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Boat Design & No Need for Ugly Boats: Tom Cunliffe’s Column

Tom Cunliffe’s September column muses on the need for ugly boat designs and the ultimate eye candy…

Tom cunliffe admiring boats design.

Right now my boat is lying in Kalmar, halfway up the sound inside the long, long island of Öland in eastern Sweden. We’re in the marina basin and it’s such a pleasant respite from banging against a wall for two nights in Bornholm that Roz and I have opted to stay an extra day. It’s fun having a drink in the cockpit in the evening, watching the yachts arrive as we quietly award points out of ten for tidy berthing and whether or not they please the eye. 

Beauty of course is in the eye of the beholder, but for my money, the only yachts that can claim necessity for having a flat sheer or a shapeless boot-top line are today’s more extreme race boats. Their creators at least have the excuse that such things come well down their list of priorities, with speed and rule-cheating at the top. Designers and builders of ugly cruising boats, on the other hand, cannot hide behind the rationalisation that their boat does the job better than a lovely one. 

Back in the 1930s, Uffa Fox observed that the best offshore racing yachts made the most satisfactory cruising boats. There was much in what he said. In his day, race boats were often  a delight to the eye. By contrast, some of the offerings from today’s manufacturers of cruising yachts are aesthetically inexcusable and looking around the harbour last evening provided the usual dreary prospect until, as the shadows lengthened on the endless Swedish summer evening, a blue yacht came slipping quietly in to lie alongside me. Clearly dating from the days when sterns first went ‘retroussé’, her reverse counter was exquisite, the rake of the delicate transom mirroring the angle of her stem as it rose from the still water thirty-five feet away. Nothing disturbed the sweet flow of her lines. The coachroof blended in; so did the forehatch. The cockpit gave her away as a sometime race boat with its helmsman’s section and a crew pit between the boss and the companionway, all faultlessly varnished, glowing in the dying of the day. The rig was classic masthead with single spreaders, fore and aft lowers and stout cap shrouds. As simple as it gets, and as strong. Her German ensign flew gently at the correct angle, its bottom corner a few inches above the water.

When his crew were settled, the skipper called over to me to enquire if my own boat was an American Hinckley. He’d got it right on provenance, but actually she’s a Mason. The resemblance is inescapable, and the understandable mistake is often made by switched-on sailors. Like a Hinckley, to anyone with an eye for detail, Constance is as Yankee as ‘Old Glory’. Now it was my turn. I resisted the temptation to speculate; I just asked. 

Karena it turned out, is a Holman and Pye design from the late 1960s, built by Pye’s brother in Brixham. I might have guessed. Closer examination suggested something of the Twister in her sheer, but instead of the well-balanced transom of her smaller sister, Kim Holman had drawn out Karena ’s lines to a perfect conclusion.

The joy of all this was more than simply appreciating a fine yacht at close quarters, it was about a meeting of minds. We two skippers had admired one another’s boats, but our understanding of what they are went beyond the ‘ooh ahh!’ of the casual observer. We didn’t say much, but we didn’t need to. We both knew we had found a friend.  

Identifying Another’s Boat Design

Boat design recognition doesn’t always go like this. I’ll never forget cruising around the town anchorage off Dartmouth one evening searching for space to anchor my 50-foot pilot cutter. Over her spars, she was all of sixty feet, so with the usual wind-against-tide potential of this challenging berth, I was taking extra care. At the upstream end of the assembled boats I passed close by a disreputable-looking vessel of no discernible purpose lying to a length of chain that can only have been reclaimed from the council after they scrapped their traditional high-tank toilets for modern low-level units. As his vessel careered around at the end of this precarious tether, her sole crew tossed his cigarette butt into the flooding tide and opened a mouth obscured by a haystack of a beard. Obviously not given to garrulity, his communiqué was brief but clear enough:

‘Brixham boat?’ he enquired gruffly.

I explained politely that the boat was a pilot cutter from the Bristol Channel, omitting that she bore no more resemblance to a Brixham trawler than a Land Rover does to a 1928 Bentley.  Both do a fine job, but they were never remotely the same thing. Still, I thought, it’s good that he’s taken notice. 

I left him enjoying a swig from a rum bottle and found my spot. I dug in the 112lb fisherman, laid a sensible scope of half-inch chain and went to bed. Shortly before midnight, I was awakened by a bloodcurdling scream apparently from under my bowsprit. In those days I slept naked and in the heat of the moment, imagining death and mayhem between me and my anchor, I shot up on deck clad as nature intended. In the ambient light from the town I found my erstwhile interlocutor wrapped around my cable, having dragged through the anchorage hitherto unscathed. I was just casting him off when a smart Hallberg Rassy came dragging by. On deck was a lady aiming a torch directly at me, her face a mask of horror in the glow of her spreader lights.

From the boat under my bows came the pithy comment,

‘It’s a good job we’re both sailin’ men, skipper…’  

I last saw him disappearing downstream, still clutching the rum bottle.

Tom Cunliffe’s Podcast

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Tom Cunliffe

I was a freelance contributor for Yachting Monthly for many years and served under six editors: the late Geoff Pack who accepted my first piece, Andrew Bray, James Jermain, Sarah Norbury, Paul Gelder and Kieran Flatt. All different; some were good on ideas, others I could trust to do a great job on editing, but all were excellent.

The first piece I sent in was called ‘Landfall’. It recounted the night my wife Ros and I arrived in Barbados in an engineless gaff cutter, 42 days out from Rio de Janeiro. I was encouraged by getting this published to write a piece on star sights – astro navigation being the tool of the era for ocean wanderers. This went down well too, to my amazement and the rest, as they say, is history.

Apart from my journalism I have several further ‘hats’ – television presenter, lecturer, after-dinner speaker, consultant on seamanship, and coaching aboard your yacht. Check out my website www.tomcunliffe.com , and my weekly video blogs at https://www.youtube.com/user/tomcunliffe1

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Helicopter rescue at sea

• July 1, 2015

A crewmember needs a helicopter rescue at sea, an airlift to hospital. You’ve radioed a Mayday and now there’s a helicopter overhead. What next? Tom Cunliffe reports

Tom Cunliffe podcast: June 2015

• May 1, 2015

‘Every time I sail under a bridge, I worry that I’m about to wallop it’   I once caught an innocent bystander’s VHF antenna with my topping lift when heeled…

Skipper’s tips – steer into the seas

• April 24, 2015

SKIPPER’S TIPS 1. Steer into the seas In these days of autopilots and electronic routes, the natural mindset is always to make the shortest distance between two points. In heavy…

Springing on and off

• March 3, 2015

A length of rope and a fender can turn tricky manoeuvres into a piece of cake. Tom Cunliffe explains springing on and off a dock

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• January 29, 2015

Skipper's tips: silence the topping lift - Yachtmaster examiner Tom Cunliffe with practical advice for all sailors

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• January 14, 2015

Skipper’s tips: find a transit. Yachtmaster examiner Tom Cunliffe with practical advice for all sailors

Skipper’s tips: holding station

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“My luck ran out. I hit more rocks in the next half-hour than in the rest of my life to date” Sitting in my saloon with the bogey stove glowing…

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Tom Cunliffe

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Offering a wealth of practical advice and a dynamic mix of in-depth boat, gear and equipment news, Sailing Today is written cover to cover by sailors, for sailors. Since its launch in 1997, the magazine has sealed its reputation for essential sailing information and advice.

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Yachting World

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Great seamanship: The Voyage of the Aegre

• Tom Cunliffe
• July 26, 2023

A young couple survives a seemingly hopeless situation when their 21ft clinker yacht is rolled mid-Pacific. Tom Cunliffe introduces this extract from The Voyage of the Aegre

Back in July 1973, Nicholas Grainger and his wife, Julie, sailed from north-west Scotland bound for the oceans of the world. Their boat was a 21ft clinker-built traditional Shetland Islander, originally open, but now decked for their voyage. As she should be, she was innocent of any sort of auxiliary power. Nick was 23. Julie was 19.

Nick’s book, just now published, is called The Voyage of The Aegre. It’s a story of courage and adventure we don’t often see equalled. Every page takes us deeply into the nitty gritty of the whole venture, including the self-doubt and interpersonal challenges.

As I devoured the work I remembered my own youth and the hope, strength and sheer energy that kept me going in hard times. Yet all my experience pales when compared with this extract: 150 miles out from Tahiti, she is capsized, swept clean and could easily have been left derelict. With no radio and no liferaft, survival depends on resource, initiative and the refusal to give in.

Off across the Atlantic under the square sail.

Extract from The Voyage of the Aegre

It was Thursday 5 September 1974. I was woken by a sudden roaring. The next moment I was turning head over heels. My eyes were clenched shut. I managed to open them, but it made no difference to the blackness. I’d been asleep in the oil-lamp-lit cabin. Where was I now? I was lying in water, but breathing air. What the hell was going on? Were we sinking? Where was Julie? “Julie! Julie!” I shouted, but there was no reply.

Threshing around with my hands and arms, I felt for the cabin sides around me, but everything was in the wrong place. Then I felt the deck beams beneath me. My mind raced. We must be upside down. It was eerily quiet. Were we below the surface, sinking into oblivion?

I had to get out, but how? Where was the hatch? Could I get to it? My way seemed blocked by the lockers and shelving. My hands found a passage aft beneath them. Now I could feel the closed hatch underwater beneath me. What would happen if I opened it? But I had to open it – it was the only way out. Would it jam?

I wrenched it back and plunged down into the ocean beneath. With my hands I felt the boat above me and pulled myself to one side, then up. Would I make it to the surface?

Almost instantly I did and was gulping air. It was still dark, but in front of me I could make out the shape of The Aegre, floating upside down. I couldn’t see Julie anywhere. In dread, I screamed into the wind and darkness, “Julie! Julie!”

On the beach for a refit at Puna’auia, Tahiti.

“I’m here,” came back faintly over the wind from the other side of the boat. Pulling myself around to the other side, I found her clinging on, gasping for breath as wave after wave swept over her. Relief that she was alive flooded through me. Together, we were strong.

“We have to get out of the water!” I yelled, pulling myself up onto the upturned hull. The edges of the clinker-laid planks gave narrow hand and footholds. Soon I was clear of the water and sitting astride the shallow keel.

Julie, in her thick oilskins and boots, couldn’t get a grip. I leaned over, grabbed her hand and pulled her up. As I did so, The Aegre tipped violently towards her and turned over again, throwing us both back underwater. I came back to the surface, my eyes full of water, to dimly see that the boat was now the right way up but almost flush with the sea.

But Julie had gone. Our hands had been dragged apart as we had hit the water. Where was she? Under the boat snarled in the mast and rigging, fighting for her life?

“Julie!” I screamed, pushing myself back under the boat to feel around wildly for her. There were just rope and wires. I burst back to the surface for a breath and heard a faint cry from the other side of the boat. I pulled myself back around to find her, shocked, gasping, and spluttering. In the dim light of the night I could see The Aegre had just a little freeboard, perhaps 2in, but she wasn’t lifting to the seas, and colossal breaking waves were sweeping right over her, pouring through the hatch into the cabin. She was only floating because of the polystyrene foam buoyancy we’d built into either end.

I pulled myself aboard, into the flooded cockpit, and helped Julie to roll back on board too. She crawled along the deck to the base of the broken mast and clasped her arms around it to avoid being swept back overboard as waves swept across the deck and in and out of the cabin. Everything from below swirled in and out in the gloom, polythene food containers, books, pieces of wood, papers, everything. I stood in the cockpit as if I were standing in the ocean, terrified the boat might break up under the stress of the buoyancy lifting either end and the lead weight in the middle. I thought of our inflatable Avon dinghy, our last resort if the boat should break up.

Full of water, The Aegre had no stability and tipped to port. Would she roll again? If she did, that might be the end of us. Julie sat on the deck, trying to balance the boat as waves swept over us. “I’m going to blow up the Avon,” I yelled, unlashing the green bag we kept it in, but the pump – the pump? I couldn’t see it. Desperately I set about blowing it up by mouth. Julie blew up the seat bolster. With just enough pressure, Julie took the line to the dinghy. “Don’t tie it on, we might sink!” I shouted.

It was getting lighter, and now I dimly saw the Avon floating high and dry and just downwind of us, above the maelstrom of the sea. A last resort. But I knew The Aegre herself offered us the best chance, not the Avon. I just had to get the water out.

Standing in the cockpit, up to my thighs in the sea, I frantically bailed with a basin that came to hand. Could I just get a fraction ahead of the waves sweeping over us?

I began bailing like a madman in the semi-darkness. Everything in the cabin was washing in and out through the hatchway. I grabbed things that might be useful to our survival, passing them to Julie at the base of the mast to put into the Avon for safe keeping: a jerry can of water, our waterproof canister of emergency things, a sharp knife wrapped in a sheet, the wooden box containing the sextant, a string bag of onions that floated out, whatever, before they were washed away and lost downwind.

I kept bailing but was getting nowhere. Breaking wave tops kept sweeping over the boat. Water was pouring into the cockpit and flowing straight into the cabin — the washboards separating the cockpit from the cabin were gone. How could I stop it?

Wall of water

I lashed the boom and gaff trysail to protect the cockpit and hatchway and tried again, frantically throwing water out with the big basin, struggling to get ahead of the incoming water. Just as I thought I was getting ahead, Julie screamed, “Look out!” Her shout was instantly followed by a crashing wall of green and white seawater which exploded over me.

It looked hopeless. Worse, I was now feeling the cold, having gone to sleep naked. There was no sign of my clothes.

Julie screamed another warning and I clung to the boat, but was knocked over again by a wall of water. I thought we were going over but the boat surfaced in the wake of the wave, still the right way up, but Julie had gone, the deck bare where she’d been sitting. Swept overboard, her life harness attached to the base of the mast saved her, and I grabbed it to pull her back aboard, but the Avon was gone, torn from Julie’s hands.

In horror, I saw the Avon’s shape on the crest of a wave, already a boat’s length downwind. I paused. Should I dive after it? Could I catch it? Would I ever get back to The Aegre if I tried? Better together than apart, and better on The Aegre even if it was swamped than on a barren inflatable.

I saw the fear in Julie’s eyes now that our last resort was almost gone. But no, I wasn’t going after it. And then the chance had passed. The dinghy’s outline quickly fading into the greyness of the wave crests downwind.

Had I made the right choice? I was tormented, briefly thinking not just of the security it offered but the things we’d put in it, particularly our precious sextant. But it was done. Too late for regrets. Now there were no options. We’d have to stay on The Aegre. She had everything we needed to survive. She just happened to be underwater right now.

I attacked the bailing again. Whatever came floating into the basin, I flung over the side with the water. Nothing else mattered. My oilskin top swept out of the cabin on a wave, and I did grab it, throwing it on. Cold and clammy, but it kept the wind off. Maybe it helped my brain to work.

“We can use the water jerry cans as extra buoyancy,” I shouted to Julie.

Creating buoyancy

From the hatch, I felt around underwater in the cabin to find the fresh water jerrycans stowed under the sides of the cockpit and pulled two out, wrenched off their caps and poured the water out over the side deck into the sea. Each contained 10lt, five days of water.

I stuffed the jerry cans, now containing nothing but air, back under the sides of the cockpit, displacing water, but the boat’s movement seemed unchanged. I grabbed two more. Julie looked on in horror. Still there was no change in the boat’s movement. Waves were still sweeping over us. Now I’d dumped 20 days’ worth of water. I went back underwater into the cabin to extract two more jerrycans.

Perhaps the boat was holed and would only ever lift a little until I found and patched the holes? Now I’d dumped 30 days’ worth of water. The back of the boat seemed to be just starting to lift a little to each wave.

“We won’t need all this fresh water if we’re dead from exposure,” I shouted to Julie as I emptied jerry cans seven and eight. Forty days of water now were gone, 60 days left.

It was now almost light, and I could see what I was doing. I’d started with the easily accessible jerrycans stowed around and beneath the cockpit. The boat was definitely lifting to the waves now, but still we needed more buoyancy to prevent waves sweeping over and into the boat.

Working desperately in the gloom and chaos and frightened we might roll over again, I unscrewed the floorboards and pulled out more jerrycans, keeping a careful count. Now, with every empty jerrycan I stuffed under the decking around the cockpit, we rose a little. Finally, with just seven full ones left (water for 35 days), The Aegre was lifting to most of the oncoming waves.

Desperately I tried bailing, only to be swamped again, but now I knew it was possible. And then there was a longer gap between big waves. I threw water out like a maniac; whatever came into the basin went out with the water. Nothing much mattered compared with getting more buoyancy before the next big wave hit. Our lives depended on it.

And I did get ahead of it. With the water down to the cockpit floor, we rose to the next big breaking wave. This time the white water surged around us, not over us.

It was light, perhaps 7am or 8am, when finally I paused, exhausted, and looked up at Julie by the mast. We smiled at each other. Now there was hope. Back to bailing with the basin, and soon the water was down to the floorboards, and using the bilge pump became practical.

I’d saved the boat, for the moment at least, but, we progressively realised, I’d thrown over the side most of our library, all our sailing records, our passports, money, and more, all gone. The mast was broken about 8½ft up from the deck. There were gaping holes in the upper starboard strakes where the chain plates had been torn out of the planking, but there was no other observable hull damage. We seemed lucky things were not worse.

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Tom Cunliffe’s Constance

Lifeboat repairs, jeanneau gelcoat repair, restoration of raven, new teak deck for lady em, teak deck, bow thruster and much more for harmony…, patricia ii bathing platform, new control panel and deck teak repair for mahalo, new teak cockpit panels for imogen, saloon table restoration, beneteau 40 keel work and teak deck, high quality boat repairs, boat repair, interior fit, personal recommendations.

World’s coolest yachts: Lady Belle

We ask top sailors and marine industry gurus to choose the coolest and most innovative yachts of our times. Tom Cunliffe nominates Lady Belle“It’s 50 years since my wife and I were beating down the West Solent in our first tiny yacht and saw a cloud of sail running in from seaward,” say Tom Cunliffe as he recalls his first sight of Lady Belle. “She was smaller than we’d imagined but, being a gaff yawl with every stitch set, she’d looked bigger than she was.” She proved to be Lady Belle, a Falmouth quay punt built by Harley Meade in 1909. “During our far-off youth we lived in a wooden-boat community on the Hamble River. Lady Belle became a part of this. “We always lusted after her and when she came up for sale half a dozen years ago, my daughter and her husband bought her. “So, still on the Hamble, she puts to sea with a young family, teaching two lively lads the ways of the sailor. “Lady Belle came home to us after half a century. How cool is that?” Lady Belle stats rating: Top speed: 7 knots LOA: 8.5m Launched: 1909 Berths: 4 Price: ‘Not for Sale’ Adrenalin factor: 20% Tom Cunliffe Tom Cunliffe is one of Britain’s leading writers on sailing and the sea. He is an authority on classic yachts and has sailed his own to destinations as diverse as Brazil, Greenland, the Caribbean and Russia. He and his wife, Ros, sail their American cutter, Constance.

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Yachting World is the world’s leading magazine for bluewater cruisers and offshore sailors. Every month we have inspirational adventures and practical features to help you realise your sailing dreams.

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