The (sea) emperor’s clothes

An apology. On starting this blog I vowed to myself I wouldn’t wander too far from the Sargasso path and into the minutia of daily life that plagues many sailing accounts – you know, the “today we changed the sails and our socks” school of blogging.

But forgive me if I make the occasional digression, starting today with the outwardly dull, but really very crucial issue of foul weather clothing aboard “Moon River.”

Yacht sailors spend enormous amounts of time outside, in all weather, often doing very little beyond staring at the sea. Being on watch is essentially a wetter version of sitting by the fire, a strange, sedentary existence in which your reveries are interrupted by rain, sea spray and the odd proper thumping from a solid wave.

There are two main options for attire.

The most common by far today, and espoused by my brave Adele, is to don breathable Gortex-type fabric used in spiffy looking suits made by Musto, Gill and the like. Outfits sold by these specialist manufacturers are waterproof, supposedly let your body breath, and look good, complete with lots of go-faster Velcro tabs and pockets designed to house every gadget on Earth.

Here is Adele, resplendent:

The other school is modeled by yours truly. This is the same get-up favored among French trawler crews and produced by a company with the unlikely sounding name of Guy Cotten. What they’re really made out of I’m not sure. My jacket is emblazoned with a prominent, enigmatic stamp reading: “no lead.”

My usual get-up. Bullet-proof, or at least waterproof.

I have a lighter orange top for warm weather. Jealous yet?

Now, it’s true that my garb brings to mind clowns, jesters and maybe sweet wrappers. It’s also true that when wrapped in what is essentially rubber you soon get that clammy, cold sensation familiar to anyone who has tried wearing rainboots without socks. And I can't deny that almost no one else on sailing yachts wears the things.

But you stay really, really dry.

Adele laughs at me in my Guy Cottens, even if they are French. Calais is also French, she reminds me. So are those little handbags Frenchmen carry. France can’t be perfect. Yet that’s no reason not to try and dress perfectly.

Such remarks wash off my Guy Cottens much as the Atlantic waves. I don’t laugh at her many-zippered, ergonomically refined finery. But I will register a few facts on the matter:

1. Guy Cottens cost about a fifth of their breathable brethren.

2. They won’t rip.

3. They not only keep you dry but can themselves be dried with the wipe of a towel. Gills and the like stop water getting in, but they themselves become wet on the outside and have to dry out. Not Guy Cotten man. He can come below after a good soaking and simply towel off as if emerging from a shower. The rubber is squeaky dry within half a minute.

I agree there are weaknesses in my get-up. The total lack of pockets (don’t French trawlermen ever listen to iPods, or at least keep their cigarettes somewhere?) is a pain. And in warmer temperatures the lack of air inside your suit can lead to noxious build-up of gases from within – both greenhouse and other.

But to me, no amount of convenience or glamor could top the bulletproof waterproofness of the things.

Now that I’ve already taken this blog down-market, I may as well go all the way with a final anecdote that I believe will persuade you to climb into your very own Guy Cottens. (Editor’s warning: from this point on, the blog may be unsuitable for some adults.)

So, what happened was that during an especially rough night watch in mid-Atlantic this July I found myself eager to pee. Very eager. Of course, even on the best night this involves disrobing, perhaps quickly, and that isn’t necessarily one of Guy Cotten’s strong points, given the absence of those high-tech quick release Velcro straps, convenient zips and all.

This wasn’t the best night. This was a near gale, with “Moon River” sailing beam on to bullying seas, constant spray and water swirling around the deck. Worse, heavy waves sent the boat reeling sideways every few seconds, so that even if I were to disrobe successfully, and avoid getting totally wet, the fraught stage of actually peeing – a bucket at point-blank range being the only feasible target – was alarmingly challenging.

Trying to hold onto the boat with one hand, undo my trawlerman’s duds with the other, and aim for the bucket, which was moving just as erratically as everything else, with the other, was impossible – since that would require three hands. Yet I did my best, grasping here, there, everywhere, and actually, heroically, managing to fulfill a good part of this mission.

Then – and this is all in the dark – came one of those really thumping waves. Over went “Moon River,” over went I, falling hard onto the other side of the cockpit. And, yes, over went the bucket, right over me.

At this point, knocked down and drenched in pee, a man wearing a lesser set of clothing might waver. Who would blame him?

But awash in that salty wasteland, my ridiculous rubber outfit made me a beacon of defiance. Laughing, I rearranged myself, pulled the jacket tight to my throat and stood, much like Odysseus before the mast, calling to the sea.

And the sea soon obliged.

Crash came the next wave. Seawater doused me, washing my Guy Cottens, the cockpit and unfortunate bucket all at once.

I was clean again outside, reborn. Inside, I was as dry as ever.

Clinging on to the boat that night, I even began to wonder if those bright colors didn’t actually look rather good.