained as I was. I went home for a few hours respite and returned with a thermos, thermals and sleeping bag and noted with horror that the shore pump was gone. I plugged Snipe’s rudimentary electrics into the shore power and sat there with nothing more than a bucket, head-torch, hand pump and hope. 

It was a chill April night with a big, mocking moon that illuminated the menacing water creeping over the glistening mud to envelop me in my wooden sieve. As I huddled down below, the mahogany-slatted cabin sides that had so seduced me took on all the cosiness of a coffin. Then the gurgling began again as the two electric bilge pumps kicked in and weakly whirred. Every few minutes I worked the hand pump too. And Snipe shivered as she lifted sluggishly. It was a time beyond time. Whether it was seconds or minutes, I don’t know, but I sensed that the intervals between the electric slurps of the bilge pump were longer, my turns at the hand pump fewer and farther between, giving me time to read a bit of Classic Boat…

… Then I awoke – I didn’t even know I’d been asleep – but what roused me was new but distant sounds, the rhythmic occasional whirrings and sploshes of the pumps on nearby wooden boats… but not mine. I panicked. Had my pumps packed up? But no, just then a brief but urgent burst came from my bilge.

As Snipe settled back on her soft and welcoming pillow of mud on the falling tide I couldn’t bring myself to leave her. We rested together after our endeavours, my snoring more regular than the occasional snort from her bilge pumps. Then a knock on the cabin roof awoke me. “You there, Dave?” said Aidy. I poked my head out, saw to my amazement that we were afloat, and went below to flick the manual bilge switch, which gave only the shortest gargle then sucked air. Snipe was alive!

“I told you she’d take up in three tides,” said Adi, the wood whisperer. I pity plastic boat owners who will never know how magical, mystical and spiritual it is to return a living thing back to its element and nurse it back to life. You heathens!

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The post Trials of Owning a Wooden Boat: Sinking with Dave Selby appeared first on Classic Boat Magazine.

When Buying a Wooden Boat

The first golden rule when considering buying a wooden boat is… don’t. The second golden rule is that if someone offers to give you a wooden boat for free it will cost you even more.

The third golden rule is that when you’ve fallen in love with that beautiful sheer line and honey-coloured varnish and hand-crafted cabinetry there really is no point in getting a survey, because you know that unless the marine surveyor says it’s planked in low-grade kitchen-carcass chipboard you’re going to buy it anyway.

And that’s exactly what happened to me. Yep, I actually paid money for my wooden boat and the process has turned this cynic into a romantic, and so it can for you too if you closely observe one more golden rule.

It’s been a long journey, and I owe much of my awakening to my hippie carpenter chum Dreadlock Dan who berthed a series of variously distressed wooden boats alongside my Sailfish 18, which is made of low-maintenance glass-reinforced osmosis.

As I lazed in the cockpit of my plastic soap dish clipping my finger nails and drinking tea and passing Dan the occasional broken custard cream I must admit the constant banging, thwacking and swearing that emanated from down below in his latest “bargain” only increased the serene sense of well-being and superiority that comes from owning a Tupperware tub.

Being of the empathetic type I occasionally passed him down a crow-bar or angle-grinder and said: “Oi, keep the noise down, mate, I’m trying to read. Got any factor 15?”
We soulless cynics have been known to scoff at wood worriers – even though not all of them are Morris Dancers – so when Dan splashed out a whole £100 on his latest wooden yacht I said: “Gosh mate, they must have seen you coming. Don’t you realise they also make boats out of fibre-glass?”

Dan, who by then had had a haircut, which meant we had to change his name to “Desperate,” smiled enigmatically and said “Dave, you’re looking at it all wrong,” as he hoiked something heavy under a tarpaulin into the back of his van.

That got me thinking, because over the years as a series of wooden boats passed through his hands, Dan had also upgraded from a ratty Vauxhall Astra van to a nearly new Mercedes Sprinter, seemingly without poisoning any rich relatives, or doing much in the way of paying carpentry work.

You’ve got to admire that, and later Desperate became known as Dauntless, on account of buying a clinker boat of that type. Likewise we changed Dan’s name again when he bought a Deben four-tonner. Then he bought Folk Boats, Finesses and Kestrels, which we thought rather unsporting, as none of them began with D.

And still the boats came and went and got larger, each accompanied by a lot of banging and thwacking down below, followed by him humping a concealed load to his ever-improving vans and usually under cover of darkness.

The worst of it was that Dan seemed happy, which is not what you like to see in a hippie or a wooden boat owner. The only thing that seemed to unsettle his equilibrium was when we started calling him Debs after he bought a plywood Debutante, at which point the more sensitive among us enquired as to “they’s” preferred pronouns, just to rub it in.

Then one day, not long after he’d bought a truly charming Purbrook Heron and done all his thumping and banging and hauling his clandestine bundle to his van, he sailed away.
By then I’d been bitten by the wooden boat bug and bought my 1953 3½-ton Blackwater Sloop, built of larch on oak. And I’m ever thankful that before Dan departed he’d imparted the most important golden rule of all.

Years later I caught up with Dan in Ipswich Dock and asked him why he’d left Maldon, to which he replied: “Simple economics, Dave. The supply dried up.”

And here we get to the bottom of the matter, and Dan’s number one wooden-boat buying golden rule: “Don’t worry about rot. As long as it’s got a Baby Blake sea toilet you’re on to a winner.” You see, these gilded royal thrones of the sea cost around five grand new, and even reconditioned second-hand ones can be £2k-plus.

Some might say that’s like flushing money down the toilet, but you’d be missing the point, because that’s more than I paid for my Baby Blake, which came with a Blackwater Sloop attached. I sold the Baby Blake which had been under the foredeck, but was there purely as a status symbol as no one over 2ft 3in tall could actually sit on it.

It earned me more than I paid for my boat and with the proceeds I bought a new suit of sails… and a very smart bucket that’s so comfortable you can do the cryptic crossword on it while steering to windward with the tiller tucked under your arm.

That’s probably too much information. But the point is that these days Dan, purveyor of Baby Blakes to the gentry, is flushed with pride because he now has a lovely Laurent Giles Virtue with a super-rare pink porcelain Baby Blake. When I asked him if it was for sale he said: “I think I’ll sit on it for a bit.”

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The post How to Actually Make Money from Buying Wooden Boats appeared first on Classic Boat Magazine.

Dave’s Blackwater Sloop: Snipe of Maldon

As I snuffed out the lovely old brass gimballed oil lamp on the mast post and closed an old hardback copy of Maurice Griffiths’ Magic of the Swatchways the twinkling stars shining through the hatchway gave me just enough light to savour my surroundings. The plush deep burgundy bunk cushions, the mahogany slats on the cabin sides, the knees and frames and white-painted tongue-and-groove cabin top filled me with wonder at the artisans who’d made Snipe of Maldon, a Blackwater Sloop, back in 1953.

Snipe, my 23.5ft 3½-ton Blackwater Sloop, was halfway home on a sentimental journey to the Maldon boatyard where she was built and to be re-united with a shipwright who, as an apprentice five decades before had helped to rove her thousands of copper rivets, steam her oak frames and shape the larch planking. John Yardley was about to retire and as a parting gift I wanted to surprise him by showing him a boat he’d crafted with his own hands so many years before. I imagined his eyes might light up to see one last time his “little ship,” as Maurice Griffiths, long-time editor of Yachting Monthly, called these pert Essex estuary cruisers that opened up a world of adventure, not exactly to the working man, but to a new generation of middle-class weekend sailors who weren’t baronets and earls and millionaire “grocers” like Sir Thomas Lipton. The larger 3½-ton Blackwater Sloops, of which mine is just one of three known, cost around the same as a new Austin A30 or Morris Minor (about £500), so it was the likes of doctors and teachers who trundled up to the Dan Webb & Feesey yard in Maldon to place orders for a little ship of their own. John Yardley had been a teenager then, and I imagined that when I glided into my berth he’d be transported back in time and with a misty eye regale me with stories about how each boat he made was like a child to him, and mine was a particular favourite. Well, it didn’t quite work out like that.

The Blackwater Sloop’s Journey Home to Maldon

First though, I had to get Snipe home. Sceptic that I am I’d only ever considered wood as a material for kitchen worktops. That’s why I’d broken the voyage into two legs. In the short and nervy afternoon hop from Brightlingsea to Bradwell I’d been pleasantly surprised that Snipe managed the whole passage without sinking once. Nevertheless, before I put my head down at Bradwell I assumed the “Stella position.” Unlike the carvel-planked Blackwater Sloop, the Stella, designed by Kim Holman, was of clinker construction and therefore classified as a submarine. I once attended an annual Stella Leaking – which is the Stella term for “rally” – to witness a spectacle every bit as impressive as the cascading fountains of Versailles, as a row of Stellas gurgled and blurped, gushing water through hose pipes from the cockpit of one Stella to the next in line, and eventually back into the water. Steve, my Stella chum, who’s equally fond of Sikaflex, explained the Stella position: “When you go to sleep, always lie on your back with your foot on the cabin sole and arm hanging down, and don’t forget to take your watch off – unless it’s a Rolex Submariner. That way there’s a good chance you’ll wake up before you drown.”

Well, I slept like a log, in other words very much hoping to float out of the companion-way before the water reached the top of the bunk. In the morning I lifted the floor boards, and instead of a shoal of grey mullet found only a spider who’d barely got his feet wet. My admiration for John Yardley soared, and as I nudged into my berth in Maldon hours later, there he was, so overcome by nostalgic sentiment that he walked straight past, and said not a word.

How touching I thought, for such is the modesty of old-time Essex folk that you’ll find few among these proud and humble artisans who will use one word when none will do. In his last two weeks in the yard John walked past Snipe many, many times, still too emotional to speak, until one day I attempted to overcome his touching diffidence and said: “Hi, John, do you recognise this boat?”

“Yup,” he said, as I hung on his every word, hoping for a second one.

“You helped build her back in 1953, didn’t you?” I prompted. 

“Yup,” he hissed. No one had ever seen John so talkative since the big freeze of 1953 when he’d said: “It’s cold.” 

“Can I ask another question?” I ventured.

“Yup,” he growled. By now I was thoroughly regretting not recording this radio gold for BBC Essex’s oral history archive, but it’s just fortunate for Classic Boat readers that my short-hand’s still up to speed. Less fortunate was that, for lack of anything else to ask, my next question was: “Is she still under warranty?”

At that John said two words, which can’t be repeated in a family sailing magazine. 

Those few treasured words – well not the last two – transported me back to another age in a reverie of dewy-eyed nostalgia. 

One of my favourite books is Two and a Half Ton Dream, written in the 1950s by Ray Whitaker about a young couple turning up at a Maldon boat yard to buy their first boat. When the naïve tyro husband remarks how amiable a man in the boatyard is his rather more perceptive wife says: “Well, if he’s friendly he can’t work here.”

Some things never change, and I find romance in that.

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The post Dave Selby’s Blackwater Sloop Homecoming: A boatbuilder reunion appeared first on Classic Boat Magazine.

Yacht racers, as Classic Boat readers well know, are apt to wear silly clothes and talk nonsense and say things like: “To finish first, first you have to finish.” Well, duh. This is when they’re not all shouting “water” at a nearby boat that is obviously in water, because that’s where sailing happens. Well double duh. Other things they’re fond of shouting are: “where’s the protest flag?;” “the results are a travesty;” “I’m getting my lawyer on to this;” and “Rule 17 clearly states that if a boat clear astern becomes overlapped within two of her hull lengths to leeward of a boat on the same tack, she shall not sail above her proper course while they remain on the same tack and overlapped within that distance, unless in doing so she promptly sails astern of the other boat.”

All I can say to that is: “Show me a good loser, and I’ll show you a loser.” And I have to say that’s rather taken me aback, for as a former confirmed sea plodder I have until now been of the view that winning is for losers, by which I mean that nothing is better guaranteed to wreck a day afloat – and most probably your boat too – than taking part in a yacht race. Well, not any more.

The Maldon Town Regatta… the America’s Cup of Maldon

I’m not talking about any old yacht race, but The Maldon Town Regatta, which for the benefit of people who aren’t from Maldon I should explain is The America’s Cup of sailing. But unlike The America’s Cup the Maldon Town Regatta takes place in boats. It also has a lot more trophies, including a rubber-duck race and ones for face-painting, cake decoration and the dog with the waggiest tail. As the day dawned I had more than an inkling I was going to get my mitts on the most prestigious trophy of all, not for smacks, bawleys and various other gaff-types and classic wooden yachts, nor even for the heaviest marrow or root vegetable that most resembles Elvis or Jesus, but in the Sailfish 18 category for boats that most resemble a plastic soap dish. Moreover, I was crewing for my mate Peter Stratford, who is regarded as the Ben Ainslie of the Sailfish class – except that Peter tends to win and can even make a cup of tea when he’s doing it. 

As chief tactician aboard Sailfish Zephyr I instructed Peter to put in a quick 360 to avoid jumping the gun, but he ignored me and aced the start, leaving the fleet of assorted losers flailing in our wake. And in light airs we steadily pulled further ahead, with me acting as chief trimmer, although Peter didn’t actually let me touch any ropes.  Instead he instructed me to move my bulk around the boat and on one occasion said: “Have another custard cream, I need a bit more weight on the high side.” Such are the minute marginal gains needed to compete in elite sports.

Later though on the down-wind leg other boats cheated by putting up spinnakers and started to gain on us. Peter then said we needed to dump some weight and pointed at the bucket. “What,” I said in consternation, “you want me to throw it overboard!” 

“No,” he replied. “I want you to use it.” Without going into too much detail, I did, and that shed several kilos. But still the others were gaining, so as chief navigator I took matters in hand and shrieked calmly to Peter: “Go faster.” Then, in my role as weather router I handed out other sage advice such as: “The wind’s over there.” It was nip and tuck, but at the finish a couple of boats beat us over the line by no more than a minute or twenty, but as one was a 25 footer and the other had a huge spinnaker I knew that if there was any justice in the world we’d won everything on handicap. Well, it turns out there isn’t.

A good looser

All I can say is that it was a travesty, for in a gross miscarriage of justice quite possibly involving bribes and definitely corruption we were only awarded third place in the class for other cruising yachts. I spent the evening bleating in the highest dudgeon: “Don’t they know how to apply handicaps, we won everything!” It turns out they do, but at least they couldn’t rob us of the Sailfish trophy, which we won by more than a country mile – a towering achievement in no way diminished by the fact that ours was the only Sailfish taking part. Why this is so remains a mystery, considering Sailfishes are as common today as tuberculosis and rickets once were. Another mystery is the identity of the person who posted the wrong date for the Maldon Town Regatta on the Sailfish web-site. I told you I was winner. 

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The post How to win: The America’s Cup of Maldon appeared first on Classic Boat Magazine.

An original Rosenfeld photo and a unique dispute arbitrator are among this month’s stories in Saleroom

With subjects as magnificent as this it’s little wonder that New York photographer Morris Rosenfeld (1885-1968) abandoned the City Hall news beat to pursue his career on the water.

Indeed, it’s only when you notice the tiny ant-like figures of the foredeck crew that you appreciate the sheer scale of Migrant. Built in 1929 by Lawley in Boston for American millionaire Carl Tucker, the 223ft (68m) vessel was at that time the largest schooner yacht there had ever been. With three masts, four headsails and three top-sails she was a spectacular sight. But that was not enough to save her from an ignominious fate. In 1942 she was acquired by the US Navy, and as USS Migrant carried out anti-submarine patrols out of New York. After decommissioning she was turned over to War Shipping Administration for disposal in 1946. The age and appetite for monumental schooner yachts was a thing of the past, yet Rosenfeld’s stunning images endure. This 20x16in (51x 41cm) silver gelatin print sold for $2,125 (c£1700) at Bonhams’ most recent New York maritime auction.

If you want to save un-necessary damage to your sailing club bar tab, next time you have a dispute on the water just whip out “The Colliograph.” Described as “For use in collision cases and nautical disputes” these sets comprise all the bits you need to prove beyond doubt that you were the stand-on vessel, including wind and tide indicators, sail and rudder positions. Relatively rare and complete, the £183 this cost could save you loads and prevent a brawl. On the other hand, it might start one.

When trawling for maritime collectibles it pays to cast your net a little wider, and Bonhams’ annual Gentleman’s Library Sale in London invariably turns up objects of nautical interest.

This early 20^th century pond-yacht is what is termed these days a “decorator’s piece,” yet with a height of 10ft and length of 6ft you’d need a pretty lofty library. It seemed smartly bought for £900. The same auction also turned up a one-off aluminium model of Norman Buckley’s Miss Windermere III, which achieved 70 miles in the hour at Windermere in 1956. What really set the attractive 19in-long model apart was that it is was made by Buckley himself, a unique conversation piece for £1,062.

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