07/10/2026
Most clubs have an inclusion policy somewhere, usually in a folder or on a page of the website that very few members have read, and almost none of the people it's meant to help will ever see it.
What they'll see is the dinghy park at 10:15 on their first Sunday. They'll notice whether anyone says hello, whether someone offers to help them get a heavy boat down the slipway, and whether the answer to "where can I leave this?" is a friendly suggestion or a sharp "that's Dave's spot." They'll notice whether the briefing assumes everyone already knows what the course board means, and whether anyone asks how they got on when they come ashore in last place, cold and slightly embarrassed.
Nobody joins a club because of its inclusion policy. They stay because of who said hello.
Genuine inclusion is rarely a grand gesture. It's the older member who holds the trolley for a new junior, the regular who explains the start sequence without making it sound like a test, and the helm at the front of the fleet who remembers the name of the person at the back. It's also noticing who arrives and then quietly disappears after a few weeks.
None of that means lowering standards. If somebody wants to sail independently, race, drive a powerboat or take responsibility for others, there should be clear standards and they should meet them. Inclusion isn't pretending competence doesn't matter; it's giving people a fair opportunity to become competent.
Most clubs rely on a small group doing an enormous amount of work, and established routines can become invisible barriers without anybody intending them to be. "That's how we've always done it" can describe something that works brilliantly, but it can also describe something nobody has questioned for twenty years.
Most of us like to think our club is welcoming. The honest test is what happens when the policy isn't in the room.
The last time someone new turned up at your club, who spoke to them first, and was it you?
