Yachting Monthly can reveal one of the shanties which will be performed for the Old Gaffers Association’s 50th anniversary. It is written by cartoonist Mike Peyton, 92, who is an East Coast section member and the only original founder member of the OGA left alive. Performed by the Brandy Hole Shantymen, it is a poignant dirge of seven verses.

Here is the The East Coast Old Gaffer:

Chorus:
I’m a sailor, a sailor from Maldon Town way,
I get all my pleasure when I’m under way.
I may be commuting on Mondays, but I sail my old gaffer on Sundays.

When I board my old boat, swig up stays’l and throat, slip the mooring, then haul in the sheets,
I feel her lift to the seas, with a fair topsail breeze, my life as a gaffer’s complete.
As the wake of the boat fades behind me, with only horizon ahead,
Oh, rather than pack up my sailing, I think I would rather be dead!

I’ve sailed all over, from Orford to Dover, Boulogne and Breskens as well,
I’ve brought up in the Quarters, and Walton Backwaters, been sick as a dog with the swell.
My blankets have often been sodden, in the bunk where I rest my old head,
But rather than pack up my sailing, I think I would rather be dead!

Well, I’ve run past Shore Ends, for the bars of Ostend, and sailed across the rolling North Sea.
In Flushing I’ve dallied, in Calais I’ve rallied, to pick up the odd duty free.
I’ve seen the loom of the Varne from the Goodwins, the Gabbard from off Longs’d Head
Oh rather than pack up my sailing, I think I would rather be dead!

I’ve locked into the Basin, run aground in the Rays’n, and a few other places as well,
 I’ve crossed tacks with barges, begrudged harbour charges, thanked GOD for the old Spitway Bell!
I’ve watched the grey seals on the Maplins, as I’ve tacked them past heaving the lead,
Oh, rather than pack up my sailing, I think I would rather be dead!

So I sail where I please, ‘cross the Estuary Seas, on course for a lonely old creek,
I’ve run for the Swale, to ride out a gale, then cruised with fair winds for a week.
I’ve heard the shrill cry of the waders, then watched them flock high overhead,
Oh, rather than pack up my sailing, I think I would rather be dead!

I once loved a maid, a spot welder by trade; she was fair as the saltings in bloom,
The grey of her eyes matched the Estuary skies and I loved her from April to June.
On the day that we should have been married, I raced the Old Gaffers instead,
Oh, rather than pack up my sailing, I think I would rather be dead!  

Now the old days are gone, but my memories live on, when only the weather was bad.
I’ve sailed my last tack, I can only look back, and remember the times that we had.
With those halcyon days far behind me, and only nostalgia instead  
Oh rather than pack up my sailing, I think I would rather be dead!