Today marks the 50th year since the very first singlehanded transatlantic yacht race.

On the 11th June 1960, 4 people showed commitment to a bold plan by Francis Chichester and Blondie Hasler, by leaving their safe, peaceful moorings at Plymouth and heading out to sea, bound for New York, some 3,000 miles away.

That race was the Observer Singlehanded Trans-Atlantic Race, or OSTAR. It should have been simply STAR, but what these men were doing was such a feat that the Observer newspaper sponsored it, and filled its pages with news and commentary about it. It was 23 years before I was born, but it shows what a different place Britain must have been back then.

Since their creation, newspapers have needed circulation to exist. The more souls that read their print, the more they can charge to advertise therein. It’s the basic principle of publishing, and one that still holds true today, especially on the internet. It is therefore safe to say that the Observer took such an interest in this event in 1960 because they knew the public would want to read about it. They had a captivating tale of adventure to tell; heroes were being made on those very pages. Dads probably passed the broadsheet across the breakfast table to sons, some of which were perhaps inspired to equally great things as a direct result of that event. Who knows? It’s certain though, that this event was deemed worthy of coverage. It was Great British people on a Great British adventure!

A brief look at the news today saddens me a little. Fergie has been caught trying to make a few quid with a backhander, some union is jolly upset that they’re going to have to actually suffer a little along with the rest of us in this recession, and a bloke who’s good at kicking balls goes to meet some soldiers. All very interesting I’m sure, but none of the newspapers mentioned, cared for, or perhaps knew about the most important news of the day. They didn’t mention it because their readers have no interest in it, instead preferring to absorb confirmation that their pessimistic views of, well, everything, were right all along. They prefer to grumble (or ogle) at some celebrity’s latest anatomic enhancements or latest family planning saga, to feel offence on every page, and to indiscriminately lay blame to these horrors on which ever identifiable group happens to be at hand. It’s the hoodies, it’s the muslims, it’s the immigrants, it’s the terrorist paedophile tax dodging bloke down the road.

We, us, this country, have become so obsessed by this addiction to doom, that nobody reported that the common or garden Great Brits are still very much alive and kicking. This morning, a group of like minded people departed from Plymouth, once again bound for the East Coast of the United States of America. They’re not headed for New York this time, but Rhode Island. It’s the 2010 Jester Challenge, an event derived from the original race in 1960. It’s an armada of dreams collectively realised as each man departs safety and ventures forth to test their mettle against the awesome, politically incorrect, un-unionised, beautiful without being siliconised, force of mother nature.

Each of these men (sadly no women as far as I know), have been planning this voyage for years. They have prepared their own boats, and funded it themselves. There are a few competitors that one might describe as wealthy, but there are many more that aren’t. You see, you don’t need wealth to be a Great Brit. You don’t need to dodge taxes, rip people off, have a boob job, or even be good at televised karaoke in order to prevail as a successful addition to the populous. All you need is a goal, an aim, or a destination, and shear determination to realise it.

The men that set off today are my hero’s, they are everything I aspire to be. They are the matter that exists in the void created by the press, and people like them are the reason that Britain ain’t broken at all. We’ve just got a bit of a cold, that’s all.

• Previous Entry: Snow holing on Ben Nevis
• Next Entry: Guess where?