NOW THAT I am no longer Commodore. I can enjoy racing once more — hot rivalry afoot, particularly between Cobech Too, and Eric Jackson, our Fleet Captain. Superior sailing, better use of tactics, better finish on my boat . . . brought me ahead of Eric last week at the windward mark. Tide was slack, and the mooring rope from the buoy drifted across the proper course. A neat ‘trip’ - cold water all around, and my crew, executing a neat dive, arrived in the ‘oggin beside me. We watched the boat come slowly over on top of us — and there was I, inside, and there was he, outside.
Cobech Too turned complete turtle, convincing me of the adequacy of light and air under an upturned Mirror Dinghy. Trouble was, the rope was now round my neck, my crew was pulling at my feet. I was choking, and my personal buoyancy was holding me so efficiently I hadn’t a hope of getting out from under.
A desperate feat of tree pulling in the village (the tractor had failed to shift it) long ago earned me the nickname ‘Elephant.’ I stand 6ft Ilin without my socks, and am extremely fit — no puny weakling this. But it was not until I had removed my buoyancy and thereby detached the rope from around my neck that I could submerge enough to swim free. By this time I WAS exhausted, and although unable to board her, managed to right Cobech Too, and allow myself to he lashed alongside the rescue boat like a dead whale and towed ashore. There must he a moral in this somewhere . . .
Your affectionate father,
M22014, Eastbourne S.C.
Editor's note - This article is from Reflections No. 11 Autumn 1973, page 13 and has been captured by OCR, so typos & errors are possible.