The Dinghy Show

Most people visit a boat show as a punter;  a would-be buyer;  a feeder of dreams;  a voyeur.   They exclaim over the expanses of white fibreglass or polyethylene,  or 'tut' over the effort of scraping and varnishing.   Some imagine themselves gliding over smooth,  sunlit water;  the family smiling and happy,  the picnic basket safe on the bottom boards.   Others live the moment of being first across the start line,  having anticipated the starting gun to the nearest fraction of a second;  and then leading the fleet around the triangle and across the finish line:  to them the glory (however temporary) of the starting and the winning gun.

The stand holders see them as targets;  sources of income.

There are two separate groups of people at boat shows:  those who (however potentially)  have the money,  and those who want it.

Dinghy shows are slightly different.   It's true that stand holders want to sell their wares,  and it's true that the punters are reluctant to part with their money,  except for a bargain.

But the two sides are closer;  it's a little less commercial.

Sailing dinghies are all about racing.  Aren't they?

Look at the polished,  go-fast surfaces.   Look at the plethora of lines for controlling all aspects of air-flow and water-flow.   Look at the exotic materials of which the hulls,  the lines,  the sails,  the rigging,  even the costumes,  are made.   Look at the eager,  competitive,  even aggressive faces of both the sailors and the salespeople.

The West Corridor

In the poorly lit West Corridor of the Alexandra Palace were four sailing dinghies that had,  and wanted,  nothing to do with racing.   Two were Wayfarers,  one belonging to the Sea Scouts,  the other to a commercial group.   Both had two sleeping bags laid in the bottom.   Huh?

On its road trailer was a thirty year old Mirror dinghy,  named Curlew,  which belonged to David.   A gaff-rigged Mirror dinghy!   With a topsail!!   Three rows of reefing nettles in the mainsail and a row in the jib.   The varnish was worn and scuffed;  clearly David spends less time with the sander,   brush and pot than he does with the sheets and tiller.   On the port bow was a business-like Fisherman anchor.   The well of the boat was a vision to disbelieve:   on the starboard side a pair of folding,  ply planks was covered by a thin sleeping mat and a sleeping bag;  on the port side was a box with a cooker,  kettle,  pans and plates;  another box was labelled 'battery 1',  'battery 2',   'bilge pump',  'navigation lights'.   This was a cruising dinghy in which David had explored the South Coast of England for twenty years;  sailing when the wind and tide served;  eating and sleeping aboard when they did not.

Curlew

Next to Curlew was Avel Dro,  also on her road trailer.

She was a 15' (palatial by comparison with Curlew) Ilur,  designed by Francois Vivier after the manner of a French inshore fishing boat.   No varnish here to scuff and repair:  this was a working,  cruising boat.   Here again was the sleeping mat (this time deep and inflated) and sleeping bag;  the tiny cooking stove and galley,  the 12V battery for lights and pumps.   Conspicuous near the centreboard was a modern electronic chart-plotter,  in the sternsheets a Personal Locator Beacon and VHF radio.   The mast,  well forward (to give space inside,  as befits a fishing (and cruising) boat) was unstayed,  the rig a standing lug.   Roger had sailed the coasts of England,  Wales,  Scotland and France.

Roger was (is still) President of an extraordinary group of people known as the Dinghy Cruising Association;  David is a member,  as were Alastair,  Geoff,  John and Mike,  who had not brought their boats.

These people were not there to sell;  they were there to evangelise their way of life;  to wax lyrical and lengthy about their adventures cruising the coasts of Britain,  Europe and the world.   Their listeners were legion;  there was hardly a moment in the two days of the show when a sailor didn't say  to them "We used to have a Mirror.   Wish we hadn't sold it!".   There was always someone asking about where to cruise,  what cooker was best,  how to modify their dinghy,  what clothing to wear.

In this poorly lit West Corridor,  close to the main entrance,  there was only one group of people,  not two.   The stand holders and the public were all dinghy cruisers.   The stand holders had cruised tens to thousands of miles,  for days to weeks at a time;  the public were avid,  excited,  would-be cruisers,  many having never realised that a dinghy could be other than a racing machine.   A few were frankly disbelieving (especially of David's Mirror),  but eager to learn.

And not just the punters.   The leaders of sailing clubs,  those bastions of hard-core racing,  were keen to learn to cruise.   They wanted links,  and they offered to host cruising rallies at their sailing clubs.