The regatta days opened with wind and rain; but even at the best of times, the sight of a sailing match from on shore is like that of a stag hunt from on foot,—very pretty at the start, and then very little more to see. It is different if you sail about among the competing yachts. Then you feel the same tide and wind, and see the same marks and buoys, and dread the same shoals and rocks as they do, and at every turn of every vessel you have something to learn.
No one can satisfactorily distribute the verdict “victor” or “vanquished” in a sailing-match between the designer, the builder, the rigger, and the course, the weather, the rules, the sailor of each craft, and chance; though each of these will conduce in part to the success or failure in every match. Still there is this advantage, that the loser can always blame, and the winner can always praise, which of these elements he finds most convenient. But if a sailing-match has little in it quite intelligible, even when you see it, the account of a past regatta is well worth keeping out of print—so be it then with this one, the best held at Cowes for many years.
The large crowds that attended, and their obstinate standing in heavy rain, were in marked contrast to the phlegmatic and meagre interest of the few French who came to the regatta at St. Cloud. But it is such occasions that remind us of England being a land of seamen, while continental sailors are at best of the land, except in northern nations.
Once it was my lot to sail in a small screw-steamer along the coast of Calabria. Of the four passengers one was a Neapolitan officer, who embarked in full uniform; and with light tight boots and spurs, and clanging sword, he stalked the quarter-deck, that is, he took three steps, and was at the end, and three steps back.
In going out of Messina I saw we should have a tough bit of sea outside, and was soon prepared accordingly. He did not so, and the first bursting wave wet him through in a moment, and down he went below. Some hours afterwards I descended too, and a melancholy sight was there, with very lugubrious sounds.
In the cabin was a huge tub full of water, and the officer (spurs, boots, and all) was sitting in it with his legs out of one end and his head groaning and bellowing from the other. This was his specific for sea-sickness, and for three days he behaved about as well as a fractious child who sadly wants a good whipping. It is no discredit to a man to be sea-sick. Nelson, we are told, was so far human. But it is somewhat unmanly for an officer to whine and blubber like a baby, and yet we have several times seen this phenomenon abroad. When we came into Naples this lachrymose hero was again in full feather, boots, spurs, and sword, stalking the quarter-deck as if no tub and tears had intervened.
Some excellent rowing-matches, after the Regatta in Cowes, were varied by a “punt chase,”—an amusement thoroughly English; when one man in a punt is chased by four in a low-boat, who have to catch both him and his boat within ten minutes.
Of course his path is devious and tortuous on the water, his resort being quick turns, while the chasers gain in speed. After numerous close escapes he leaps into the water. Then if the pursuers catch and hold his boat it clogs them in following him, and if they follow him while his boat is left free, he manages to escape round some tangled mass of shipping, and so regains his boat for a new start.
This is the sort of thing that tries both swimming and pluck in the water, as well as mere muscle or wind in rowing. It is to racing proper what a hunt is to a flat race. Rowing is only one small part of boating, and it is apt to monopolise our favour chiefly because many can row for one that can boat.
In one of these punt chases at Cowes the punter had several times plunged into the sea, and amid shouts and cheers he was always closely followed by one of his chasers who swam almost equally well.