Changing Of The Guard

Yes, Tillerman, I was in Lumberton last night.

Skip Moorhouse was finally honored at his 

belated retirement party at the Moorhouse 

MacCausland sail loft, out in the virtual middle

of nowhere in south central New Jersey.

There was a nice group of sailing friends and

relatives, some of whom I knew and the rest

I wish I had.  It's not hard to assemble a bunch

such as them, when the honoree is so loved and

respected.  The night was exactly as I imagined. 

BTW, the following three video clips are watchable,

regardless of the black screen each one exhibits.

There were many stories and recollections, all of which

sounded so typically Skip that I was never surprised,

and often I imagined the punchline or moral well before

they were reached.  I'd always enjoyed listening to him

because he's a good storyteller, and sadly this may have 

been one of the last times I'll have the opportunity.

He's built sails for scads of Mid-Atlantic sailors and 

racers alike.  The Moorhouse Sailmakers patch is

a common sighting on Barnegat Bay, as well as

Chesapeake Bay, Delaware River, loads of inland

lakes and reservoirs, and farther than I can probably

fathom.  When you produce a quality product, your

reputation precedes you.

Skip is an everyman.  His sailing and sailmaking 

abilities aside, he's as down to earth as your next

door neighbor.  That's what originally attracted me

to him.  He can talk about the cut of your new

mainsail in one breath, then lament about the toilet

in the mens' room at the back of the loft.  One 

afternoon I was visiting him, around 3:30 or 4:00

in the afternoon, when out of the blue he said, 

"I think we ought to order some lunch.  Dave, 

you like wings?"  Better late than never.

I stayed until the bitter end last night, often having 

something to add but always hanging back, listening

to the others who were more aggressive with their 

additions to the story at hand.  It's okay, I'll tell this

one here.  Skip and Jill grew up on the north shore of 

Long Island, in a small town called Glen Cove. 

 Legend has it that Skip's school sat on a hill

overlooking the harbor. He'd constantly be busted for 

gazing out the window, down upon the sailboats 

moored in the harbor.  Is it any wonder that Skip 

wound up making a living from building sails that

would power the boats in his field of dreams?

When you're young, you often have people you look

up to.  And depending on the situation you're in, those

influential beings can mold the way you will deal with

life as an adult, as well as steer a sailboat around a 

racecourse. Skip was always an idol of mine. 

I have three men on my list of sailing mentors,  

two of whom were my Dad, Jim, and my stepdad

Bob.  Skip is my third.  I was always in awe of

him at Penguin and M-scow regattas, and after my

parents divorced, Mom married Bob and Dad 

married Skip's sister Jill.  Luckily for me and my

brother, everyone remained civil and friendly, and we

often had the best of all worlds.  I consider myself a

well-rounded sailor, though definitely not the sharpest 

racing mind.  It's okay though.  These men had a hand

in shaping  my ability to think on the boat, as well as on

 land.  Traits like those are invaluable inheritances which

many are never priveleged to  experience.

John MacCausland is the hands-down perfect person

for Skip to hand the torch to.  This guy's been around

forever, and is almost as big a part of the New Jersey

sailing scene as Skip.  But not quite just yet.  John,

you're on the right track though.  Best of luck. And

thanks for inviting me to the party.