I Refuse to Join

Are you a member, sir?

Article by Jonathan Lewis

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Groucho Marx famously stated, “I refuse to join any club that will accept me as a member.”  I’ve never been a member of a yacht club, although my father got a family membership at the Allen Harbor Yacht Club in Harwich Port on Cape Cod in 1967, which I frequented on many summer days of my misspent youth. Time was spent on the water honing my sailing skills, but comparable hours at the ping pong table or snack bar (fried clam rolls were my favorite) were also logged.

Fast forward a number of years to our circumnavigation of a portion of the Florida peninsula on our Herreshoff Cat Ketch. From Stuart you’re able to navigate the Saint Lucie Canal and enter Lake Okeechobee. On the southwestern side of the lake, the Okeechobee Waterway feeds into the Rim Canal which then connects with the Caloosahatchee and the river spits you out on the West Coast at Ft. Meyers and Sanibel Island. One sees a lot of “old” Florida along the way, and anchoring at J.N. Ding Darling National Wildlife Refuge at the completion of the trek across is certainly worth the stop—even if the name is a mouthful.

But I digress. This is a story about yacht club membership, or not. After exploring Pine Island Sound with stops at Useppa—which lies east of Cabbage Key, where Jimmy Buffett’s original cheeseburger in paradise was consumed—and various other protected coves that afforded quiet places to drop the hook, we headed offshore and eventually into the Venice Inlet. That particular night we spent tied to a dock, which was a rarity for us, but we got up early the next morning and began to exit back into the Gulf and continue our northerly explorations. However, we were passing a quite long and empty fuel dock and the ease of obtaining a few gallons of diesel to top off our tank was too much of a temptation. Our lines and fenders from the night before were still readily accessible so we snuggled up to the Venice Yacht Club and positioned our fuel fill fitting directly in front of the convenient pump.

In short order a gentleman came down the ramp from the clubhouse and asked if he could be of assistance. We said we’d like a few gallons of diesel and he queried if we were yacht club members. When we replied with a negative, he asked if we were members of one of the dozen Florida affiliated yacht clubs. When we once again answered with a negative, he followed suit by saying we couldn’t have any fuel. By this time he was observing our transom and asked where we were from. My wife responded, “Brookline.”  “Well,” he said, “you can’t keep a boat in Brookline.” I told him she stayed on a mooring in Boston Harbor. The mention of Boston piqued his curiosity and he asked where in Boston. I told him on the Back River in Weymouth. By now it was evident this was more than just a geography lesson and he informed us he was a member of a yacht club there. When I asked if it was the South Shore Yacht Club, his face lit up.

I told him I took part in their afternoon racing series for a number of years and was friends with one of the early members, Jim Halpin. At the mention of Jim’s name, a wide smile formed on his lips. My goodness, Jim was such an integral part of the club, including its move and rebuilding. He’d known Jim for decades and wanted to make sure I communicated his best regards to old Jim. He was pleased to know that even though Jim was now in his eighties, he was still extremely active with the club and still sailing up a storm.

We finished reminiscing about his days in Massachusetts and his transplantation to the West coast of Florida. His hand was resting on the shackled fuel nozzle. I politely inquired, “And the diesel?”  “Oh no,” he said, “I can’t sell you any diesel.” We untied the bow, stern and spring lines and headed out into the Gulf of Mexico, wondering what would Groucho have to say now? •SCA•