I don’t go to church. Or rather, I do not attend church on a regular basis, as a parishioner. In fact, while thinking about this column, I tried to count the number of times I had been into a church, as distinct from going to church. I got to about ten times. This count does not include four months in Italy after the 1982 Sardinia Cup, but that’s Italy; more like ten a week.
My parents were not religious. We had a Bible; but I cannot recall ever opening it. Maybe once or twice. More likely Mum used it as a reference book in her writing. My first real exposure to “a church” was in primary school. There was a church across the main drag from where we lived, St. John’s Church. It was a C of E, as the Anglican church was referred to. I might have been into the actual church, but I cannot remember – we’re talking about sixty years ago. My exposure was to the school they offered for, I guess first and second and possible other grades. I was there for first and second grade. The building was very Hogwarts. Tall interior, exposed beams inside the roof, stone, stained glass cathedral-like windows. The Full Monty. The desks were dark and full of the innocent graffiti of such beasts.
There was an inkwell into which one, in my day, placed one’s ink bottle. Writing was with open nib pens – not fountain pens nor owl quill pens. There were small, hollowed out culverts routed onto the desk either side of the inkwell, into which one was supposed to place one’s pen when not in use. The desk and chair were connected by a cast metal frame, making getting in and out a chore.
The other signature element was the school’s bell. Recovered somehow from the wreck of a sailing ship, the Dunbar, which augured into the rocks right under the Macquarie lighthouse, about two miles south of the actual less well-lit headland entrance to Sydney Harbor. Macquarie Light had a range of something like twenty miles. The one on South Head, sometimes seen in the coverage of the Hobart Race, had a range of maybe five miles. Navigators take note.
I think the next “inside a church” event was my brother’s wedding. The only thing I remember of that was my mother giggling as he knelt at the altar. He had his shoes resoled prior, and the shoemaker’s label was still stuck on the bottom of the soles. Well, she was like that. Irreverent from the start.
Next one: I was in the Sea Cadet Corp; like high school ROTC but Navy. I was asked to read “the Lesson” one year, in my early teens I guess, and it must’ve been in the chapel at the local Navy yard.
This next exposure does not count for being inside a church, but high school education at the time included a Religion class. This was reading the Bible. My mother, in her usual irreverent way, chuckled at this when it was discovered by her. Why? Well, after WWII there was an enormous number of refugees delivered to Sydney. Many of them Jewish. Between their arrival in the late 1940s and my high school time, late ‘60s, many had become prosperous and for some reason many had brought houses in the suburb of Vaucluse, where my high school was. Roughly half of the students at the school were Jewish.
I am not certain if the Religion classes encompassed the Jewish kids, but they did have a lot of their own religious activities and many holidays. I remember the principal putting his pre-PC foot in his mouth one day, saying to some kind of gathering that the school was much cleaner on Jewish holidays. His intent was of course that there were half the students on site, but folks got the wrong end of the hiking stick on this and he was pilloried for a few days.
Well, this is where visiting one church a day in Italy came along. I was in the closing stages of my Green Card application. Because I was going to Italy sailing, I had my file sent to the U.S. Consul in Italy. So, I was cooling my heels in Italy waiting for my interview. I was the boat captain for High Roler, and after the Sardinia Cup in Sept 1982 (the U.S. was second; I think Italy won) I had packed the boat up and put her on a ship back to California and was at a loose end.
At the time my brother worked for CBS News in New York. He was Deputy Foreign Editor and of course had contacts in CBS bureaus all over the world. When I told him I was going to Italy he gave me the right names in the Rome Bureau and them, my info. A couple weeks after dispatching the yacht, I rolled into the CBS office on Via Condotti, near the Spanish Steps. Funny how memories work, ain’t it?
I rolled up to the top floor, via the birdcage elevator, and walked into the office. The receptionist looked at me, one eye cocked up in that “Waddya want?” way we have all seen. They did not get many walk ins, I guess and asked if she could help me. “Hi,” says I, “I am Lou Cooper’s brother.” Well, you might have thought I said I was the Pope…more on him later. Great welcome, swept into the inner sanctum and warmly greeted by all.
An America Bureau Manager, American Senior Producer, several Italian techs, cameramen (emphasis men in those days) sound guys, reporters. The Senior Producer was a lovely guy right out of a “New York immigrant makes good” movie. Mario Biasetti. Not too tall, slightly spherical cross section, low-drag hairstyle, a 1500-watt smile all the time, and knew everyone it seemed. He was American, Brooklyn raised. Spoke several languages, Italian, French and a couple eastern European languages. He took me under his wing, as will be seen.
A little gossip and catch-up: How was Lou? What am I doing here? Where am I staying? The usual stuff. I had arrived just before lunchtime. By the time the greetings were over, my two sea bags were stowed, it was definitely time for lunch. I think the nipper was left in charge, and told where were going. All this was pre-mobile phones, and off we went. Arguably to the other important church in Italy, a restaurant. Around a couple of corners. Their local I guessed, since everyone was welcomed by name. I was introduced by name and association and treated by the hosts as one of the team, the family really. The rest of the story fades out here…Not before my accommodation was organized, again by close contact. A lovely pensione just around the corner from the bureau.
The following day, I wandered into the office to figure out my next moves. This was late September and my meeting at the Consul, in Naples, was in November, so I had some time available. Must’ve been a slow day for news in Rome, so chatting with the gang. Mario asked me what my plans were. Me: Look around Rome, Italy. Mario: Well, if you like I can put you on the film crew roster and you can come out with us on jobs. Cannot pay you, but you get fed and into all sorts of place others find it hard to do. Me: I’m in.
So began a round of travels around Rome in the CBS News van. One of the church portions of this adventure was an interview inside the Vatican, in the Pope’s Press Office. This was a year after Pope John Paul II the second had been shot, and everyone was watching his recovery like hawks.
And other meat and potatoes news runs. Politicians in the press room at Rome Airport, U.S. Consul, or an underling remarking on something, the head of Fiat on something else, and so on.
All the other church visits were in other parts of Italy while roaming around. Really, how can you go to Italy and not visit churches? Florence, Sienna, and so on…Then a long gap.
Then a wedding in the late 1980s. Inside for that one. Big Catholic church in Manhattan. My own wedding was on a beach in Michigan.
More or less fast forward to the present day. Very sadly, I have been into churches twice within a few weeks in the spring of 2024. They were both in memory of young’uns from two different high school sailing teams who lost their lives within weeks of each other. I wrote about one of them in “Standing Room Only” a couple months ago. One can add my time in the Prout School Chapel during this second tragedy. Sad does not begin to describe the feelings filling both churches. Tears and hugs, massive emotions, none of them good. Apart from the kids looking after each other.
And this brings me to my most recent entry into a church. This one was a lot happier, the other end of the spectrum in fact.
A marriage. And for me (not my marriage) it was a most gratifying reason to be there. Because I was of the bride’s party, I was seated on the port side pews, not something I even knew about. I was directed to this side.
And the bride? One of my former Prout School Sailing Team sailors. Really. I have had nice notes from the kids. Some call me up for coffee when they are in town. A framed picture of one successful team, an Apple photo book one year…But really, an invitation to sailor’s wedding is a first. Truly one of the most special times I have had. Anywhere.
Oh, this next sentence or two qualifies as Breaking News. The mail has just arrived. A note from Wilson Meunier Mott, he of the recent fundraising solo Opti sail from New London to Stonington. It is a thank you card (likely produced by NESS for the purpose with lovely personally handwritten entry from Wilson. “Can’t wait to sail with you next year.” It took me a while to figure out the meaning of this. He will be at Prout, so I have another Meunier Mott on the Sailing Team, and another entry to put in the lovely note from kids file. Alongside the wedding invitation. Full Jimmy Stewart, I reckon. ■
Australian born, Joe ‘Coop’ Cooper stayed in the U.S. after the 1980 America’s Cup where he was the boat captain and sailed as Grinder/Sewer-man on Australia. His whole career has focused on sailing, especially the short-handed aspects of it. He lives in Middletown, RI where he coaches, consults and writes on his blog, joecoopersailing.com, when not paying attention to his wife, dog and several, mainly small, boats.
