When naming your boat, don’t tempt fate

There was a chap I knew once, a distinguished Harley Street gynaecologist, who was a good sailor and competitive racing man. But for all his success in life there was a naughty boy in short trousers still lurking beneath this grown man in his Savile Row suit. The catapult was lured out when he was with his younger crew-mates. To them he was a great laugh especially when he named his boat with a double-entendre that gave a nod towards his line of work. All went well until one year he cleaned up during Cowes Week and at the prize-giving held at the Royal Yacht Squadron, the announcer in the dicky bow reading out the winners stalled. There was a moment’s silence as he looked at the name of the boat on the brief in front of him, and instead he read out her sail number...

That’s the thing, jokes can backfire as we all know, but even when they don’t they are only any good the first time you hear them. Once told they are best left to dissipate into the ether. To affix them to tangible objects is to, at best, find out they are most likely not original. I’ve come across two Cirrhosis of the Rivers and I bet there’s another somewhere, the proud owner of which thinks he’s a hoot. But even if they are one-offs, the next time you pass Burnadebt, another I’ve seen, in the marina is to invite a yawn. The more serious implication is to be ignored altogether when in distress, like the boat I once witnessed entering the lock at Ijmuiden in the Netherlands. We’d had a bit of a dousing crossing the North Sea ourselves and this little yacht had only crept along the coast, but was in a worse state of disarray than we were. As I looked at her name, a thought of horror crossed my mind, and I hoped she would not become a story for the Yachting Monthly news section during the next gale. There, painted in bright yellow paint was her moniker: Just Kidding!!! How the Coastguard would deal with a Mayday from her was anybody’s guess.

I’m not a fan of long names for the same reason: imagine trying to repeat phonetically, Lady Hermione Ringwood-wilkinson of Burnham Overy Staithe over the VHF with a fresh southwester howling around the companionway. I suppose a flash of chutzpah is harmless enough, if you don’t mind running the risk of ridicule, like the 19-footer I once observed on a drying mooring, which fell onto her beam ends every time the nearby Channel ferry left the dock, displacing the harbour waters. She was called Prinz Eugen.

A Thames Estuary sailor I know told me about a much-loved old boy who passed away after 50 years of sailing in his favourite waters. He had tried to interest his family in cruising but no one had been interested. The old wooden tubs he floated about in with no proper sanitary facilities and leaky cabins did not appeal. But with the legacy he left them they rushed out and purchased a brand new 38ft sloop which had been on display at a local boat show. They had considered calling her Ta Very Much Uncle Reg, but when it was explained this would be a tight fit on the dodgers, subbed it down to Uncle Reggie. Gone but not forgotten.

I, for one, can never understand those who go out and buy a £240,000 cruising boat, stick her in a £7,000-ayear marina, buy all the kit and then name her with an appalling pun, an obvious double-entendre or lame joke.

The trouble with novelty names is that they disrespect the vessel. If you don’t take your boat seriously, how can you expect sailors around you, rafting up, passing you in the river, or calling you up to take you seriously?

Silly names also catch the eye of Neptune which can be a graver matter. There’s nothing the weather gods like better than to see some tastelessly dubbed craft, covered in sea-wrack, pounding the ragstone of the sea wall until all that’s left is the name.

There, in yellow paint, was her moniker: Just Kidding!!!