Sport: Old Sailor’s Lore

His hair was white as a breaker’s foam. But the brown eyes were as keen as ever behind the crow’s-feet wrinkles of half a century spent peering at sky and sea. Ruddy and fit in his natty yacht-club blazer, Cornelius Shields (TIME cover, July 27, 1953) was every inch a blue-water skipper as he relaxed last week in Long Island’s Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club and started to instruct 33 experienced sailors about his happy art.

For an hour and a half, 64-year-old “Corny” Shields talked. First, he laid down the practical tips and techniques picked up since he learned to singlehand a 28-footer as a 14-year-old on Long Island Sound and went on to become a legendary figure, a man who may well have sailed—and won—more races than anyone in the sport’s history. Corny Shields spoke of the jib (“Don’t trim it flat—you need a nice little cup in it”). He gave a captain’s cold advice on picking a crew (“Don’t have a light-hearted comedian as a member of a serious racing crew”). He even talked about the weather (“Squalls from the northwest blow longest and hardest”).

Watch the Porpoises. But his audience, sharp sailors all, was hoping for something more from the man who so loved sailing that he had literally risked death for the sport. Three years ago, after a serious heart attack while manning a dinghy in a frostbite race, Shields was beached from competition by his doctors. Yet last summer he stubbornly took the tiller of the 12-meter Columbia and, under tremendous pressure, skippered her at the start of light races in the final trials that led to her successful defense of the America’s Cup with his old friend and onetime rival, Briggs Cunningham, at the helm.

As Corny Shields talked on, no one was disappointed. Out poured the lore that could be proved by no science, nor learned from any textbook. Said he:

¶ “Morning dew and cobwebs in the rigging indicate a southwest wind during the day. Nine times out of ten, if you see porpoises there will be an easterly. I don’t know why. but I’ve seen it happen time after time.”

¶ “You must have the feel of your boat. The boat can tell you a lot of things, but you have to respond to the feel. I say. go out with a friend and put on a blindfold or close your eyes. That’s a good way to learn the feel.”

¶ “The fascination of yachting is that there is always more to learn. No one can know it all. I went out just last Saturday and learned more about sail trim than any day I can remember. That’s what’s so wonderful—new lessons and rewards every time you go out.”

Attend the Master. When Shields finished, there was no applause—just silence, the silence of understanding and respect. His talk opened a sailing course set up by a singular bit of philanthropy. To give the better-than-average sailor a chance to learn from the best, a retired Manhattan oil executive named Herman Whiton, himself expert enough to win the 6-meter championship in the 1948 and 1952 Olympics, put up $167,000 for a nonprofit series of five three-day courses this summer. Student’s fee: $20. For classrooms, Whiton imported eight sleek, 33-ft. International Ones from Norway. And for a staff, along with Shields he recruited some of the biggest names in sailing—e.g., Designer Olin Stephens of Columbia, famed Sailmaker Colin Ratsey, and windburned Skipper Emil (“Bus”) Mosbacher.

All have credentials aplenty for the job. At the helm of 20-year-old Vim, Mosbacher even outfoxed Grey Fox Corny Shields on occasion during last summer’s America’s Cup trials. But as Shields spoke last week, Mosbacher was in the audience, as intent as any man there, leaning forward to catch every word as the old sailor talked of sea and sails.