THE other year, looking through a newspaper of sound principles, but
whose staff _will_ persist in “casting” anchors and going to sea “on” a
ship (ough!), I came across an article upon the season’s yachting. And,
behold! it was a good article. To a man who had but little to do with
pleasure sailing (though all sailing is a pleasure), and certainly
nothing whatever with racing in open waters, the writer’s strictures upon
the handicapping of yachts were just intelligible and no more. And I do
not pretend to any interest in the enumeration of the great races of that
year. As to the 52-foot linear raters, praised so much by the writer, I
am warmed up by his approval of their performances; but, as far as any
clear conception goes, the descriptive phrase, so precise to the
comprehension of a yachtsman, evokes no definite image in my mind.
The writer praises that class of pleasure vessels, and I am willing to
endorse his words, as any man who loves every craft afloat would be ready
to do. I am disposed to admire and respect the 52-foot linear raters on
the word of a man who regrets in such a sympathetic and understanding
spirit the threatened decay of yachting seamanship.
Of course, yacht racing is an organized pastime, a function of social
idleness ministering to the vanity of certain wealthy inhabitants of
these isles nearly as much as to their inborn love of the sea. But the
writer of the article in question goes on to point out, with insight and
justice, that for a great number of people (20,000, I think he says) it
is a means of livelihood—that it is, in his own words, an industry. Now,
the moral side of an industry, productive or unproductive, the redeeming
and ideal aspect of this bread-winning, is the attainment and
preservation of the highest possible skill on the part of the craftsmen.
Such skill, the skill of technique, is more than honesty; it is something
wider, embracing honesty and grace and rule in an elevated and clear
sentiment, not altogether utilitarian, which may be called the honour of
labour. It is made up of accumulated tradition, kept alive by individual
pride, rendered exact by professional opinion, and, like the higher arts,
it spurred on and sustained by discriminating praise.
This is why the attainment of proficiency, the pushing of your skill with
attention to the most delicate shades of excellence, is a matter of vital
concern. Efficiency of a practically flawless kind may be reached
naturally in the struggle for bread. But there is something beyond—a
higher point, a subtle and unmistakable touch of love and pride beyond
mere skill; almost an inspiration which gives to all work that finish
which is almost art—which _is_ art.
As men of scrupulous honour set up a high standard of public conscience
above the dead-level of an honest community, so men of that skill which
passes into art by ceaseless striving raise the dead-level of correct
practice in the crafts of land and sea. The conditions fostering the
growth of that supreme, alive excellence, as well in work as in play,
ought to be preserved with a most careful regard lest the industry or the
game should perish of an insidious and inward decay. Therefore I have
read with profound regret, in that article upon the yachting season of a
certain year, that the seamanship on board racing yachts is not now what
it used to be only a few, very few, years ago.
For that was the gist of that article, written evidently by a man who not
only knows but _understands_—a thing (let me remark in passing) much
rarer than one would expect, because the sort of understanding I mean is
inspired by love; and love, though in a sense it may be admitted to be
stronger than death, is by no means so universal and so sure. In fact,
love is rare—the love of men, of things, of ideas, the love of perfected
skill. For love is the enemy of haste; it takes count of passing days,
of men who pass away, of a fine art matured slowly in the course of years
and doomed in a short time to pass away too, and be no more. Love and
regret go hand in hand in this world of changes swifter than the shifting
of the clouds reflected in the mirror of the sea.
To penalize a yacht in proportion to the fineness of her performance is
unfair to the craft and to her men. It is unfair to the perfection of
her form and to the skill of her servants. For we men are, in fact, the
servants of our creations. We remain in everlasting bondage to the
productions of our brain and to the work of our hands. A man is born to
serve his time on this earth, and there is something fine in the service
being given on other grounds than that of utility. The bondage of art is
very exacting. And, as the writer of the article which started this
train of thought says with lovable warmth, the sailing of yachts is a
fine art.
His contention is that racing, without time allowances for anything else
but tonnage—that is, for size—has fostered the fine art of sailing to the
pitch of perfection. Every sort of demand is made upon the master of a
sailing-yacht, and to be penalized in proportion to your success may be
of advantage to the sport itself, but it has an obviously deteriorating
effect upon the seamanship. The fine art is being lost.