It was a Tuesday in Lexington, a rather damp and chilly November 25, 1964, that found seven men gathered at the home of William R. Engle. The assemblage took on a serious mood when one man took a deep drag on a highly aromatic cigar and said, “Let’s get a yacht club organized.” And thus it began. Being then Mayor of Lexington, the cigar-puffing Fred E. Fugazzi and the non-smoking president of the Engle Construction Company were men of action; and had, in fact, been provoking others with the idea all summer. “Tap, tap, tap.” It was a call to order, rendered by the host who, after all were seated, spoke with the knowledge gained by years of experience in the twistings and turnings of Roberts Rules of Order. “Who’s gonna take notes? We’ve got to do this thing right, you know.” Silence, deep and so penetrating that bubbles in an aquarium located in the room could be heard, fell over the group. “I got a pencil. Who’s got paper?” and for the next four years Roger Williams, who thereafter always had paper and pencil, reigned as undisputed secretary and treasurer; the first officially elected officer of the club. From the minutes of that first meeting are found the seven plank members. They were: William R. Engle, later that same evening elected the first Commodore; Howard L. Colyer, Vice Commodore; Fred E. Fugazzi, Rear Commodore; David H. Griffith, Fleet Captain; Jack Howard, Gunnery Officer; Rovel C. Choate, Fleet Surgeon, and the aforementioned Roger Williams. The first order of business, appropriately enough, was naming the club. The discussion was somewhat lengthy and at times heated. When the shot and shell had finally delivered such names as River Rats, Clay’s Ferrys, and Boone’s Bastards useless, a vote was taken and the Lexington Yacht Club had its name. The newly elected secretary, having previous knowledge of yacht club traditions, then described to the group the need for a club burgee, and the second order of business got underway. The discussion surrounding the final adaptation of the club burgee is remembered by this author as one of more than adequate differences of opinion. While a portion favored a red, five-pointed star, still others wanted tobacco brown incorporated in the burgee.
On and on the conversation went, until the clarion call of patriotism, and a growing thirst, goaded Fred Fugazzi into action. Seemingly the delegate with a majority of votes, the chair finally recognized the panatela. As best remembered, the following deliverance issued forth in true statesmanlike tones. “Look here. Red, white and blue are the national colors, this burgee thing is gonna be, too. That red star indicates ‘pinko’ to me. That’s out! Make it a white star, good and clean, and put just enough red around it.” The vote was cast, tabulations made, and behold, the club had a no-nonsense burgee. In swift order Commodore Engle led his novice yachtsmen through the remainder of the inaugural meeting, pausing only once, to collect ten dollars from each to open a club account. He finall said: “There being no further business to discuss, the chair will recognize a motion of adjournment.” Six eager voices unanimously declared themselves in accord with their duly elected leader, and with a final tap the first meeting ended with Commodore Engle’s first ‘order of the day.’ “As Commodore of the Lexington Yacht Club, I hereby command all members present to ‘avast’ and adjourn at flank speed to the bar and splice the main brace.” This salty custom has, strangely enough, prevailed, and many is the tale of members succumbing to splice, to say nothing of brace. As the club grew in numbers, special events of a suitably nautical flavor were planned, and the first Blessing of the Boats occurred on June 27, 1965. For those who were in attendance, it was a day to be remembered. A flagpole had been erected for the club’s flags and burgee. If some members liken the mast to a filling-station lamppost, they’re correct. Commodore Engle, when not practicing Chinese Junkmanship, does on rare occasion run a construction company. It was through his generosity that the club obtained its flagstaff. Blazers had been purchased, buttons shined and boats cleaned and dressed to the nines, and a newly acquired salute cannon loaded. The cannon, a gift of Colonel Roger Williams, Jr., to the club, had a voice that some members who had actually experienced combat likened to Verdun, Midway and the Battle of the Bulge all combined into one thunderous roar that would carry across the river with the crack of doomsday in its reverberations.
The eventful Sunday finally arrived, and after a hasty lastminute rehearsal, the members and guests assembled about the flag pole. Resplendent in their new blazers; coupled with the robes of the Right Reverend William R. Moody; it was a picture of traditional setting worthy of a Nelsonian victory parade. Long and arduous had been the preparations and great were the expectations, but nothing could have prepared the members for the realizations. With a hush, the gathered yachtsmen prepared themselves in ninety degree heat for the Commodore’s opening remarks. The heat, coupled with a training session in splicing and bracing the previous evening, left little doubt the ceremony would in all likelihood break a record for swiftness. The formalities proceeded smoothly up to the final curtain. At a signal, flags were to be raised slowly and ceremoniously to the clear, bell-like tones of a trumpeted salute to the colors. Alas, catastrophe, swift and mean. As the flags began their ascent it wasn’t Sousa’s musical triumph that urged the flag raisers, it was Boots and Saddles. In retrospect, one might actually find that quite appropriate for a Kentucky yacht club. By now all shirts were soaked and the reek of Kentucky’s finest distillation process was high upon the air. As the colors reached their destination the Commodore indicated to his gunnery officer that he should fire his piece. What ensued could only be described as a virtual holocaust of dust and debris. Being new to his command, the erstwhile cannoneer had inadvertently left the muzzle in a severe down position. In point of fact, one might say he aimed at China and all but damn well shot it. Needless to say, the nerve-shattering roar, along with the dust and completely ravished nerves of the yachtsmen, promptly ended the ceremony. The order to man your boats was hardly uttered by a still trembling Commodore when the first motor was heard to cough into life. Within minutes the entire club had dispersed down river. As the years went by, the club struggled to keep some semblance of its adolescent fumblings on the right compass bearing. By the fall of 1967, a very tired and weary Commodore Engle turned over his command to Fred Fugazzi. The club’s membership had by now grown to thirty-odd, and the club appointed Mrs. Frank R. Dean, Sr., as its first club steward. Into her capable hands fell reservations and party organization. To this day, members can hear a last goodnight supplemented with, “Great party, Babe!” On the dock, the number of boats grew and everyone was busy getting the damn thing to work. In the offing hovered a revised charter for the club, one that would offer all members an opportunity to assume leadership. By the end of 1968, the treasurer reported to the board of governors that there was $1,963.24 in the kitty. Commodore Fugazzi, still being led around by a cigar, puffed a mighty, swirling halo about his head and injected for the record, “By God! Let’s have a party.” In 1969, the Commodoreship of Roger Williams was marked as the year of carpets. First one, then another boat was decked over. As his final order, he directed the study, preparation and adoption of a revised charter that would officially open the board of governors to duly elected non-plank members. By the end of 1970, sometimes known as the “head year” because pollution was upon us, Commodore Adam Miller approved the new charter and the club entered a new era.
Members began reporting the fine treatment extended to them by other clubs scattered as far apart as Chicago, Naples and Annapolis. “Sure glad I’ve got a boat,” was heard more often now; reflecting the ever-increasing prices of those ‘holes completely surrounded by water into which men pour money.’ The rapidly expanding club began to show distinct signs of real maturity. A membership list, published on a single sheet of paper in 1967, was actually useless. Every member knew every other member to begin with; not so now. The fact that members still sit of a Sunday dockside and watch people come down the ramp means a membership list is now close at hand to assist the memory and still those murmurings of, “What the hell is her name? I always forget.” Tradition evolves with time, and if, as is usually true, the earlier and smaller club had its treasured memories, the Lexington Yacht Club has a few meaningful ones already. Who can forget the days when only a few boats had ovens and baked potatoes were hard to come by. The club was the first in the country to incorporate flag rank on its blazers. If you know where Miller’s Landing, Sue’s Stumps or Fred’s Haven are located, you’re an old member. If you want to sing all night, you go to Irvine, but you’d better have the upper-river flotilla commander along. Sunday mornings are strictly reserved for cats’ paw noise, but if it’s food you want, you’ll find a hot biscuit breakfast aboard the Debby Lin. If the club has one really funny and noteworthy story of one upmanship in mechanical inefficiency, it will have to be Phil Mohney’s. While puttering away in his engine room one day, he let an electric drill get away from him, resulting in a beautiful quarter-inch hole right through the hull. His anger was only dampened by the gross indignity of getting a face full of water. Being, to say the least, somewhat startled, he stomped his foot over the offending hole and cast about for something to stay the miniature Old Faithful in his bilge. He finally managed repairs with a pencil, proving to all that a good captain never panics, even when up to his well know in a sinking ship. Like the balloons cast away at some halftime display, the club memories even now are disappearing over the horizon, a little dog named Go Go; a man and his boat named Redbird; a salute cannon fired at 0200 hours at Shaker Landing; a new engine being lowered by a tow truck from Clay’s Ferry bridge; a breakdown below Lock Seven and the rescue boat running out of gas; Lockmaster Dale Walden saving five lives; a famous country music man who entertained at Lock Twelve; the club chaplain presiding in full clerical garb complete with tennis shoes; a dockboy named Dave; and so it goes. It should go on and on, and will, because the club has finally shot out the tender and delicate roots of permanence in the rocky soil of yachtsmanship. One closing vignette most wonderfully tells the entire log to date. Prior to the Blessing of the Boats one year, two officers were assisting the Right Reverend William R. Moody in robing for the ceremony. All proceeded according to ritualistic plan until the worthy Bishop requested a towel with which to wipe his forehead and hands. The towel hastily furnished was one advertising the delights of Mable’s establishment of ill repute where, it further stated, gentlemen would receive double green stamps on Thursday nights. It’s preserved in the club’s files. The prayer offered that day is also preserved.
“Dear Lord and Father, Hear this day your most humble servant’s most fervent request, that in your wisdom and love, you will give aid and your blessings, to these your children who choose to go down to the sea in their ships. For, Lord, they require all the help you may, in all justice and love, give them.
Billy
Bob Engle