OnTheWight were delighted to recently receive a call from California from ex-pat Brian Silsbury. The former Shanklinite told us how he’d rowed for Shanklin Sandown Club in the 1950s and was enjoying reading of the club’s successes each week through OnTheWight. He wondered whether our readers be interested in some of his memories? You bet they would we said. Here’s the second in a series of reflections of his time with the club. Ed
I first met Charlie in the early 1950s when I joined the Shanklin Sandown Rowing club. I quickly learnt he was not a Chas, a Chuck, or even a Charles; he was Charlie and woe-be-tide anyone who tried a deviation.
I had no idea how old he was. Suffice it to say, that Charlie looked like the ancient mariner; craggy and weather-beaten with a face like a deeply etched prune!
Rowing and beer
His joint passions were rowing and beer. Charlie had set himself a goal of coaching us; four pimply, callow youths to be a crew of skilled oarsmen. He even hoped one day, we would win the South Coast Rowing Championships.
To help achieve his goal, Charlie used his extensive rowing knowledge and caustic wit, invariably yelled from the cox’s seat.
During summer weekday evenings, we would work at endurance rowing, racing starts, buoy turns and high stress finishes. But Sunday was different. Sunday was when Charlie arrived from Ventnor and took charge.
The merciless coach
Our purgatory started as we launched the galley off the Shanklin beach. Charlie, trousers rolled up, would wade out with us. Having grabbed the cox’s seat he was right in our faces so we had no-where to hide.
“In Bow and Two, out oars, move it,” he yelled as he nimbly slid aboard.
“In Three and Four, take it away all. Check your oars and stretchers.”
Once underway, he was merciless. “Eyes in the boat Number Three,” he yelled at me. “Bow, you’re bl**dy breast-feeding the loom! Pull it into your guts, not your t*ts!”
Sometimes, he would become so passionate, spittle and white salt spray congealed in the deep wrinkles each side of his mouth making him look like a rabid dog!
In his element
Charlie was in his element. Crouching at the stern, he swayed back and forward, synchronized with the rise and fall of the galley.
Sometimes in rough seas, he became blinded as his glasses caked over with salt from the flying spume. This happened when we drove the galley hard into the waves. It was uncanny. He could always detect when we were doing something wrong.
“You’re digging too deep Number Two, square the blade before it enters the water or you’ll catch a bl**dy crab,” he railed.
Afterwards we congregated in the pub. By then Charlie had relaxed and had a pint of bitter in one fist and a cigarette in the other.
Leaning back expansively, he’d start, “Did I ever tell you about the time we launched the galley in a force eight gale?”
“No Charlie,” we chorused, desperate to change the subject from his vitriolic rowing critique.
“Yes, we went to the rescue of”…………
Image: via Brian Silsbury
