TRANSOM
TALES
The
afternoon race was over. The sailing club bar was seething with a mass of
assorted shorts and shirts plus a selection of footwear that would make thongs
look respectable, when he shambled in.
The conversations were full of
sailing terms like down-wind, the top mark, broaches and starboards. One lady
sailor, wearing a mid-riff tee shirt and micro shorts, was complaining she was
almost knocked overboard by the boom when the boat jibed at the wing mark.
He didn’t cause a ripple as he elbowed
his way to the bar. He promptly called for double rum, in a voice, more suited
to the deck of an eighteen ninety’s windjammer, than the club bar.
It wasn’t his clothes that made him
stand out, although his dark blue calico shirt, frayed around the collar and old
style grey flannels, disintegrating at the bottom, did not exactly blend with
the smooth, tanned limbs of the Saturday yachties. It was his face! The word
hirsute could have originated just to describe this hairy, shaggy, untrimmed
visage. The small amount of skin that did show on his forehead and below his eyes
was like gnarled bark. On each side of his head, cauliflower ears pushed out,
to be just visible through the unkempt hair. The most prominent feature was the
nose. It started, as in most people, centrally between the eyebrows but then
executed a twist and flattened, terminating an inch below his left eye! There
is a story to each lump and bump on this nose – but not today. The mouth was
less easy to define until the contents of the glass disappeared through the
mass of hair of indeterminate colour.
He bellowed for another drink and it
was not hard to imagine the person who coined the phrase ‘Your shout’ must have
spent some time drinking with this man! He took his fresh drink to a bench-seat
near the window and wedged himself between the Club Commodore and his wife.
‘Hello’
said the Commodore, ‘Did you have a good run today?’
‘That
I did Skipper! And I had fun watching the antics of some of your chaps!’
‘Oh
come on! Be tolerant! You know we’ve got a few novices who only started with us
this year!’
‘Aye,
I can understand them not knowing the race rules, but some of them shouldn’t be
out in a boat without some basic sailing training!’
‘Yes
I know, but we have to make allowances for them.’
‘Allowances?
They need more than that! I was two minutes behind the fleet when that clown in
the blue boat went round the bottom mark. He speared diagonally across the
course, out of control, with a spinnaker half set and nearly took my mast out!’
My youngest crew-member had been
watching him intently since his arrival, ‘Who is he?’
‘That’s
Transom!’
‘How
did he get a name like that?’ He asked with incredulity.
‘It’s
a nickname he’s had since he first started sailing with the club. His boat is
old and heavy compared to today’s fibreglass ones and is so spartanly rigged,
the only view he gets of the rest of the fleet after the start, is the sight of
their transoms sailing away from him!’
‘He’s
almost like an obstacle on the course! He’s still on the downwind leg when
we’re beating to windward and have to navigate around him! Why does he keep
racing?’ asked my interrogator.
‘It’s
not so much the racing he enjoys; it’s going round the marks in company. He’s
there, in the thick of it, at the start every Saturday. Even before our club
was formed, he was sailing this area with the old Clipper Club!’
‘Come on lad; move closer and we will broaden
your education!’
By the time we had moved within hearing,
Transom was vociferously holding court on the race post mortem.
‘Course
I saw it! They were handling the spinnaker like a bunch of wimps hanging out
their smalls in a force eight gale. They don’t even know they hit the marker buoy!
They could have dragged it to the other end of the course and still not know!’
‘But
they got a third on handicap Transom! Can’t we protest to the Race Committee?’
‘Not
now you can’t matey! What do you think they gave you a little red flag for?
It’s not for wiping the wine stains off the teak-work you know! C’mon, what’s
the rule book say about fouling a mark?’
‘Well’
Said a fresh faced young chap, ‘If one accidentally hits a mark of the course,
one should return and go around it again, before continuing to race!’
‘Correct!’
roared Transom, ‘That’s about the same as doing a seven hundred and twenty
degree penalty. And if he doesn’t, you fly your red flag and yell at him and
let him know why! And if he still ignores it, you put your official protest to
the Race Committee! If he’d come in last, you wouldn’t have worried – but he got
third on handicap, so it’s become a problem!’ He settled back on the seat and
took another mouthful of drink.
‘I remember one race with the old
Clipper Club, back in the fifties. Same sort of situation! The race leader cut
the turn too fine and just nudged the marker buoy as she went round. The second
boat saw it and called for him to go around again. The skipper of the offending
yacht shouted, “Where’s your protest flag?” They didn’t have one! It probably
got used for polishing the binnacle! Then one chap said he was wearing red
undies! Well! You should have seen the scramble. He was sent below and told to “Get
‘em off!” Within seconds, they were tied onto the backstay – and the boat in
front got penalised two places by the Race Committee!’
‘Hey Transom! Did you see the guy who
fell off the red and white boat?’
‘Couldn’t miss it! I was working to
windward when she went round the top mark. She was in the lead. Up went the
kite, a really nice set and then the bowman slipped and went over the side.
What a circus! There they were, one crew short, with a spinnaker up and the
rest of the fleet hammering on their transom.’
‘Did they get him back?’ Asked one of
the members who was standing close to Transom.
‘Well, there were only three left on the
boat. They dropped the spinnaker straight onto the foredeck. As soon as it was
down, the skipper put her about, straight into the oncoming boats. It caused a
bit of mayhem for a few minutes – boats ducking and weaving to avoid him.’
Transom took another mouthful of drink,
wiping his moustache dry with the back of his hand.
‘He did handle it pretty well. Just
sailing on his main, he tacked around his man in the water. Then came up
alongside him and one of the other crew grabbed his arm and pulled him up over
the transom and into the cockpit! I kept an eye on them. As soon as he was on
board, the recovered chap ran forward and set the spinnaker straight off the
deck! It was a really nice piece of boat work!’
‘I’m pleased to hear you say that!’ Said
Mick, as he stepped forward through the crowd surrounding Transom.
‘That was my boat! Now let me tell you
what really happened! My wife came down to the club last weekend and started
complaining it was costing a lot to race – too many things broken or lost
overboard! A winch handle last week, a spinnaker sheet the week before! She
gave us all a lecture before she got into a conversation with the Commodore’s
wife. My crew really took it to heart! So this week when Tony set the
spinnaker, the wind caught the spinnaker bag and it went over the side. He
couldn’t get it with the boat hook, so he dived over the side and grabbed it!’
There were a few laughs and some gasps
of surprise from the crowd, ‘Just for a spinnaker bag?’
Mick
continued. ‘We got Tony back on board and he ran forward and launched the
spinnaker. Once it was set and we were back on course, Tony came aft. He had
cut his finger. When he reached the cockpit he went into diabetic shock. One of
the guys got him below and wrapped him up. We sailed the rest of the race,
keeping a watch on him. As we crossed the finishing line, Tony appeared in the
companionway asking if we had won!’
‘The real story is much better than the bit I
saw!’ said Transom.
As he stood up, the last of his drink
disappeared through the matted facial fungus.
‘Gotta
go fellas, early start tomorrow!’
With
that remark, he hitched up his baggy flannels and headed for the door.
