Most people don’t know this, but the Cooper-Young Yacht Club was born out of desperation, gumption, and one truly confusing weather event.

In the summer of 1878, Cooper-Young was struck by a catastrophic flood — despite being miles from any actual body of water. Some blamed a burst underground spring. Others swore it was the tears of every jilted poet in Midtown. Regardless, by August, the corner of Cooper and Young was under two feet of mysterious, possibly bourbon-infused water.

With no boats, no help from the city, and no common sense, the neighborhood formed the Cooper-Young Yacht Club — a loosely organized band of rebels, drifters, artists, and barbershop quartets turned rescue squads.

Legend tells of:

• Captain Junebug Delancey, who converted a clawfoot bathtub into a two-seat paddle vessel and rescued 14 raccoons, 3 musicians, and a very confused possum.
• Miss Loretta "the Oar" Mayfield, who used a broken church pew to ferry tamales from one porch to another, never losing a single chili.
• Old Man Haskell, who declared himself Commodore of the flood zone, floated down Young Avenue in an empty beer cooler, and issued handwritten “maritime citations” to anyone wearing socks with sandals.
• And then there was Bird — tall, wiry, and silent. With his staff in one hand and a look of cosmic disapproval in the other, he didn’t speak, didn’t rush, and didn’t get wet. He calmly retrieved a vinyl copy of Dusty in Memphis, three unread library books, and the neighborhood’s only dry pack of American Spirits — all while staring directly into the horizon like he knew something we didn’t. Then he disappeared behind a laundromat and was never questioned again.

By the time the water mysteriously evaporated three days later (some say it was divine intervention, others blame an aggressive sunburn), a legend had been born.

Since that day, the Cooper-Young Yacht Club has stood as a proud reminder that you don’t need water to sail, and you don’t need permission to organize. All you need is a neighborhood full of stubborn legends-in-the-making — and maybe a couple of oars.

Est. 1878. Proudly Landlocked. Forever Unmoored.