THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, January 22, 1995 TAG: 9501200271
SECTION: CAROLINA COAST PAGE: 04 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Editorial
SOURCE: Ron Speer
LENGTH: Medium: 71 lines
I don't like to brag, you all know that. But I can't hold it in any longer: I've been accepted as a member in the Roanoke Island Yacht Club.
That may not sound like a big deal to most of you, but for a country boy from Nebraska, it doesn't get any better than this.
I never saw a boat of any kind until I was 18 and went off to California, and I never rode in one until I graduated from college and celebrated at a lake in Canada.
Later I discovered the joys of sailing, and for years I've been cruising the sounds and bays and rivers of Virginia and Carolina and Maryland in my little 24-foot Morgan, a frisky 27-year-old named Wind Gypsy.
Despite her age, the Gypsy is still a beauty although a bit weathered, and she still goes fast. She can be a contender in races. But mostly we just cruise around, anchoring in lovely little refuges, often just the two of us.
And I never really thought about joining anything fancy until I sailed the Gypsy here when I moved to Manteo last May and heard about the Roanoke Island Yacht Club.
The named conjured up a scene of opulence and sophistication: tall, thin women in slinky dresses ambling across a ballroom studded with palm trees, noses in the air, picking a drink here and there from a proffered tray; tuxedo-clad men smoking cigars, sipping brandy and discussing Wall Street transactions; younger men and women, tanned and lithe, striding confidently along the pier in swimsuits and Topsiders, while hundreds of sleek sailboats, polished and glistening, rocked at the dock waiting to be sailed off to exotic lands.
Those were the pictures of yacht clubs that I picked up 50 years ago as a boy in the Sand Hills reading ``Tom Swift'' and ``The Bobbsey Twins'' and other books that were filled with the antics of little rich kids whose folks owned big, fancy boats.
At 10, I would have swapped my horse and saddle and everything else I owned to be a kid at a yacht club, sailing in blue waters and shouting ``starboard'' and ``ahoy'' and ``hard-alee.''
Forty years later I was invited in for a drink by a friend when I sailed the Gypsy into the waters of the Norfolk Yacht and Country Club. It was just about the way I pictured yacht clubs - swank.
And a few years ago I helped sail a boat to Bermuda, where we were given guest privileges at the Royal Yacht Club. In some ways, it was even fancier than I had dreamed: Flags representing scores of countries fluttering on staffs in front of the pink stucco edifice; bow-tied waiters serving rum swizzles on the terrace to men in black jackets and Bermuda shorts, beautifully dressed women strolling along the waterfront, younger people playing with big and little boats along the dock.
The Roanoke Island Yacht Club sounds every bit as exciting.
But I had a pretty good idea of what it costs to belong to the Norfolk Yacht Club or the Royal in Bermuda. It definitely would take more than a cowpony and saddle to pay the dues.
So I didn't really wonder much more about the Roanoke Island Yacht Club, except to think about how it would look at my high school class reunion this summer to put on my biographical sketch: Member, Roanoke Island Yacht Club.
Then a member heard I like to sail and asked why I didn't join. ``We do a lot of cruising, and some races, and have a good time.''
I hemmed and hawed and said I wasn't much of a joiner, and anyway I liked being alone with the Gypsy, and gave her a couple of other lame excuses.
She understood me perfectly.
``It's only $30 a year and $25 to join,'' she said. ``That includes a club pennant. We don't have a clubhouse, we just sail.''
``Call me commodore,'' I replied. by CNB