The "Fur and Feather Sailing Club"

[Stephen Whiteside]

Here is a poem about the sea I wrote a long time ago - early 70s, perhaps. It has never been published before, and that is probably no bad thing. It's sort of TMFSR meets the world of centre-board dinghy sailing...


The “Fur and Feather Sailing Club”

© Stephen Whiteside

A splendid sight the club-house was, adorned with flapping flags,
Along the beach, the band in tartan trews;
The car park overflowing with Mercedes Benz and Jags.
Inside the briefing room, the anxious crews.

The myriad spectators sniffed the breeze and sipped champagne,
While their darling little children swallowed Coke,
And no-one seemed to notice, down a long-forgotten lane,
A dusty, dirty, battered Mini-Moke.

For the “Fur and Feather Sailing Club” could boast the boldest members,
Who strode as if “The One Above” had blessed ‘em;
Who bore the club’s tradition in the fiercely glowing embers
Of their hearts. Today was just the day to test ‘em.

The Commodore, in blazer bold, briefed each and every sailor;
His burnished pocket bore a famous label,
For ev’ry crew was sponsored by a well respected tailor,
And the Commodore had lined his vest with sable.

(And his boat, just by the by, possessed a lovely stream-lined keel,
And he must have valued comfort on the tiller,
For the former had been lined from fore to aft in Arctic seal,
And the latter had been covered with chinchilla.)

And a glance around the room revealed a cap and pair of socks
Made of lapin, sewn with sturdy seamen’s yarn,
And a dashing musket jacket, and a pretty stole of fox,
And a weathered, salty wrap of astrakhan.

And over by the window stood the Jacksons, most intrepid.
As champions for years they had been crowned.
Both looked quite imposing in their body suits of leopard,
And their kamikazi style was world renowned.

But over in the corner stood a dark and swarthy fellow,
With bristly chin, and facial features keen,
And there stood no fancy label on the wrinkled sleeve so yellow
Of his slicker, made of sheets of Terylene.

For he’d learnt the art of sailing on Tasmania’s western coast,
Exacting teachers, surf and jagged rocks;
No languid, rolling motion, sipping marmalade on toast,
But violent surges, dives, and jarring shocks.

No distant destination on a glist’ning, flat expanse
To steer for in one’s suit of shocking pink;
The Tassie boats must battle in a drunk, erratic dance,
And the winner is the vessel last to sink.

And his dinghy was a sturdy craft. No flimsy frame of ply,
No sea-swept gaudy bath-tub made of plastic,
But a sturdy timber clinker that would keep its skipper dry,
Whom seldom needed turn to skills gymnastic.

And fancy gadgets held no place within his cockpit plain;
In ratchets, cleats and vangs, he held no worth.
Besides, sophistication ran against his very grain,
For a simple man was he, and down to earth.

Yes, a rough and ready fellow was our visitor from Tassie.
He smiled inside to see the vicious gale,
For he planned a demonstration to those folk so slick and jazzy
Of how all honest mariners should sail.

And in the crowded briefing room stood many frightened members,
As louder shook each window in its frame;
And the club’s tradition faltered in the slowly dying embers
Of their hearts, and petered out without a flame,

Till the Commodore with trembling hand, and body wracked with fear,
His steady voice and smile a thin disguise,
Announced the precious sentence that each sailor longed to hear.
“I think a race postponement would be wise.”

But from a distant corner came a low and nasty snigger,
And ev’ry member turned a trifle paler.
“From where I hail, the waves are twice as high as this. I figger
That the man who quits today is not a sailor.”

The race commenced at two o’clock, with custom’ry commotion,
As gunwhales crashed, and skippers swore and cursed.
The crossed the starting-line like corks upon the seething ocean,
With twenty yards ’tween second-last and first,

But the sailor from Tasmania hung a further fifty back
And let them sail their awkward starboard beat.
He quickly went about and settled on the other tack,
For he had no wish to mix it with the fleet.

He sailed with such authority, so faithful to his creed,
And pointed high with main and jib half-furled.
He made up in stability for what he lacked in speed,
And thus he could have sailed around the world.

But after half an hour or so, the windward leg completed,
He gazed around, the field to reassess,
And saw that one had bottled (for he’d left the mainsail cleated)
And likewise sev’ral more were in a mess.

One had been dismasted and another quite misguided
(For he’d hugged the coast and promptly run aground).
Another’d split his rudder case, a further two’d collided,
And one poor chap had fallen in and drowned.

But the Jacksons (now, he saw, his only rivals) raced at speed,
For ev’ry foaming roller they were ridin’.
His spirits sank. He saw they held a devastating lead,
And as he watched, the distance seemed to widen.

But he pulled himself together and unerringly proceeded,
His fortitude and spirits scarce diminished,
And although it seemed for him to win a miracle was needed,
He told himself the race was far from finished.

And thus the dinghies hurtled while the gale fairly blew,
Both within a whisker of disaster.
Alone amidst a world of spray the dinghies fairly flew.
But of the two, the Jacksons travelled faster.

The Jacksons reached the leeward mark, and now it seemed all hinged
On whether they could gybe their bucking kite.
The move commenced. The dinghy tipped to port. The Jacksons cringed.
What followed then was not a pretty sight.

For behind the tiny boat a monst’rous ocean wall had loomed,
Which then came crashing through the starboard quarter.
In vain they tried to save it, but they knew the boat was doomed.
They bottled, and the kite ballooned with water.

The sailor from Tasmania (far behind now) saw them skittled.
He sighed, relieved, resumed a safer pace.
He passed them by, ignored their glare (they’d never been belittled),
And leisurely pressed on and won the race.

So to the chore of “packing up” alone he then attended,
For some had gone on rescue operations,
And of the men who’d stayed on shore were none that he’d befriended,
And none who wished to send congratulations.

Resentment face him ev’rywhere, the lone Tasmanian sailor.
He packed away his gear while no-one spoke.
Surrounded by a hostile sullen few he hitched the trailer,
Then drove off in his dusty Mini-Moke.

And now when gales blow the members gather, snug and warm,
Within four walls, to foster their pretensions,
And the sailor from Tasmania, and the day he faced the storm
Is a topic none forget, but no-one mentions.

[Zondrae]

Morning Stephen,

Ah don't we Aussies love to see the underdog come out on top. I'm sure a reference to the 'cuff and collar team' would not be out of place? There are some sailing jargon that I didn't quite get but it doesn't detract from the whole effect.
... and it is a joy to see 'myriad' used correctly for a change. I recall a while back when Glenny kindly showed me the way. It is a beautiful word but mostly abused as the three syllables lend to adding an 'of', which is wrong.

Great poem. Why hide it?

[Stephen Whiteside]

Thanks, Zondrae.

Yes, I forgot to mention "The Geebung Polo Club" is definitely in there as well!

Sailor talk:
"Bottle" means capsize
"Kite" means spinnaker
"Slicker" means spray jacket (or at least it did back then - I don't hear it these days)

Gunwhale, gybe, tack, vang, cleat, ratchet, etc. - are what they are.

Why hide it? It's so long, it's so long ago, it's so raw... Well, it's not hidden now!

[Heather]

It's a rollicking whale of a tale Stephen. Enjoyed every minute.

Heather

[Stephen Whiteside]

Thanks Heather...and it was set by the sea!

[Dennis N O'Brien]

Well done.

[Stephen Whiteside]

Thanks, Dennis.