Nothing marks a person out faster at the marina than talking about the vessel. The posh do not discuss length. They discuss weather, and lunch, and a friend named Bunny who once ran aground somewhere amusing. The boat is simply there, gleaming, the way good manners are there — assumed, unremarked, and quietly ruinous to maintain.

To do it properly, one wears a great deal of navy and pretends the sun is an inconvenience. One offers a drink before a tour. One never, ever, asks another guest what theirs is worth. The teak is oiled by someone whose name you know; the horizon is admired by everyone; and the entire performance is designed to suggest that this — the spray, the gulls, the good company — is really rather ordinary for you.

The finest sailors of the set, we've observed, barely sail at all. They arrive, they anchor, they entertain, and they leave the actual seafaring to people who find it relaxing. Which is, when you think about it, the poshest move on the water.