I grew up in the South. I thought I’d seen most things the South can throw at you. I’ve knuckled through hurricanes, field tripped to plantations, and eaten my weight in boiled peanuts. Recently, however, I spent an evening in a place where what I hope to be the last vestiges of Good Ol Boyism thrive: the Bushwood Yacht Club.
I’ve been sailing for about 6 months. I picked it up to get outside and meet people unaffiliated with medical school. I met a crew through a friend, and by some fortunate chance, wound up part of the racing team. Now this team sails out of a far hardier, more rough and tumble club than the one I spent the evening in this Friday. I know the very words “yacht club” conjure up images of seersucker suits and Sperry topsiders, but Monkey Hill Yacht Club is more like the dive bar your kinda strange but loveable bachelor uncle hangs out in than a country club. It serves burgers on styrofoam plates, and mixes strong rum drinks in a large, smokey bar. I was thus ill-prepared for the rabbit hole of southern tradition I was about to tumble down when our crew was invited to Bushwood Yacht Club for the annual Awards Banquet.
The four 20-somethings on our crew decided to arrive together to face the presumed stodginess as a pack. Armed in our finest cocktail attire, we rode the wood paneled elevator up two floors to Bushwood’s banquet rooms only to discover that…our crew didn’t have a table at the awards banquet. Only slightly alarmed, we found the rest of our crew and huddled around a table occupied by other non-members. They weren’t hard to identify. All Bushwood members wear the same navy blue blazer with BYC emblazoned on the lapel, so the uninitiated are quite noticeable. Uniform jackets are popular at Bushwood; the all-black wait staff is dressed in starched white dinner jackets. We must have missed out on most of the actual banqueting, as the staff was busy packing away the empty serving dishes. Looking around, the audience was almost entirely male, with a smattering of nattily dressed sailing wives standing out like colorful crab-pot buoys in a sea of navy blue. Huddled in the back, we grew more uncomfortable. We thought to relax by grabbing a drink at the bar, only to be told that the club doesn’t accept money in any form–no drinks unless you’re a member. Apparently the traditions of Bushwood Good Ol Boyism don’t include hospitality. It’s a club where women are allowed to be members for a reduced price because they aren’t given any voting privileges, and the only non-white people around are the folks working in the white dinner jackets. It’s a blast from the South’s ignoble past.
The rest of the evening was fairly boring; mostly the men in blue awarding themselves or their nearest and dearest with ornate trophies. We collected our three awards and high-tailed it back to where we belong as quickly as possible–back to the burgers and beer and your kinda strange bachelor uncle.
youarenotforallmarkets 