I stopped for a moment to drink in the scene, and noticed something that made me
feel like the office loser who didn’t get the memo and showed up on Monday dressed
for casual Friday: No one, except me, was dressed like a proper sailor.
How many polyesters died to make that sailing shirt?
I was feeling pretty spiffy. Walking from my hotel to the Chicago lakefront on the morning of the race, I was decked out in my favorite yachting attire. My T-shirt, with its expanse of 100-percent cotton cloth festooned with boat name, sail number, sail plan, even a small SAILING logo, had been washed to that soft, slightly faded state that suggests the shirt and its wearer have sailed more than a few miles together. My shorts—classic khaki, of course—exuded character. The natural attractiveness of the sturdy cotton fabric, distressed by the rigors of both sailing and the washing machine, was enhanced by a slight fraying at the hems and pockets.
The lakefront, from the Chicago Yacht Club, past the Columbia Yacht Club to the long quay fronting the sprawling DuSable Harbor, was aswarm with sailors toting seabags and cartons of provisions, shooting the breeze with mates and otherwise enjoying pre-race rituals. I stopped for a moment to drink in the scene, and noticed something that made me feel like the office loser who didn’t get the memo and showed up on Monday dressed for casual Friday: No one, except me, was dressed like a proper sailor. Everyone was wearing clothing that looked like a chemical experiment gone bad, all slinky and shiny and fake looking.
Out on the dock, I found my own crew wearing this stuff. Where were the 100-percent cotton crew T-shirts I bought them? One of the guys said what the others were probably thinking, “Skipper, that’s a nice outfit you’re wearing, but you know, natural fibers are so 20th century.” Another—actually, my own son, who was draped in filmy shirt and shorts like everyone else—said, “Dad, maybe it’s time to get yourself some technical sailing gear”
That’s what they call this sort of raiment—technical clothing. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s an attempt to deny it’s related to a leisure suit even though it’s made of 100-percent polyester, the raw material of one of the most ridiculed garments ever created. Remember leisure suits? They were inflicted on American society in the 1970s, apparently as a way to use up an oversupply of something called doubleknit polyester, a soft, spongy fabric that otherwise had no reason to exist. They’re gone, except for remnants available on eBay, but they live on in infamy. Entire Web sites are devoted to making fun of leisure suits. Most of them use the word “tacky” liberally and often mention “lounge lizards,” the cocktail lounge prowlers who it seems had a particular affinity for leisure suits, especially those with really big, long-pointed collars. Polyester all but disappeared when the leisure suit craze died, but now it’s back—in sailing technical clothing.
“You don’t get it,” my son said, “it’s called technical clothing because it’s specialized for sailing.”
“It’s all about moisture management,” one of his crewmates added. “It transports moisture away from your skin and keeps you cool.”
“But technical T-shirts can keep you warm too as the first layer in a layered system of technical clothing,” another chimed in.
“They actually create a microclimate between the garment and your skin,” someone who had spent too much time reading Patagonia catalogs said.
While I was stifling a guffaw, another slinky-shirt wearer pointed out, “Not only that, some of these shirts have a 30 SPF rating, so they prevent sunburn. Plus, the fabric repels odors, so in the unlikely event you actually sweat while wearing technical clothing, you won’t smell.”
“What’s more,” a fellow following the conversation from a boat in the next slip weighed in, “they’re green.”
Figures, I thought. Wasn’t the most popular leisure suit color avocado green? “I don’t mean the color,” he hastened to add. “I mean they’re environmentally correct. The polyester in my shirt is made from recycled soda bottles.”
You’ve got to love it. A totally artificial material that is made from a chemical cocktail and looks like viscous plastic is good for the environment. I changed the subject before someone could observe that the natural cotton I was wearing is not green because growing and processing it leaves a big carbon footprint.
“If these technical outfits are so terrific for sailing,” I asked, “why don’t I see boat names on them? All I see are the manufacturers’ logos.”
“The boat names are there, they’re just small and discreet,” I was told. “I guess we like prominent makers’ logos because we’re proud of our technical gear.”
And maybe because it lets people know you paid $75 for a T-shirt, I thought.
I sailed the race proudly in my sailor’s cotton, but I’ll admit backsliding a bit later in the season, when I donned a highly technical polyester T-shirt. Which goes to show I’m not a Luddite. I can accept technical change. Besides, my son gave me the shirt, so I didn’t have much choice but to wear it. It turned out to be a fairly nice experience. The Under Armour logo got some admiring glances on the dock and it felt like fine weather in the microclimate between the shirt and my skin.
I’m drawing the line on technical sailing shorts though. Not only are they not sturdy and robust feeling like cotton shorts, they’re not even short. They’re styled like those droopy, voluminous bottoms NBA players wear, shorts that descend to the knees of seven-footers. I guess the idea is to consume as much polyester as possible. Well, I won’t be seen in them. You can take my word on that. I never wore a leisure suit either.
