When I was a youngster sailing my model yacht, I often looked out to the river on hearing the thunder of large yachts tacking to windward as their sails shook and flapped before settling down on the new tack.
These were the days of Egyptian cotton sailcloth, often a creamy colour, which on fresh days with the yachts well heeled would be wet with spray at the sail’s foot . Then mainsails were large with long booms and headsails comparatively small and never to the masthead. Spinnakers too were comparatively small and seldom coloured. But my lasting memory is of the thunder of sails often heard before the yachts came into view. Now this noise is seldom heard from modern terylene sails which seem to flap less noisily and do not show whether they are wet or dry.
Another sound which accompanied the yachts tacking was the bell like ringing of the sheet winch ratchets as the slack of the jib sheets was taken in.
I remember sitting with many other yachts in the Kyles in a flat calm on a Corinthian Tarbert race waiting for a breeze when suddenly at the other side of the Kyle a new breeze began to fill in, accompanied by the ringing of sheet winches as boat after boat picked it up and began to heel and really slip along in calm water. Oh, the agony of waiting for the new breeze to fill across to us and the other leeward boats. Most of these winches were made by a company called Gibb and were indeed shaped like bells. Today winches are high tech with ball races and almost silent in operation.
These almost forgotten sounds of my youth contributed to the thrill of the sport which for me is the poorer with their passing.
Nicky Tam

As a lad I spent happy hours chasing a model sailing yacht round a paddling pond. My friends all had them too but mine was of course the fastest! I had the chance to see the real yachts sailing at Hunters Quay, Gourock and Kilcreggan and it was not long before I was pestering my father’s friends to take me for a sail. One such, RN retired, who smoked with a lengthy cigarette holder, agreed to take me on an evening race and once bitten there was no looking back. As the clubs had no organized cadet sections then, the boat owners needed crew and encouraged keen boys to look after and prepare their yachts, allowing them to step aboard and sail with no worries.
Starting this way a boy gained experience of sailing and boat maintenance and met other crews and owners. The big event, apart from the Clyde fortnight, was the Clyde Corinthian Club’s Tarbert race on the last Saturday of July. While the large yachts raced round Garroch Head to Tarbert, the smaller ones started from Hunters Quay, went through the Kyles, around Ardlamont and on to Tarbert. This event attracted yachts of the Dragon, Six metre and Scottish Island classes as well as small cruising yachts few of which had more than rudimentary accommodation. The number competing was high and the parade of sail tacking through the Kyles past Colintraive was a spectacle. The faster yachts arrived in Tarbert late afternoon but the slower did not arrive before Sunday. The rules required that only a member of the club could steer during the race. This made answering calls of nature difficult for the owner and so that I could steer the yacht at such times I became a member of the Clyde Corinthian Yacht Club, which I still am. The last to reach Tarbert was awarded a trophy called the Tullis Pot.
Happy days!

The Kyles dominate Colintraive. The reflected light changes subtly with the sky, the wind and tide. We often take these wonderful changes for granted. Visitors can open our eyes again to the surroundings. The view from every house differs. Most face south with maximum daylight hours and spectacular sunsets.

My ambition as a boy was to live in one of these houses with a yacht moored at the bottom of the garden. A sailing boat of course, simple to sail single handed with accommodation to overnight in far places like Arran and Tarbert. I was fascinated with yachts and cruising on the Clyde. Many, with professional crews, picked up the owners on Friday evening and came to the Kyles anchoring east of the Burnt Isles. These great wooden yawls and ketches are now replaced by plastic yachts with caravan like accommodation in ugly hulls, large engines and electronic navigation aids. They now hurry north for the season ignoring pleasures closer to home.

When a yacht relied on wind or a paddle to reach an anchorage not so distant, at the end of the day, it was a satisfying achievement owing nothing to the internal combustion engine.

Nicky Tam