Salcombe - High Winds - Pass the Sugar

Picture: The Salcombe Spoon

This week is Salcombe Merlin Week and I am in the shed for the third year. It is not clear to me if I have closed my Salcombe account or not; I can tell the reader that I am full of empty. There is no better race than the Salcombe Estuary at high water and I have the best of memories.
Sadly all things come to change and people come and people go, and this is life as we know it. But one thing is for sure the Merlin fleet gets as much enjoyment out of the week as ever we did, and the people before us and I hate the idea of the line “back in the good old days” means that things were better! (But they were!) well to me they were better than now!
The memories that stand out:
The reciting of the Merlins are coming: at the end of the weeks racing a very gentle man would address the gathered fleet and recite a short poem from the towns folk written as they busily prepared for the on coming Merlin week, in the quietly spoken words “the Merlins are coming, the Merlins coming” (I cannot remember any more words) but it pressed the buttons. We also were severely reprimanded for being in a flight that had been recalled (it was not well thought of, we were bad boys and girls!)
Top fifteen and the spoon: the picture is of a Salcombe Spoon, the top fifteen boats where duly awarded prizes of which the Salcombe spoon was one. It was a small silver looking engraved spoon with the crest of Salcombe on the handle.

It was to die for, a treasure still on the desk as I scribble. I feel humbled to have been lucky enough to be awarded one of these prizes.

Picture: Jeff Haggerty from Welwyn shows no fear, jibing off Mill beach

The one-minute rule: it was explained to me that to be ON the line was to be OVER the line within the one minute rule, no messing, no nearly on it, and no argument, you just did not do it (even in fog) and it should be said that not many boats fell fowl of the one minute rule (except Tony Johnson).
The course card: it was a sad day when the course card was discarded. A letter was shown on the watchtower with an arrow pointing to Blackstone or Crossways and off we went. Simple faultless, well thought out, the Yalton, Saltstone, Gerston, was always the buis.
The dredging of Batson creek: was the one thing that brought the biggest change. Before the dredging the fleet would arrive to meet a flooding tide around 11:00 on the Saturday morning, to give time for latecomers to get to Millbeach; the tide would be on springs. This also gave the racing an edge for you could hear the tide passing Crossways and to get it wrong rounding Crossways was certain death; as was going around Snape point with the back eddy into the bag.
It prompted the town side flyer. A down the drain rounding of Blackstone and rather than trying to pass 20 boats off of Millbeach, a crossing to the town side, cutting the corner at Crossways against the tide was always a brilliant move with a great buzz as terror hit the front-runners, but if you were down the pan there was nought to lose!
Edgar Cove: was a huge loss. It used to be a boat building shed that filled the site that is now twee little townie homes at the head of Island Street, which also was full of working boat workshops. Just the smells and sounds was a joy to pass and it was all real. The transition from a working boat shed to townie housing was tragic with one of the owners losing his life.
Knuckle bashing boats: part of the Edgar Cove’s legacy was a fleet of splendid timber, clinker built Stuart Turner driven launches. The sort of thing that you left an extra bit of time for changing the spark plug. They were varnished mahogany with blue tie up cuddies at the back of the fore deck. They made that brill brup, brup sound and smelt of petrol and Roger Ecob took the skin off of his knuckles every year whilst trying to restart the blessed thing. The building frames for the tenders stood in the gloom of the shed surrounded by wood shavings. But alas all gone.

Picture: Al Wigg developed his fine body, batting against Roger Ecob’s bowling at the Alston Farm Cricket.

Bass on the wall: racing for pints with Tony Johnson was a must. At the time you could drink pints sitting on the wall opposite the Queen Victoria. The Bass was kept behind the bar in barrels and was lethal. Barrel, glass, Johnson and Tony was instructed to “Tony Hold the baby” and Tony would, and more sailors nearly passed by! But just had to stop for pints the group got bigger and the rounds got larger in the sun on the street until Tony had to stop holding the baby, and Mrs Johnson instructed us all that it was time to go.
Scrumpy and camp cricket: a lot of the fleet at that time were Alston Farm campers. This was when camping was done by campers. There were no inflatable anything’s! the Alston Farm camp site was so full of sailors that you needed to arrive Friday night and have a reserved place in the relevant clan. The Bala campies were full on and really well sorted with a dozen tents or more, and the Grafham camp also well supported to name but a few. It was the way of things that following the Bass on the wall it was Scrumpy time bought in gallon bottles, and as the food was being sorted it was camp cricket (hit a tent or a car and you were out) was performed. They were the best of times.

Picture thanks to Shaun Frolic: again Wiggy playing the kite ‘till it hit the water saying “it’s never over till it’s over”

The Shipwrights: in later years the camping stopped, drinking outside was disallowed and pints were taken in the Shipwrights. Again at the time a splendid pub run by Colin and his good lady; a fine lady that put up with the ordering of chips, then chips with add ons much better than Colin. The lifeboat crew used to drink there and again it was real. The pile of wet sailing bags would pile up in the corner and the sun would disappear from the sky then we would order food. We watched the sailors go down the hill, and then watched them return.
We waved at the aeroplane pilots from Bonadventure Close, and legged it up Coronary Hill for some years.We had splendid afternoons with Mike Preston and Liz with the specially made hampers in the brup boat watching the racing. I see from the back of the photo that it was 1987 that we won the last Salcombe race (Jacko jam again) in a boat called Who’s A Pretty Boy, and now at the age of 48 and having missed three years I can still feel the thrill as the closing seconds pass to the start time of 10:30. Is it over? Is it hell?

This is not about Salcombe names, it is just memories. There are too many names.