Farewell To The Knickerbocker

The Knickerbocker Yacht Club is now vacant. The clubhouse with it's hipped roof and second story deck silently looks out over Manhasset Bay. Resembling a foreclosed home, several No Trespassing signs are now taped to the large bay windows. After hearing the news that the 135 year old club had closed, I stopped by this month for one last goodbye. A utility worker making a phone call in the parking lot was all that broke the silence.

Yacht Clubs certainly do not inspire any populist imagery, but stereotypes of Buffy and Thad sailing in white slacks while maintaining a stiff upper lip are not entirely accurate. On Long Island Sound, yacht clubs tend to fall into one of three categories:

There are the exclusive clubs that do their best to hold on to the Guilded Age. These are often easy to spot with their clubhouses resembling some gold coast mansion, and their staff dressed like butlers. At the other extreme would be the working clubs whose membership often includes a high percentage of firemen, teachers, and tradesmen. These are normally do-it-yourself places where members volunteer their time along with paying dues. When the grass needs to be cut, it is a member cutting the grass, not an employee or a landscaping company. The Knickerbocker belonged to a group that is somewhere in between these two extremes. These clubs often navigate a foggy channel between controlling expenses and maintaining a certain aura of exclusiveness. Members may own an expensive boat, but they also have tuition bills and a mortgage.

For years I belonged to a working club that was about a two hour sail from Manhasset Bay. I only sailed to the Knickerbocker a handful of times, but the visits were always special to me. I would motor my old banged-up 1968 Bristol 24 into the mooring field, hail a launch, and be welcomed to the club. It did not matter that my boat cost less than a used car, while the surrounding boats were priced similar to a starter home. I may have not met the financial or social requirements to be a member of the club, but I was accepted as a guest providing I followed their rules (proper attire in the dining room, no tank tops on the premises, no spitting).I could hobnob with the doctors and architects in a mahogany trimmed bar until I turned back into a pumpkin on Monday morning. Reciprocity between clubs was the great leveling field, if only for a weekend.

When the recession hit, it was easy to question my club's chances of survival. The rundown building, the old boats, and even older membership all suggest that the best days were at least 40 years ago. The Knickerbocker did not seem to have these problems. The model ships and half hulls adorning the walls seemed to suggest an immunity to changing times. But beneath the mahogany and cherry wood paneling, the Knickerbocker was struggling with the same difficulties as every other club. Higher expenses coupled with an aging and declining membership were a disturbing trend that every club from Watch Hill to Throgs Neck faced. The prosperity of the last 25 years helped suppress the symptoms, but the current financial crisis brought them to the forefront.

At one time or another, I think we have all secretly admired yet resented people in better places. A neighbor or colleague may be someone we desperately want to be, yet we begrudge their good fortune. When bad times strike, their failure becomes some sort of "moral to the story". But I felt no sense of schadenfreude when I walked along the empty dock at the Knickerbocker this month. The club had survived two world wars, the Great Depression, and September 11, but now it was gone. I thought to myself that if it could happen to the Knickerbocker Yacht Club, then it could happen to any of us. I leaned against the peeling white handrail, looked out over the harbor, and wondered "who's next?"



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