Until the 1960s, community rowing and sailing groups were popular in the United Kingdom, with regular rowing and sailing regattas using locally designed craft. With the advent of fiberglass production boats, this practice gradually ceased, as regattas came to be events between production boats, and the demand for local construction declined.
Over the past couple of decades, some parts of the United Kingdom are seeing a revival of competitive rowing in local wooden boats. In southwest England, pilot gig racing is popular, sometimes drawing dozens of boats and thousands of spectators. In Shetland and West Wales, interest in rowing is also increasing. In these areas, the boats are generally built by professional boatbuilders, creating a steep initial cost for anyone who wants to get into rowing.
Kathy Mansfield
Iain Oughted designed the St. Ayles Skiff as a competition rowboat that could be built and then campaigned by Scottish communities under the umbrella of the Scottish Coastal Rowing Project.
The Scottish Fisheries Museum of Anstruther, Scotland, started the Scottish Coastal Rowing Project in an effort to provide a way for people to get involved in rowing through the use of inexpensive community-built and community-owned boats. They envisioned a one-design kit boat to be built by small groups of people who could race against other community groups.
The museum commissioned Iain Oughtred to develop a design that would be reasonably inexpensive (about £3,000, or US$3,900). The boat would be fast, safe, of simple construction, and able to be powered by a small crew. The St. Ayles Skiff is the result of that commission. Drawing on the Fair Isle Skiff as inspiration for his design, Oughtred chose the name St. Ayles, from the name of the chapel in which the Scottish Fisheries Museum is now located.
The Scottish Coastal Rowing Project was formed in 2010 to oversee the racing of these community boats. According to their website, the St. Ayles Skiff “provides a desired mix of tradition, seaworthiness, speed, and ease of build. These boats take a crew of five—four rowing, and a coxswain to steer and coach the crew during racing and training.” The group asked Alec Jordan of Jordan Boats in Fife, Scotland, to develop a reasonably priced plywood kit from Oughtred’s plans.
This new community rowing initiative has caught fire faster than a burning Christmas tree. As of summer 2011, when this article was written, 18 boats had been launched, with 20 more in mid-build, and more than a dozen other communities are getting started in the process, including groups from Ireland and The Netherlands. Construction also started on five of these boats at Maine high schools over the 2010–11 school year; they are part of a parallel U.S. program, founded by WoodenBoat Publications, called the Boatbuilding and Rowing Challenge, or BARC.
The SCRP website has extensive building instructions, measurement rules, tips on rowing, and fundraising ideas. It also offers links to many other community builds, with blogs and photographs of their experiences—an inspiring resource for any group interested in taking on a St. Ayles Skiff. In the United States, the BARC website provides a similar service. And a quick search of Scottish coastal rowing on YouTube will bring up dozens of launching videos of the St. Ayles Skiffs.
Designing the St. Ayles Skiff
With a length of 22′ and a beam under 6′, the St. Ayles Skiff is long, lean, and fast. Like nearly all of Iain Oughtred’s designs, the curve of the stem and sweep of the sheer draw and hold your eye. This double-ender is sleek, with a finer bow than stern, and both ends flowing to flatter floors as one moves toward amidships. The four fixed thwarts are spaced evenly along the hull, with stretchers for each rower’s feet lying under the next seat. A displacement of only 330 lbs makes it possible for a crew of five to carry the skiff from trailer to water and back again, though a couple of extra hands in this chore will be very welcome.
The coxswain sits high in the stern, as far aft as possible. The tiller would impale him were it aligned with the centerline, so Oughtred’s plans call for it to be offset to starboard, such that when the rudder is amidships, the tiller is parallel to and just above the starboard gunwale. He also suggests a yoke and lines as an alternative steering method. Some boats choose a push-pull tiller as a third option.
Kathy Mansfield
WoodenBoat Publications took inspiration from the Scottish Coastal Rowing Project, establishing a sister program, the Boatbuilding and Rowing Challenge, in the United States. Five boats have been built or are nearing completion at this writing. Eighteen have been launched in Europe, with 20 more in mid-build. Here, a boat competes at Portsoy, Scotland, in 2010.
Like all of his plans, Oughtred’s construction drawing for the skiff is clear, complete, and an artwork in itself. He captured all of the necessary information on a single sheet, providing dimensions in both inches and millimeters, and all inscribed in his beautiful calligraphy.
The kit pieces are cut from five sheets of plywood, one sheet of 3⁄48″ for the stems and frames, and four sheets of 3⁄8″ for the planking. The kit also contains five sheets of MDF cut into pieces for the strongback and molds. A perusal of the existing boats will show much variation in stemheads. While the design calls for them to be finished flat a few inches above the sheerline, many groups have left them longer to accentuate the profile curve of the bow and stern, and some have sculpted them.
Each of the four rowers holds one oar. The plans call for 12′ oars, made of fir or soft pine, with the loom to be squared off where the leather would go. A piece of 1⁄2″ larch is added to two sides of this squared-off area to provide additional protection. The oars rest on the gunwale between a tholepin and a wooden kabe—a hardwood peg that bears the thrust. Organizers felt that prohibiting the use of metal oarlocks would help keep the costs of the boats down. The SCRP website, under the “Oars” tab, mentions that oars can vary in length from 11′ to 15′. Several groups have had difficulty with oars hitting the backs of the rowers immediately astern. Varying the oar lengths, or staggering the rowers from side to side, helps rectify this situation.
While the kits are very popular and groups seem to be successful in finding both the funding and volunteers to build them, there are some who would like to build from the plans alone. As of this writing, I understand lines plans and a construction manual is in the works.
Rowing a student-built skiff
I had the opportunity to row a skiff built by students at Sumner High School in Sullivan, Maine. They had built this boat under the instruction of John Wells and Steve Belyea as part of the BARC program. We rowed the skiff, named TIGER PRIDE, in Rockland Harbor during last summer’s Maine Boats, Homes, and Harbors Show.
The skiff was very easy to launch, with a dozen people carrying it to the water. The boat offered plenty of room and stability for our crew to move about and get situated before setting out. It takes a bit of thought to maneuver the 12′ oars from their resting positions on the thwarts to their working positions in the tholepins without hitting any crew members.
Kathy Mansfield
The St. Ayles Skiff carries a standard crew of four rowers—each working a single oar—and a coxswain. The design name is from the former chapel that now forms the entrance to the Scottish Fisheries Museum, which is headquarters to the Scottish Coastal Rowing Project.
The building crew strayed from Oughtred’s plans both in their tiller and their oarlocks. They made a tiller that was bent to starboard rather than just a straight tiller with a starboard cant. Instead of wooden kabes, the builders made tholepins out of long carriage bolts, covering them with bushings and bolting them through the rails.
With four of us rowing, new to each other and some new to the boat, our coxswain got us into rowing cadence within a few dozen strokes. Once we worked in rhythm, the boat flew through the water, cutting barely a wake, covering ground quickly. We exerted very little effort to maintain speed. I was surprised at how easy it was to jump into this boat and just go.
The coxswain led us through stopping and turning the boat several times. The latter was difficult at first, but our performance improved with practice. If one side just stopped rowing for a stroke or two while the other side kept on, the boat turned in a smooth circle. With one side rowing back, and the other rowing forward, we could spin the boat nearly in its own length.
Unlike a rowing shell, which demands precision movements and hours of practice toward perfection, this boat welcomed the novice, with patience to shake off the mistakes of the learner. When we got it right, we were immediately rewarded with speed. Even when we were out of rhythm, the boat still responded well. It was easy to imagine how well this boat would go with a practiced crew.
In Scotland, dozens of community groups including people of all ages are building and racing these skiffs. WoodenBoat has inspired a few local high schools to start their own racing season here. I hope these boats catch on and spread; they are an easy and elegant way for just about anyone to get out on the water and row for fun.
A skiff is a small, lightweight boat that can be rowed, sailed, or powered with an outboard motor. They are great for fishing or recreational cruising along shallow waters. Small Boats has featured several skiffs designed by Iain Oughtred. Here are a few we think you will enjoy.
When I wrote in this space last month about “The Joy of a Free Boat” I had not anticipated hearing from several readers with similar tales of good fortune. Some anecdotes, in particular, stood out:
Regular contributors Kent and Audrey Lewis of Smithfield, Virginia, emailed saying their “latest free boat is a 1930s Bahamas Dinghy, a little 10-footer.” I asked them about that word, “latest.”
Kent wrote back: “We currently have several ‘free’ boats. It started in 1994 when Audrey’s dad began slowly unloading three fiberglass Sunfishes, an O’Day Day Sailer II, a Grumman 17, and a Drascombe Lugger. Then, in 2013, we were offered another Sunfish—the 13th of the wooden versions—which was in New York. There was a condition—we had to pick it up. So, I drove from Navarre, Florida, to Grand Island, New York, to get it.
Kent Lewis
Audrey takes time out to sit in the Bahamas Dinghy that was given to her and Kent for restoration. In the 1950s the dinghy had been sheathed with fiberglass cloth. Far from damaging the hull, Kent believes it may have protected it while it was in storage for 40 years.
“Another Sunfish came our way, from Nashville, North Carolina. It was in an antiques shop, and the owners were trying to sell it for $50 as a bar. When they heard we could find all the rigging, a sail, rudder and daggerboard, and get the boat sailing again, they gave it to us. We fixed it up and passed it on to a friend in Port Townsend, Washington. That little boat is well traveled—from Connecticut to North Carolina to Florida to Washington.”
There have been other boats along the way, said Kent, of which the Bahamas Dinghy is, indeed, the latest. “When we were offered it, it had been in storage for more than 40 years. We’ve been slowly restoring it since November 2023. It was beautifully built of fine Caribbean woods with copper rivets. The planks were a little dry and needed caulking, but she should get her keel wet again this year, and then we’ll continue working on the rig.”
Kent Lewis
The newly-painted Bahamas Dinghy should be ready for relaunching before the end of the year.
Shortly after I heard from Kent and Audrey, Jim Black wrote from Mechanicsville, Virginia, to tell me about the Snipe that was given to him in the early 2000s by the father of a neighbor. “He was moving out of his house in northern Virginia,” Jim wrote, “and the boat was going to the dump if no one took it. My neighbor knew I was a sailor and a woodworker, so he asked if I wanted it. I’m always a sucker for a project, and for some reason the pictures didn’t scare me off.”
Built in 1939 in Long Beach, California, by a group of Douglas Aircraft employees in their office hours, the Snipe was owned and raced in Galveston, Texas, in the late 1940s. In the late 1960s until the early 1980s, it had one owner who took it with him when he relocated first from Texas to Chicago, then to Washington State, and finally to Washington, D.C.
C.F.E. Roper
When Jim Black saw this and other pictures of the Snipe, he could see that it was in poor condition, but he wasn’t put off. Instead, he borrowed a roadworthy trailer and brought the boat home.
Even before Jim got the boat home and was able to take a close look at it, he knew it needed a lot of work. “The deck was too far gone to save, although I did retain two original deckbeams. The hull had kept its shape, but all the 300-plus screws were rusted out to varying degrees and there was a lot of iron sickness around each one. I filled each hole with 1⁄4″ fiberglass rod, drilled out to 3⁄8″ to get to good wood; rebuilt and refastened each frame; reamed out the original caulking and filled the grooves with epoxy; ’glassed the exterior and sealed the interior with epoxy…” The restoration took Jim about four years of intermittent work. And the cost? He’s not sure, but he managed it, he said, “on a limited budget.”
Now, in 2025, with the boat just three years shy of its 90th anniversary, Jim has decided the time has come to pass it along. “This time, it’s going to a friend who’s a new sailor but who appreciates nice old boats. I’m hoping she and her kids will have a wonderful time with it, and I’ll be around for maintenance tips and maybe even an occasional sail.”
Jim Black
After years of hard work, the Snipe was as new. Subsequently, Jim sailed her for over 20 years, but this year passed her along to a new owner.
Two things struck me in these tales: first, free boats continue to be passed on, for free, from owner to owner. And second, it seems to me that recipients know what they’re getting into: they appreciate that they are getting something for free, but they also know that ultimately, there will be a cost—time, money, blood, sweat, and tears.
Which, indeed, is what appealed to me about the final anecdote that landed in my inbox this past month.
From the mountains of Western Virginia, Doug wrote, “I live in a secluded cabin in Western Viriginia, and my property is fairly steep. On a friend’s suggestion, I bought a used ride-on mower. All went well until I tried to ride the mower across the slope. It wanted to tip over, and the tires came off the rims. I dragged it back to the top of the hill and started repairing the flat tires. A neighbor drove by. He offered to buy the mower, and threw in a vintage 3-hp Johnson outboard. I accepted.
“I have several wooden canoes, but the motor wasn’t going to work on any of those. So, I bought a 1949 Penn Yan Trailboat on Facebook Marketplace. It was only 300 miles away. Now I had a boat for my motor. In time, though, I realized the motor wasn’t quite big enough, so I searched for and found a larger, vintage Johnson outboard. Then I needed to build a garage to store the boat and the trailer. And, of course, in the mountains of Western Virginia there’s no place nearby to launch the boat, so now… Now, I’m looking for an affordable cabin on a lake, where I can launch my vintage boat with its vintage motor.”
As another reader put it: “You wouldn’t get into it if you knew where it was going to lead.” But I believe we’d rather not know; that maybe the not-knowing is some of the appeal, and that certainly the journey that leads from a free boat (or outboard) to a beauty on the water is almost as important as the boat itself.
It was a long path to building my first boat. I was a sailor and hobby woodworker, but the two pastimes didn’t begin to merge until my wedding. Our wedding venue was at a small lake, and we thought it would be fun to row to and from the ceremony in a small boat. A friend offered his Shellback Dinghy, and I was hooked by the idea that perhaps I could build my own boat. I spent the next couple of years daydreaming and even took some classes at WoodenBoat School in Brooklin, Maine, until at last I decided it was time to build my first wooden boat. I realized that traditional plank-on-frame construction might be more than I wanted to tackle, and while I thought strip-built boats were graceful, I concluded that stitch-and-glue construction would provide both the challenge and the simplicity I wanted. Further research led me to Sam Devlin’s Guppy 9 as the perfect first boat for me.
The Guppy 9 design
Sam Devlin of Devlin Designing Boat Builders offers a variety of small and not-so-small boat designs, all stitch-and-glue, and all designed with the amateur builder in mind. The Guppy is a small boat that can be rowed, motored, or sailed. Its length overall is 9′ 1″, beam is 4′ 4″, and dry weight is 80 lbs, which makes it easy to transport in the bed of a truck, on a small trailer, or even on a car’s roof rack. Draft is 6″, allowing the boat to be rowed or motored in very shallow water. With the daggerboard down, draft increases to 32″. Under power or oar, it can comfortably carry two or three people, making it an ideal tender. Under sail, it can accommodate one or two people, and it’s a fun sailboat in protected waters. The plans offer a choice of either traditional sprit or modern windsurfer rig.
Photographs by the author
With the stitch-and-glue method of construction, the boat’s full-sized form is quickly revealed. Here, with only the bottom panels and one side panel stitched in place, the hull’s moderate V-bottom and gently curving topsides can already be appreciated. The crosspiece, attached to a stitch in the keel by a wire, keeps the bottom panels from folding up.
The Guppy is designed to be built by amateur woodworkers with limited experience and tools. Materials are typically available locally or through mail order, and include marine-grade plywood, easily sourced local hardwood, epoxy, and fiberglass. I especially enjoyed working with a local sawyer for the hardwood, and my build turned into quite the quilt work with white oak for the keel and stem; black walnut for the rail, breasthook, and quarter knees; sassafras and ash for the tiller; tulip poplar for the spars; and black locust for the home-made cleats. Minimal lofting or layout is required, and all the hull’s parts can be cut directly from three 4×8 plywood panels—the hull requires two sheets of 6mm (1⁄4″), while the transom and bulkheads require one sheet of 12mm (1⁄2″) plywood. I was able to order 4×10 sheets for the 6mm (1⁄4″) hull, which avoided the need for scarfing to get the required length. A good tape measure and batten are needed for layout. I also found a drywall square—a 48″ rule with a right-angle arm—very helpful. Using the plywood’s factory edge as the base, I could quickly lay out the stations, plot the heights, and bend a batten to create a fair curve. Stitch-and-glue construction does not require a great deal of advanced skills or traditional joinery, and a boat this size does not need a precise construction cradle. However, a simple strongback with some brackets is needed as construction progresses. Maintaining a work height that is comfortable for the builder is also important, so if possible, the project should be set up so the work height can be adjusted depending on the stage of construction. The build also involves the application of fiberglass and epoxy, but this is a skill that can be quickly learned, and the Guppy is a great place to start.
Building the Guppy 9
Devlin’s construction plans for the Guppy 9 include three pages of detailed drawings and materials list, as well as a construction manual on Devlin’s general stitch-and-glue method. I found the manual well written and easy to understand. It covered everything from scarfing plywood panels to detailed instructions on stitch-and-glue construction to recommendations for paint and varnish. I was able to lay out, cut, stitch, and glue the hull panels with few issues, and it was exciting when the hull’s shape first revealed itself. It should be remembered that the manual is written for a range of Devlin’s designs, including much larger boats, and builders do need to be careful about size and scale. For example, in larger boats, Devlin calls for 24-oz fiberglass tape for joints; this is much too heavy for a 9′ dinghy (I learned the hard way).
The transom cutout accommodates both a tiller and an outboard motor. The plywood transom has a doubler glued in place to reinforce the connection with the outboard’s mount.
The construction drawings include a good deal of detail. I had to study them closely to get my bearings but eventually found they contained all the dimensions I needed. All of the plywood pieces are presented as measured drawings. Probably the most challenging portion of the build was constructing the rudder and daggerboard—creating the foil shapes was a new skill for me, but very rewarding once I figured it out.
Two sheets of the drawings cover the optional sprit or windsurfer sailing rigs. I chose the sprit rig, and again, enjoyed the process of building the spars and learning about this traditional rig. The drawings do provide spar dimensions, but builders with no prior experience will need to find additional resources on how to build spars. The sawyer and I decided that tulip poplar would make fine spars for such a small boat. I researched and found its mechanical properties were more than adequate and comparable to other wood species typically used to make spars. Again, for me, this was an opportunity to learn new skills. I also considered making my own sail but decided it was a skill I could come back to. Instead, I ordered a sail kit from Sailrite and hired a sailmaker to complete it.
The finished boat
The interior layout of the Guppy includes a stern thwart and a central bench that stretches from the bow to the after edge of the offset daggerboard trunk. The bench is ideal for one person when rowing or controlling the tiller (with extension) of an outboard motor, while the thwart is perfect for one or two passengers. When sailing, the comfortable place to sit is in the bottom of the boat. When singlehanding, I sit astern of the daggerboard trunk either leaning on the bench or against the side of the hull, depending on the wind strength. With a second person on board, the helmsperson can sit farther aft, while the passenger sits across from them, also behind the bench. Under both seats are compartments that Devlin recommends filling with rigid-foam flotation.
The Guppy 9 can be rigged with either a windsurfer-style sail or a spritsail. I chose the latter, which can be rigged with or without the boom; here the sprit boom is behind the sail and crosses the mast just above the sprit that holds the sail’s peak
The plans call for limber holes to drain both compartments, but after a day of using the boat I realized that it would be challenging to keep the areas dry and clean. I also worried that the foam would trap moisture within the compartments and decided, instead, to add access hatches and install flotation bags in both. This arrangement allows for natural airflow and gives me greater access for cleaning. In the aft section of the bench, there is a storage compartment with hinged-top access, in which I store a small kayak anchor, my lunch, and a water bottle. To starboard, but still beneath the hinged-top, is the daggerboard trunk.
At roughly 80 lbs, the Guppy 9 is relatively light, and two people can load it into a truck bed. When I built my boat, I did not have a truck, but found an old jet-ski trailer and modified its bunk boards to fit the Guppy. However, because it was designed for the weight of a jet ski, the trailer was too stiff for my little boat even after I removed all but the longest leaf spring. I would recommend a lightweight trailer to simplify transportation and launching.
Georgia Richardson
The central seat is well positioned for rowing, and with only one person on board the trim is perfect, with the bottom of the transom just touching the water. Even with a passenger sitting on the after thwart the boat still rows well.
The Guppy 9 was designed to be an all-around boat, and it performs well in all its roles. It rows well and tracks extremely well. The plans call for 7′ 6″ oars, but even with my 6′ 4″ oars, it is nimble in tight spots. Under power or sail, the oars store nicely in the bottom of the boat tucked into either side of the bench. With a five-speed 30-lb-thrust electric trolling motor, it moves along smartly. I have never checked the speed with GPS, but at Speed 5 water will rush up and overflow the daggerboard trunk. The first time this happens it is disconcerting, but the problem is easily solved with a simple plug that fits the top of the trunk and is held down by the bench lid.
Under sail, the boat is a lot of fun. It’s not a Laser and won’t point high, but it is responsive in light wind. The sprit rig is simple to set and furl. When furled, a brail line keeps the sprit against the mast; to set the sail, you simply loose the brail line and if necessary adjust the snotter. The center of effort is relatively low, so stability is good and, if a puff of wind surprises you, it likely won’t cause excessive heel. The Guppy’s spritsail can be rigged either with a sprit boom or boomless and it performs well in either setup. Although I do have reef point sewn into the sail, the rig is not designed to be reefed, but it can be reduced in size by removing the sprit. This method, called scandalizing, drops the peak of the sail and effectively turns the four-sided sail into a three-sided sail—it is not the most efficient arrangement but will get you and your Guppy out of trouble. At only 9′ in length, the Guppy is intended for protected waters and moderate winds. If the wind builds to anything over 12 knots, I simply haul in the brail line, furl the sail, and get out the oars.
Arne Croell
Even in light airs, the Guppy makes headway. If the wind dies completely, sailing without the boom means the sail and sprit can be quickly furled into the mast with the brail line and then you can row home.
The Guppy 9 is an ideal first boat to build. The construction method should be approachable for just about any amateur builder, and for a complete beginner it provides plenty of opportunities to learn new skills. It may not win any high-performance dinghy races, but it is drier than, say, a Laser or Sunfish, is certainly more versatile, and can double as a useful tender. Building and then sailing my own wooden boat was a great experience, and the Guppy is a boat to make a first-time builder proud.
Cameron Handyside is a retired engineer. He lives with his wife, Georgia, on a saltwater creek near the Pamlico Sound in North Carolina where he enjoys sailing, paddling, and woodworking…as time and weather allow. Cameron financed the building of his Guppy 9 thanks to a modest inheritance from his grandmother, Georgia Macy. “She was,” he says, “deathly afraid of the water, but she financed the boat. I thought it was only fitting to name it, GEORGIA MACY, in her honor.”
Plans for the Devlin-designed Guppy are available from Devlin Designing Boat Builders, $65 for downloadable PDFs, $95 plus shipping for printed plans. All construction plans are in Imperial measurements.
Is there a boat you’d like to know more about? Have you built one that you think other Small Boats readers would enjoy? Please email us your suggestions.
Back in 1984, when I was curator of Mystic Seaport, John Gardner and his Small Craft program were part of my department. Each year we selected a winter project that could become the focus of the following June’s “Small Craft Workshop.” That year John wanted to focus on peapods, Maine’s signature small workboat. There were several examples in the Seaport collection, both working and recreational. Richard Rathburn, writing in the 1880 Fish Commission survey of American working watercraft, stated that the “double-ender or peapod” had been introduced only recently to Penobscot Bay when the demand for lobsters to supply Maine’s 23 canneries, as well as for live lobsters for local consumption, made inshore fishing profitable. The Fox Islands in Penobscot Bay are a complex of inlets, ledges, and small islands, an area well suited to lobstering by hand, and as a working type, the peapods grew quickly in popularity. After the introduction of powered boats and the discovery of Penobscot Bay by “rusticators,” builders modified the peapods for recreation. Typically smaller, at under 14′ in length, recreational peapods tended to have more seats, more rocker in the keel, and more curve in the sheer. They were of lighter construction and sometimes had a centerboard for sailing.
John Gardner had designed several peapods, writing about them as boats well suited for amateur construction, and now he proposed donating the one that he owned to the museum for measuring, creating plans, and building a reproduction. He had bought his peapod around 1966 for about $100 from Captain Allison Ames of Camden, Maine, who had, in turn, bought the ’pod from a local fisherman. She had been built in about 1929 by Alton Whitmore, originally of North Haven, the northernmost of the Fox Islands, after he’d moved his shop from there to Rockport, Maine. Ames told John that one of the peapod’s earlier owners had “claimed she didn’t blow around and held steadier in a wind than any boat he’d ever used.” But by the mid-1960s, the boat was in rough shape. John fixed her up and took her with him when he went to work for Mystic Seaport Museum in 1969.
Photographs by David Cockey
The Apprenticeshop peapod was built using Whitmore’s construction technique. First the backbone was set up, next the sheerstrakes were fitted and spread by cross spalls, and then the frames, which had already been bent to shape, were installed. At that point, the structure was ready for the inwales and thwarts to be fitted. The planking would come after.
In a National Fisherman article, subsequently republished in his 1993 book, Classic Small Craft You Can Build, John wrote of the carvel-planked 14′ 3″ boat that it had “a low flat sheer and a heavy, slightly rockered plank keel. Her wide, rather flat floors amidships give her marked initial stability, enough so that you can actually walk around in her without causing excessive heel. This feature was important for hauling pots over the side and makes for comfort in a rowboat used for fishing, transportation, and as a large tender. Capable of carrying a big load, this pod rows easily even when heavily weighed down. As an all-purpose rowboat for the open, windswept coast, a pod of this sort can hardly be excelled.”
John’s offer to donate his boat to the museum was typically generous, and there was no question that a reproduction would be an excellent addition to the Seaport’s on-water fleet. So, we went ahead with the project and, together with his assistant, Bill Mills, John built the reproduction.
Construction of the Whitmore peapod
John and Bill’s 1984 reproduction of the Whitmore peapod was built over molds as they endeavored to accurately reproduce the original’s shape. But in 2024, when David Cockey—a board member at The Apprenticeshop of Rockland, Maine—and I suggested that a Whitmore peapod would make an interesting construction project for the shop, students and staff researched and decided to follow the much simpler approach that Whitmore himself had used. In his article for National Fisherman John described Whitmore’s building process thus: Once the backbone is set up, sheerstrakes are fitted with cross spalls to hold them apart. Pre-bent ribs are then installed, followed by the interior structure: the inwales and thwarts. With the ribs and interior in place, the boat is stable enough to be turned upside down to be planked. When The Apprenticeshop builders constructed their peapod using this method, Wade Smith—John’s successor as director of the John Gardner Boat Shop at Mystic Seaport Museum—figured the finished boat to be 1⁄4″ off the lofted shape, a discrepancy that would be undetectable in use.
After the interior structure was complete, the peapod’s framework was carefully turned over and then planked up.
Scantlings of the Whitmore peapod are pretty standard, although as a 14-footer the boat is at the smaller end of the typical working-peapod range. The keel is a heavy oak plank steamed and sprung for some rocker. The planking is 1⁄2″ cedar. The oak frames are flat (5⁄8″ × 1 1⁄8″), butted at the keel, and spaced 9″. Between the full frames, 2 1⁄2″-wide half-timbers tie the boat together.
Rowing the peapod
Despite John Gardner’s Whitmore peapod reproduction being on the Mystic Seaport waterfront for some years, I never made the time to row it. So, I wanted to try out the new boat built at The Apprenticeshop. I had a brief chance to do so before it was delivered to its new owner’s summer house on Fox Islands Thorofare.
The most significant visual difference between traditional working peapods and later recreational versions is in the positioning of the thwarts. A recreational peapod will typically have its thwarts spaced for passengers or to be suitable for double rowing, but a working peapod had its thwarts spaced so that lobster traps could be carried between them, with the rowing thwart well forward of amidships and its associated oarlock pads set just ahead of amidships. This is how the Whitmore peapod is laid out. Thanks to this placement there is a good deal of open space aft, but when rowing light the boat trims bow down.
The traditional working peapod carried its rowing thwart forward of amidships to leave plenty of room to accommodate several lobster traps.
For the trial, I filled a 5-gallon water jug, which weighs more than 40 lbs, and set it in the stern to level-out the boat. A passenger or some soaked traps would have the same effect, as does standing abaft the thwart and rowing while facing forward.
Stepping into the Whitmore, I felt the support and inherent stability offered by the hard bilge. Kneeling on the rail left several inches of freeboard, and as John Gardner observed, I could walk around easily. Indeed, the working thwart spacing made moving around a pleasure. However, there are no floorboards, so rowing barefoot or in light sneakers could be uncomfortable.
Once I was settled on board, I tried rowing in the usual style—seated facing aft. I tried two different lengths of oars: 8- and 9-footers. The nines were too long, and while the eights worked fine, another 6″ in length would have been better. I began rowing with the ballast amidships. The boat was predictably high in the stern, and in a fairly light breeze, I had to work to keep her on a straight line unless the wind was dead ahead. I then moved the ballast. As soon as I weighted the stern she ran straight, while the rocker in the keel allowed me to spin with just a few strokes.
Built in the traditional manner, the replica Whitmore peapod has no floorboards. The half-timbers between the full frames go across the keel plank and tie the hull together.
I was favorably surprised when I stood up and tried facing forward to push-row. I used oarlocks lifted on 6″ extensions made of rod and pipe. The thwart spacing allowed me to stand abaft the main thwart but with one leg forward and one aft, and to then push on the oars using my full body weight. When I was seated, I could row at a sustained speed of around 3 1⁄2 knots; pushing I could easily do 3 knots. When I was pushing, the 8′ oars were workable, but shorter ones might have been better. Nevertheless, it was easy to see that I might comfortably cover lengthy distances when pushing, working through passages between rocks and ledges—ideal for a working lobsterman approaching his traps in shallowing water.
The new owner will use the Apprenticeshop’s Whitmore peapod for some recreational rowing and ferrying in Fox Islands Thorofare, between the islands of North Haven and Vinalhaven, waters that were once extensively lobstered by hand and under oar. As befits a boat of traditional construction, it will be kept in the water. If a prospective builder wanted to optimize the boat for seated rowing, the rowing thwart could be shifted to amidships; but if the extra space in the stern of the boat is appealing, utilizing shifting ballast, as I did, works well. With the plank keel, it would be easy to add a centerboard trunk and a sailing rig; one could also leave it without a centerboard and limit one’s sailing to reaches and runs while steering with an oar.
The combination of the peapod’s inherent stability and the positioning of the oarlock sockets makes the boat ideal for rowing while standing up and facing forward. Indeed, I’ve not been in any boat in the U.S. that has performed better when I’ve used that technique. The method, which utilizes oarlock extensions, would have been particularly useful when working traps in narrow rocky passages.
In comparison to the Whitmore peapod, there is no doubt that many modern peapod designs for cold-molding, strip-planking, or glued-plywood lapstrake are lighter, simpler to build, and easier to handle on and off trailers, but they are not significantly faster, nor do they offer the steadiness to accommodate forward-facing rowing, so useful when pushing up narrow creeks and between rocky ledges. Traditional carvel construction of the Whitmore peapod does require some previous experience, but it should be within the reach of a competent amateur boatbuilder, and its size is such that it could be built in a decent-sized garage or small barn. And, if you are looking for a peapod with charm, practicality, and history, then Whitmore’s would be the one to choose.
Ben Fuller, curator emeritus of the Penobscot Marine Museum in Searsport, Maine, has been messing about in small boats for a very long time. He is owned by a dozen or more boats: kayaks, canoes, a skiff, a ducker, and a sail-and-oar boat.
Whitmore Peapod Particulars
LOA: 14′ 3″
Beam: 4′ 2″
Plans for the Whitmore Peapod are available from Mystic Seaport Museum, price $75 plus shipping. They can also be found in John Gardner’s Classic Small Craft You Can Build, now out of print, but used copies are available from online vendorsand secondhand booksellers.
New Whitmore peapods can be commissioned from The Apprenticeshop, and there is a possibility of CNC molds for strip-planked, cold-molded, or glued-plywood lapstrake from Chase Small Craft; (207) 602-9587.
For a detailed record of the building process of the Whitmore peapod as followed by The Apprenticeshop, see “Boatbuilding Without Molds” by Wade Smith in WoodenBoat No. 293.
Is there a boat you’d like to know more about? Have you built one that you think other Small Boats readers would enjoy? Please email us your suggestions.
It was one of those rare and perfect July mornings on Port Townsend Bay, Washington, when the waters are so calm you can almost see them ripple when the clocktower strikes its bell. The sun was cresting over the Cascades and glinting golden on the inlet, which was just waking up to the distant sound of moaning outboards, a faint smell of gasoline on the breeze. I had stumbled down to the dock with tired eyes, having stayed up all night packing essentials into drybags, which I now stuffed into every available nook in SOLSTICE, my 17′ Swampscott Dory. She was low in the water when I topped it all off with the bundled sail and mast, and climbed aboard to sit on the thwart and slip the oarlocks into the sockets. The clack of brass on brass brought the gulls to attention; they eyed me sharply and gossiped as I passed them by.
The oars felt good in my hands as I rowed out of the mouth of Boat Haven Marina, the brick buildings of Port Townsend glowing warmly in the early light. I was momentarily mesmerized by the peace, but a glance over my shoulder reminded me of what lay ahead—the channel of the Admiralty Inlet with its busy shipping lanes. To the commercial freighters my little dory wouldn’t be so much as a flea—to the watchful eyes on the bridge decks she might appear like a grain of rice in a big pot of blue soup.
Photographs by the author
On the morning of my departure, SOLSTICE was all packed up for the month-long journey. By the time I had everything on board, there wasn’t much room left for me. It was the first time I had loaded the boat for a trip and the clutter was distressing.
This was the first fearsome hurdle in a month-long journey I had planned, to go as far north as I could through the San Juan Islands, onward to the Gulf Islands of British Columbia, and all the way back in a big loop.
Rowing off the eastern edge of town, beyond Point Hudson I spied a dark line of growing breeze approaching the red bell buoy. By the time I reached it there was enough wind to sail, so I shipped the oars and went about turning SOLSTICE into a sailboat. I hefted the unwieldy rudder aft and hung it from the stern. The sea state jostled it about as I struggled to line up the pintles and gudgeons with water up to my elbows, until at last, they slotted in with a satisfying thunk! Now it was time to raise the 12′ mast, with its sail and sprit, and slide it through the 3″ hole in the forward thwart. It was an awkward maneuver—holding the heavy mast above my head as the sea toyed with the boat. I swayed uneasily while trying to aim for the hole until finally the foot slid through and into the step, squeaking on the leather as it went. I moved quickly to cast off the brail line and tighten up on the snotter to peak the sprit. The sheet whipped from the clew of the unruly sail; I leaped back and grabbed it to run it through the block on the traveler and make it off to the belaying pin, then spun around to drop the centerboard and quickly take hold of the sheet and tiller. We came alive all at once as the bow pulsed a cadence through the waves.
Looking over my shoulder shortly after leaving Port Townsend, I was thrilled to see the 1907 schooner MARTHA motoring out from Point Hudson. For a while she was near enough for my friend Emma, then MARTHA’s skipper, and me to yell greetings to each other across the water, but it wasn’t long before they had passed me by and soon disappeared from sight.
I looked back toward town and saw the classic wooden schooner, MARTHA, emerging under power from the mouth of Point Hudson, my friend Emma at the helm. Soon, they were abeam of me, and we shouted greetings across the water, our words totally swallowed by the gusting wind. They passed me swiftly and hoisted the sails before vanishing from sight around Point Partridge.
I crossed the inlet in good time and felt that I could cruise forever in the gentle 7-knot westerly, but just as I was getting comfortable, the wind died to nothing and left me bobbing off the coast of Fort Ebey. It was time to lower the mast and take up the oars. I laid the rig over the thwarts from stem to stern, just beneath the sweep of my knuckles. Pulling along in the heat of the sun I could make out some disturbance on the water west of Point Partridge and rowed toward it, hopeful of finding a breeze and being able to sail again. I arrived at the patch of riffling water and raised sail, only to discover that despite appearances, there was not a breath of wind. I was confused for a moment until it hit me: this disturbance wasn’t caused by wind but by the current. Once more, I lowered the rig and picked up the oars. We were in the still heat of midday, a haze blanketing the languid waters. I was already tired, but I had to make way to Bowman Bay, at the mouth of Deception Pass, if I was to find shelter for the night. This stretch along the west coast of Whidbey Island from Point Partridge to Deception Pass is about 13 nautical miles of blanched-white sandy cliffs with a narrow band of beach and rock at their base. When the wind picks up in the Strait of Juan de Fuca there is nowhere to hide, and the sea state can turn ugly in an instant.
Emma Gunn
As MARTHA pulled away, Emma took a picture of me and SOLSTICE. In the distance to the northwest, the Point Wilson Lighthouse marks the entrance to Port Townsend Bay. My humble dory appears dwarfed by her surroundings, and it brings to mind the old Breton fisherman’s prayer that begins “Oh God, thy sea is so great, and my boat is so small…”
I rowed furiously, checking my progress against Mount Pilchuck in the distance and the clifftop houses in the foreground. There was no time for rest; for every inch I gained rowing, I lost two if I paused for even a moment. I was going nowhere and was baffled, I had planned to ride a narrow band of north-flowing current that cropped up after the transition from ebb to flood tide, but I was being pushed aggressively south; what was going on? I checked my chart and realized with terrifying clarity that I had totally missed the mark and was trapped south of Partridge Bank in a powerful back-eddy. The gathering strength of the flood tide would easily push me into the shipping lanes and back into the hungry mouth of the Admiralty Inlet.
By now, my rowing muscles were almost spent, my energy was failing, and I was in the thick of a situation that was fast turning dire. My only choice was to cut straight back to Point Partridge on Whidbey Island in a last-ditch effort to beach the boat and get some rest. The flood tide had gathered strength and was pulling me sideways toward the rips that were snarling up into breakers off the point. I mustered what dregs of energy I still had and rowed like a madman toward the beach. At last, in a daze, I heard the bow of the boat grind into gravel, and hopped out to drag the dory up out of the surf as much as I could. Fully loaded with all the gear and heavily built of solid wood, the boat weighed about 550 lbs, but I managed to get half the hull out of the water. I started pulling gear out, thinking that I could perhaps set up camp and stay for the night, but even as I did so, SOLSTICE turned beam-on to the waves and was pushed and rocked sideways, all the while being pummeled into the stones. Staying would not work. I threw my belongings back on board and shoved off, pulling hard to escape the breakers.
I was glad to have made it through the busy shipping lanes of the Admiralty Inlet but, before I knew it, I was stuck in a powerful current pushing me back toward the passage plied by commercial freighters.
About 20 yards from shore, I dropped the anchor and slumped down into the bottom of the boat to weigh my options. The sun was low; I had maybe an hour and a half before it would set behind Vancouver Island. I wanted to run home, but looking down the shore back toward Fort Casey, I saw that the ferry emerging from behind Admiralty Head was the size of a box of matches—it was much too far to row before nightfall. Instead, I pinned my hopes on the stretch of coast to the north: the Cascadia Marine Trail provides a few camps along the Whidbey shore, offering refuge to paddlers. But I was worried about making a landing in my relatively heavy boat—a kayak can be carried by one person, or even dragged across fist-sized stones, but not a Swampscott Dory. I had to try to find a decent landing, though, so I hauled in the anchor and took up the oars again, rowing northward.
As the sun sank low and touched the hills of Vancouver Island, it lit the pale cliffs to leeward with a fiery orange light. The large swells from the west rolled uncomfortably onto our beam, lifting us up and letting us down before crashing ashore, and still there was no landing in sight. I hoped for a miracle. I knew there was a marine camp just a little farther along. I rowed without pause, reaching the camp in the dusk, but my hopes of refuge were dashed; the shore was stony and awash with waves.
My plan for the month-long adventure was to cruise through the serene and beautiful coves of the San Juan and Canadian Gulf islands (here SOLSTICE is anchored at Saltspring Island). But to reach that cruising ground I had to cross the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Little did I realize just how challenging that crossing would be.
There was nothing for it but to pull on into the thickening night. To the north, just beyond a jutting promontory, I could see the lights of a town and prayed that the good citizens had built a sheltered boat ramp. I rowed for what seemed like hours toward the lights. At last I arrived, but with dismay found what I had dreaded: there was no way to go ashore. The “town” was simply a cluster of houses clinging to the hillside with boulders at its base. I had no choice but to spend the night aboard, fully exposed with no protection from the growing wind and swell from the west. I anchored 100 yards from shore, dumping my red 15-lb anchor and all 30 fathoms of line off the bow, and dropped the stern anchor as well to keep me from swinging any closer to the boulders that jutted out from town.
Night had fallen and all I could see were the running lights of distant ships, lonely beacons blinking on the headlands, and waves crashing on the rocks, white as teeth. My anchors seemed to be holding steady, so I put on all my clothes, pulled myself into the sleeping bag that was wet with spray, and allowed the voices scratching over the VHF to lull me into a few hours of fitful rest. I woke to the screeching sound of the VHF dying. I grabbed a pack of new AAA batteries, exchanged them for the radio’s dead ones, and lay awake in the pitch black of night as the wind gathered strength. The boat pitched up and down; spray burst over the bow and soaked me with saltwater.
SOLSTICE sails best when loaded with gear and heeled slightly in winds of 7 to 12 knots. However, during my scramble to reach Bowman Bay in the building winds, I wished I had added reef points to the sail.
The color of gladness is the faint light of dawn when you’ve had a troubled night, as the blackness behind the stars gathers shades of silvery blue. There were about 9 miles between me and Bowman Bay, at the mouth of Deception Pass, where I knew for sure I could find shelter. I had no time to waste. For now, the currents would be in my favor, but in a few hours the tide would turn, and if I hadn’t reached Bowman before that, the ebb would run against the wind and whip up steep and deadly breakers.
I was frightened by the strength of the wind and considered rowing—I hadn’t yet tested my homemade rig in winds this strong. But as I mulled over the chart, and calculated the distances, I realized that if I rowed in those waves, my progress would be too slow, and I’d never make it in time. Sailing would be perilous, but unless I braved it, I would be at the mercy of the currents and the building snarl of weather.
Colin Schehl
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In the dim light of dawn, I stepped the mast and hauled in the stern anchor. As she came free SOLSTICE swung madly in the confused seas. I was distressingly close to shore, some 30 yards off, with an onshore wind. I knew that I had only minutes to run the lines, lower the centerboard, raise the anchor, and grab the tiller before SOLSTICE was dashed against the rocks. I staggered forward, fell, broke the fishing pole, regained my footing, grabbed the rode, and started hauling. I felt for the markings as they passed through my hands—30 fathoms, 15, 10—and as I hauled, I piled the line into a bucket. Fathom by fathom I heaved us forward, SOLSTICE leaping and falling in the building swells, her bow, like a gaping pelican’s beak, taking great gulps of seawater. At last, I felt the anchor break free and hauled as fast as I could, bringing it in over the bow. As I moved back aft, I struck the brail line, and ducked as the sail billowed open and flogged violently. I fell again; this time my knee broke through the large plastic drinking-water jug. I hurried on to grab the sheet, ran it through the block, and belayed it to the pin. We were rolling ever closer to the shore, the menacing roar of breaking waves mere feet away. I had no time to feel afraid, I just had to grab the tiller. SOLSTICE bore away, held fast, and leaped on a cresting swell. In an instant we had left behind the desperate scramblings of an unhinged creature and become a great seabird surfing the swells. Like a crazed cowboy, I howled into the wind, “Yeehaw!” I didn’t know SOLSTICE could go so fast.
We were heading downwind with following seas, and surfing the steep faces of the rolling swells making one terrifying jibe after the next. It took all the strength I had to keep us from broaching and capsizing into the gurgling troughs. One hand on the tiller—I hope it holds!—the other on the sheet, my muscles shaking, I kept watch behind me to time the swells. A dark 5-footer loomed high overhead, its white top bearing down before it lifted us up toward the sky and broke with a resounding crash over the stern. The cockpit was flooded above the gratings, I was soaked from head to toe. I kept to my post, holding on for dear life, fighting the impending broach, turning the stern into the white-capped crests and then swerving, serpent-like, to surf down the face of the swell at an angle.
Much of the coastline in the archipelagos of the Salish Sea is rocky. In sheltered areas (such as this marine-trail camp at Point Doughty, Orcas Island) this poses little threat, but in strong winds on the exposed coast of Whidbey Island, a dory could be dashed to pieces.
We kept up this perilous dance in the moody predawn until, at last, a dazzling light broke over the ridgeline to the east. Brilliant in the morning haze, the sun was like a guardian angel with a crown of rays coming through the treetops, glinting off the metal hangers of the Whidbey Island Naval Air Station, turning the swells into piles of sparkling treasure that lit my eyes as a smile stretched across my lips.
I took a moment to study the soaked waterproof chart book and realized I was entering a restricted area just off the naval base where they frequently fire live ammunition, but with the weather worsening I didn’t dare head farther out into the strait. I carried on. The sun had now fully risen, illuminating the haze of a building fog and the spray of whitecapped swells with a luminous luster.
And still the wind was strengthening, as though the sun was inhaling a great morning breath. Then, off my port bow, I saw a vessel approaching. Rising out of the mist, it was headed right for me. I could make out an orange, semi-rigid, inflatable hull with an aluminum pilothouse: Marine 5 Whidbey Fire and Rescue. Right on cue my VHF once more squealed its low-battery warning and died. With two large outboards, the rescue boat came up to me in no time. They slowed some 10 yards off in my lee. There were three crew: the captain and two others. One of the crew came out of the pilothouse to yell across to me.
As the wind gathered strength, sailing SOLSTICE became very exciting. I was surprised by how well my makeshift creations held up to some of the more extreme weather of the voyage. The push-pull tiller is a piece of bamboo salvaged from the side of the road. It is attached to the rudder with seine twine. The old canvas sail was found at a marine thrift store, and the spars were made from planking offcuts destined for the burn pile.
“Are you OK? Do you need help?”
I yelled in response, “I’m fine!”
He turned back to the captain, exchanging a glance, and then back to me, “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I think I’m good!”
It was a real challenge to hear each other over the wind and the roaring sea.
“OK, well, we are going to tag along for a little bit anyway.” I gave them a thumbs-up and went to work to change the batteries in my VHF. Rifling through my dry bag to retrieve the batteries while using my teeth to unlock the battery cover on the Standard Horizon, the radio’s battery pack sprang loose, and fell into the bilgewater where it sloshed around at my feet, “Damn it, man!”
The rescue boat was matching my speed, motoring just astern of me to starboard, witnessing my indelicate ballet; somehow I kept the boat under control.
Once more they pulled up alongside.
“One more question: the Coast Guard wants to know what your intentions are!”
It was a good question.
“I’m heading to Deception Pass to get some shelter!” I yelled back.
Nodding the affirmative, they dropped back again.
I blew the seawater out of the battery pack, crammed it into the crook of my hip, and fed in the batteries. The rescue boat came alongside again.
“Sorry to keep bothering you!” This time it was the captain, leaning out of the cabin window.
“What’s your name and phone number?”
“Colin Sch…”
“Tom?”
“No! Colin Schehl! Like seashell!”
He nodded.
“My number is: Eight-Zero…”
“OK!” he yelled back, and jamming the throttle forward he turned the boat toward Deception Pass.
The relief I felt when I tied up at the dock in Bowman Bay was immense. I was enveloped by calm and yet, just minutes before, I had thought that SOLSTICE and I would both be swallowed up by the sea.
Deception Island, a tree-covered hump of stone the size of a modest hilltop, was half a mile dead ahead, and beyond it was the mouth of Bowman Bay where I hoped to find some protection. I wanted to take the more direct route between Deception Island and West Point, which shouldered out toward the island, making a narrow passage, but the shallows kicked up the swells into breakers; I would have to go around the long way, to the windward side of the island. I clawed my way past, holding my breath; the tide was shifting from flood to ebb, and things were about to get very ugly in Deception Pass. The swells were already steep, and I could feel them getting steeper. The VHF crackled to life; it was the captain of the rescue vessel radioing my information to the Coast Guard.
“We’ve got a Colin Schehl heading east through Deception Pass in a small, open boat.”
The decrepit wooden trawler with which SOLSTICE shared the dock had been a liveaboard for many years before being abandoned in Bowman Bay.
The static took over, and I laid the radio down. I was nearly around the island now and could see the mouth of Bowman Bay opening up before me like the gates of heaven. There would be one more perilous jibe to bring SOLSTICE dead downwind toward the mouth of the bay, careening down the steep faces of the whipped-up swells. The tide was on the turn, and the sea was growing mean. I was so close, but this was perhaps the most precarious moment of all. I held onto the tiller for dear life and prayed that nothing would break as we flew into the bay and, at last, calm.
In the lee of the bay’s southern headland was a floating dock with a decrepit fishing vessel tied to it, its lines thick with moss, looking thoroughly abandoned. Leaving the mast stepped I brailed in the sail, took up the oars, and rowed up to the dock, tying off on the other side from the ghost ship. Out in Deception Pass a heavy fog bank was rolling in. Had I been out there for half an hour more, I would have been swallowed up in the thick gray cloak. I began laying out my sodden possessions, dripping and briny in the bright morning sun. Then, with everything spread out to dry, the exhaustion came over me like a lead blanket. I reached into my first-aid kit, found a tiny bottle of whiskey, raised it in salute toward the mouth of the bay, and brought it to my lips. Tipping it up, I took a fiery gulp, felt the fuzz spread over me, and laid down to rest in the warmth of the sun. Immediately, I fell into a dreamless slumber.
While battling the elements and fighting for survival, I had sworn that I would sell SOLSTICE as soon as I reached shelter. But the resolution quickly faded once we were safe in Bowman Bay, and together we went on to cruise the San Juan and southern Gulf islands in British Columbia for a good month. The dory is well-suited to inshore cruising: with its shallow draft it can navigate very shoal waters—as here, moored at Wallace Island—and the boomless sprit rig can be swiftly doused thanks to the brail line.
I woke an hour or so later. A group of kayak tourists were floating a few feet off, gawking. They must have been wondering if I were dead or alive. As I lifted my head they quickly shifted their gaze, the guide resumed his spiel, and they paddled away. I sat up and took stock: my gear was strewn about me, caked in salt, and my trusty dory was quietly moored beside me. A few hours earlier, when I’d been out in the thick of it all, blown around by the winds and tossed over dark swells, full of exhilaration and dread, I had sworn that the minute I got to safety I would end the trip and sell the boat. But, somehow, a nip of whiskey and an hour of sleep had changed everything, or maybe it was the beauty of the bay around me, its teal water glistening brilliantly below the mossy conifers on the cliffs. Or was it the rig, which I had built from scrap lumber and thrift-store canvas, and which had weathered the winds so well? Or perhaps the trusty dory herself, that had surfed the swells and carried me to safety? Whatever it was, I now felt purged of fear and misgiving, I was ready to go farther into the maze of channels and feel the pulse of the ever-changing wind and tides.
Colin Schehl is an artist and craftsman who lives on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State. He and his partner can often be found plying the waters of the Strait of Juan de Fuca in a small wooden dory, fishing and sailing, when they aren’t growing flowers and food or chasing swarms of honeybees through the forest.
When I built my 17′ 6″ Antonio Dias–designed Harrier, FALCONE DE PALÙ, the plans included the option to build it with a centerboard or a daggerboard. The Harrier has a plank keel and 6” draft with board and rudder raised, which is perfect for my boating in the “thin water” of Italy’s Venice Lagoon with all its sandbanks and mussel-covered shoals. At first glance, a pivoting centerboard seemed to be the best choice for the area, but I wanted to use the boat for camp-cruising and thought the designed centerboard trunk would take up too much room in the cockpit. The floorboards, resting 8″ above the plank keel, make a suitable sleeping platform and the cockpit is spacious, with only side benches and a removable rowing thwart. But that space would be compromised by a long centerboard trunk in the middle of the boat. A centerboard trunk can also become blocked up by sand and grit when beached, sometimes rendering the board immobile. Perhaps a daggerboard would be a better answer—it would take up less space and wouldn’t jam so easily. But in areas where you all too often hit bottom, a daggerboard that can only go straight up and down is unforgiving and liable to break. I was not keen on that option either.
Photographs by the author
When all the way down, the board is vertical in the trunk and held in position by the bungees. Preventer buttons on either side, below the handle cutout, keep the board from being pushed too far down into the slot. To avoid scuffing the varnish on top of the trunk, the buttons were later covered with short offcuts of garden hose.
Coming up with a solution was a lengthy undertaking, but I was inspired by two articles in WoodenBoat No. 164. One was by Robb White, the other by Lang Warren, and both described pivoting daggerboards. Dias, in his drawings for the Harrier, did show an angled daggerboard case that would allow the board, like White’s, to be pivoted back for broad-reaching. I wanted a daggerboard that could not only swing back if it hit a submerged obstacle, like Warren’s, but also would pop up when struck. Many centerboards and daggerboards are weighted so that they go down through the trunk by themselves. Others are somewhat buoyant and are held down by a bungee stretched across the top of the board. I set out to design a daggerboard that, upon striking bottom, would free itself from the restraining bungee and have enough buoyancy to then raise itself high in its trunk and clear the obstruction. It would call for using a very light wood and a good amount of volume.
Designing the pivoting daggerboard and its trunk
From a drawing by the author
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To construct the board, I used two pieces of 3⁄4″ paulownia, a lightweight, easily worked, straight-grained wood. After laminating the two pieces to give an overall thickness of 1 1⁄2″, I planed and sanded it to an airfoil profile. I applied epoxy to seal the board’s surface and, to reduce friction, applied several coats of an epoxy-graphite composite to the edges of the board.
Next, I built the daggerboard trunk, shaping it to allow the board to pivot. The after edge of the trunk is vertical and perpendicular to the keel plank; its bottom corner is rounded to avoid damaging the trailing edge of the daggerboard when it swings back. The opening at the base of the trunk is 13 1⁄4″ long—14″ with the rounded aft corner. The forward post is sloped at an angle of 45°. The top opening is 19 1⁄2″ long—the maximum width of the daggerboard is 11 7⁄8″. The interior width of the trunk is 3⁄16″ greater than the thickness of the board and all interior surfaces are coated in the friction-reducing epoxy-graphite mix.
The lightweight construction and high volume of the daggerboard give it positive buoyancy so that it will float high in the trunk. To deploy the board for sailing it must be manually pushed down and held by bungees, seen here crossing the slot behind it. Both the leading and trailing edges of the board are protected by a layer of a low-friction mix of epoxy and graphite.
The lightweight, buoyant daggerboard is prevented from being pushed through the trunk by a wooden button on both sides at the top of the board near its leading edge. The board is held down in the vertical position by bungee cords stretched taut across its top from side to side at the after end of the trunk. If the daggerboard hits a submerged object, its leading edge is forced back. As the board pivots, its top is forced out from under the bungee cords and the board continues to pivot forward and up approximately 18″ along the sloped forward post of the trunk. From there it can be manually raised as much as necessary. The automatically pivoted 45°/18″ position is also ideal for sailing on a broad reach or run, and the desired draft can be further adjusted and held by a second pair of bungee cords, attached to the side of the trunk. When the board is raised and forward these cords are stretched behind the trailing edge and provide enough friction to keep the board in place.
The pivoting self-raising daggerboard has proven to be an efficient and elegant solution, and I am more than content with the results.
Detlef Arthur Dücker grew up on a small lake in Carinthia, Austria, surrounded by boats. He built his first sailboat when he was 20. A former American Canoe Association Open Canoe Instructor for solo and tandem canoes, he took several canoe trips on the Allagash Wilderness Waterway in northern Maine and paddled with the Cree and a Maine Guide on the Temiscamie river in Northern Québec. After three years of building, he launched his Harrier—the 17’ Dias-designed Expedition Wherry—in 2017. He has sailed it in many regattas for traditional wooden boats in the northern Adriatic Sea. This summer he acquired a well-maintained 50-year-old catboat.
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Thanks to the advice of Audrey’s father, Cap’n Jack, we always have a sponge at hand in our boats. Lately we have been impressed by the Deluxe Boat Sponge from Northwest River Supply (NRS) that we began using during the summer of 2025.
We came across NRS when we were shopping for PFDs. The company sells high-performance equipment for human-powered watersports, and it was while scrolling through their website that we spotted the Deluxe Boat Sponge, made to NRS’s own design. The description on the site claims that the sponge can absorb up to 24 oz of water at a time—even though it is only 8″ long × 4 1⁄2″ wide × 2″ thick—that it can lift out moisture and sand, and that its covering of terrycloth increases its water absorption. It seemed like a lot for a small sponge, and we bought one to test.
Photographs by the authors
The terry-cloth covering of the NRS Deluxe Boat Sponge makes it the perfect tool for wiping down wet and dirty decks. It is soft enough to be used on most materials and is effective at picking up dirt.
For years we have had general-purpose cellulose sponges bumping around in our boat bilges, as well as old hand towels stowed in various lockers. It seemed possible that the NRS Deluxe Boat Sponge might combine the properties of a good sponge with those of a decent hand towel.
First we proved that indeed, the sponge can soak up to 24 oz of water. When fully charged, it doesn’t leak water, and will also float. While testing its absorption, we also found that it’s pleasant to use. The sponge is very pliable and its tapered shape and smaller size, together with the soft terrycloth covering, fits comfortably in our hands. It is small enough to get into tight spaces, but large enough to make sponging-out a quick process. When there’s a lot of water in the bilge, we use a pump—our Paddle Pump—for most of it, and finish off with the NRS sponge.
The sponge soaks up the last of the bilge water after pumping (left), and the terry-cloth cover picks up sand and grit (right).
The cloth cover adds significant benefits to the sponge: first, it greatly enhances the sponge’s ability to pick up the last bit of grit, sand, twigs, and other small stuff; second, after being rinsed of any debris and squeezed out, it can be used to swab down the decks and thwarts so that they dry faster. The terrycloth is gentle enough to be used on varnish, paint, metal, and gelcoat, and is more effective than a normal sponge at removing those last few drops from a flat surface. The sponge is easily wrung out and dries in a surprisingly short period of time.
On one end of the sponge, a small loop sewn into the cloth cover allows it to be secured to the boat with a lanyard or clip, so that it is always to hand, and stays with the boat in the event of a capsize.
The sponge’s hourglass shape and soft terry-cloth cover are comfortable in the hand; the sewn-in loop at left simplifies tying the sponge to the boat.
The combination of these thoughtful design features creates a product that helps keep our boats in fighting trim, minimizing moisture and debris that can damage a finish or cause mildew and mold if left in a confined space.
Audrey and KentLewis sponge out their armada of 16 small boats in the Tidewater Region of Virginia. Their adventures are logged at smallboatrestoration.blogspot.com.
Priced between $13.95 and $14.95, the NRS Deluxe Boat Sponge is available at major retailers. As of October 2025, it is on backorder on NRS’s own website.
A lot of work goes into making a good pair of oars, and whether you’ve shaped them yourself or paid a pretty penny for them, they deserve to be cared for. A few scuffs are to be expected when they’re in use, but dings and scrapes while they’re being transported and stored can be prevented by carrying and keeping them in an oar bag. To keep oars in good shape, Chesapeake Light Craft offers the Canvas Oar Bag, made in three sizes by The Nautical Tailor in Annapolis, Maryland.
Photographs by the author
The bag rolls into a compact package that’s easily stowed when not in use.
The bag for 7′ to 7′ 6″ oars is 7′ 7 1⁄2″ long by 8 3⁄4″ wide, and has an exterior of tough 9-oz marine-grade UV-resistant polyester fabric with a durable water-repellent finish. The interior of the bag has, at its ends, a soft layer of breathable non-woven polypropylene-polyethylene-polyester material commonly used for car covers. The middle of the bag is unlined. One-inch webbing is used for the buckled closure at the opening of the bag, the adjustable shoulder strap, and the gusset-reinforced handy-carry strap. The bag is more than wide enough for my straight-bladed dory oars that have 4″-wide blades, and there’s plenty of room for my 6 1⁄2″-wide spoon-blade oars. Inserting the oars is easy, and can be done with one hand on the bag and one hand on the oar without it coming into contact with the ground.
To keep the oars from rubbing against each other and scuffing their varnish, the bag has a full-length divider—polyester on one side, soft non-woven material on the other. A 10″-long flap over the bag’s opening is equipped with a strap and buckle to keep the oars from slipping out.
A soft non-woven fabric lines the ends of the bag and protects the oar blades where the varnish is the most vulnerable.
Without a bag, I can carry a pair of oars in one hand, but they inevitably shift from parallel to each other to an awkward, unbalanced X. In contrast, the bag keeps them together, which makes one-handed carrying straightforward. And, with the oars protected by the bag, I don’t have to be as careful about where I lay them down. At a launching ramp, for example, I can set the bag down on pavement or on an unpaved parking lot, without worrying about the effect on the varnish.
The flap over the bag opening is secured with 1″ webbing straps and a buckle.
Oars can be inserted blade or handle first, and while they can both be stowed the same way, I find it best to put one in blade first and the other handle first; getting the second oar in is just as easy. Oars are not equally weighted either side of their midpoints, but are heavier toward the handle ends; stowing them in opposition within the bag balances them when lifted by either of the centered straps. With the longer strap pulled over my head and resting on my far-side shoulder, I can easily carry the bagged oars hands-free.
While neither of the fabrics used in the bag’s construction is fully waterproof, they are both highly water resistant. I made a depression in a portion of the bag, pooled water in it, and let it sit for 90 minutes. The outer surface of the bag darkened and felt cool to the touch, indicating water had been absorbed by the fabric’s fibers, but the inner fabric remained dry and warm. If oars are put away wet, the breathability of the two fabrics will allow the bag to dry.
The oars are best arranged in the bag blade-to-handle to evenly distribute the weight and ensure that the bag remains parallel to the ground when it is lifted by either the handle or the shoulder strap.
The Canvas Oar Bag has me thinking of refinishing some of the spoon-bladed oars I worked so hard on decades ago, but which are now much the worse for wear. A bit of sanding, some scars filled, and a few coats of varnish will have them looking like new, and the bag will help keep them that way.
Christopher Cuningham is editor at large for Small Boats.
The Canvas Oar Bag, made by The Nautical Tailor, is available from Chesapeake Light Craft for $160. It comes in Small for oars 6′ to 6′ 6”; Medium for oars 7′ 6″; and Large for oars 8′ to 8′ 6″.
When he was 13, Stanislaw Klupś, from Poznań, a city in west central Poland, received an unexpected Christmas present from his parents: plans for the Piranha V, a 10′-long sail-and-oar boat designed for amateur builders. At first Stan thought the plans were for a toy model, but when his parents led him outside to the garage and showed him some sheets of plywood stacked up against the wall, he realized he was looking at “the beginning of a great adventure.”
Photographs courtesy of the Klupś family
Stan built his boat in the family garage, which is also used for storing garden tools, bicycles, a lawnmower, and more. Space was tight and the lighting was poor, so Stan did as much work as he could outside.
Stan has always enjoyed working with wood. Before the boat, he’d made toys, like building blocks, figurines, and cars; a real boat was something new, something that gave him the possibility of fulfilling a dream. In 2017, when Stan was 10, his parents had bought a small cabin boat in which they, Stan, and Stan’s baby sister sailed on a lake near the village of Boszkowo, an hour’s drive from their home. Stan loved his time on the water and while the boat was “perfect for family sailing and the occasional overnight on the lake,” he dreamed of having his own boat. It turned out Stan’s parents had been paying attention.
The plans for the Piranha V were drawn by Polish yacht designer Janusz Maderski. One of a range of his small stitch-and-glue boats, the Piranha is 10′ long with a beam of 4′ 10″, and to Stan seemed ideal for a first-time build.
The pine keel strip—made up of two pieces butted together just forward of amidships—took the curve of the Piranha’s bottom without steaming.
The family decided Stan would work in a metal garage behind the house. Normally it was used to store the lawn mower and other garden tools. “There was enough room,” says Stan, “and it was good to be inside when the weather was bad, but the lighting wasn’t great, and it could be a bit damp.” He would start the following summer, when his work wouldn’t interrupt his school commitments and the weather would be warmer. His father helped to get him set up, and together they cleared some space.
To measure out the plywood panels Stan worked on the floor, but for the most part he built the boat on temporary tables and stands, moving the project out of the way whenever the garage was needed for something else. The project, says Stan, was “quite challenging because of my lack of experience. There were some pages of instruction, but mostly the plans consisted of drawings, with dimensions, for every part of the boat—it was a lot to digest.”
After completing the bottom and side panels Stan was excited to turn the hull over and see that it already looked like a boat. But, like so many builders before him, he quickly learned there was a long way to go.
The early stages were the hardest; Stan was unfamiliar with the work, and the large plywood panels were awkward. “It was difficult handling those big pieces; my dad’s help was crucial.” He was able to get the bottom panel out of a single piece of 8mm plywood, but the longer side panels had to be cut from two pieces to get to the required length. “Figuring out the best way to do that slowed me down, but it worked in the end. I butted the two pieces together and glued them with fiberglass and epoxy.” After he stitched together the bottom, sides, and transom, he could see the boat’s shape emerge. “It was one of the really big highs of the project.”
Along the way, Stan gained experience in reading plans, using power tools, and taking his time. “I think my worst mistake was when I cut out one of the side benches. I didn’t realize I’d done it wrong until I came to install it. I took it to the boat only to discover it was about 18″ too short! It was a bit of a shock. Fortunately, I had enough spare wood to make another one and, once my initial embarrassment had worn off, it was pretty funny. Mostly, though, everything went very smoothly. It just took longer than I’d expected. But I loved working with the wood, listening to music as I worked, seeing it all slowly come together.”
Following Maderski’s design, the rudder is set up without expensive hardware. The two lines hold the rudder snug in the transom-mounted chocks, but for launching and landing in shallow water, the lower line can be released to allow the rudder to float up. Drawing that line tight prepares the rudder for steering.
For the most part Stan’s boat is all plywood; only the deckbeams, rubrails, keel band, spars, oars, and tiller are of solid pine. He bought all the materials locally. Indeed, the construction calls for nothing fancy, and even though Stan lives in an area where the nearest water for boating is about an hour away, he had no difficulty finding what he needed. But, he says, he raised a few eyebrows when he went into the local hardware store to buy 50 clamps.
With the exception of the standing lugsail, he made everything himself, but kept things affordable and simple: the spars have square cross-sections, the oars are lashed to single tholepins. There is little hardware on the boat—even the rudder is attached without pintles and gudgeons. Instead, as designed by Maderski, it is located on the transom by two centered blocks, and held snug against them with two lanyards—one is attached to the rudder just above the bottom of the transom from where it is led up and through the top of the transom to be cleated off in the cockpit; the other is attached to the top of the rudder and, again, cleated inside the boat. When the rudder needs to be raised in shoal water, the lower lanyard is released, and the blade floats up.
Much of the time, Stan sails ZJAWA on his own, but he is often joined at the lake by his sister Lucy, whom he has taught to sail.
After two summers of building, Stan launched ZJAWA (Polish for “Phantom”) in 2023 on the lake at Boszkowo. He sailed her for the first time. “She’s very maneuverable and sails in the lightest of breezes. She’s big enough for two people, plus my guitar, and I’ve taught my sister, Lucy, who’s now 10, to sail her. But I love sailing alone and listening to music. When I’m alone in the middle of the lake, just me and my thoughts, nothing else matters.”
Stan had ZJAWA’s sail professionally made, but otherwise, the build and finish are all his own work.
As for what’s next, Stan, now 18, dreams of building a small boat with a cabin. “Nothing big, just enough to sleep on board but inside. Even in summer the nights in Poland can be quite cold. But for now, I’m concentrating on smaller things: I’m currently studying violin-making and have just started building my first stringed instruments. But ZJAWA… the whole project was really great. And to sail a boat you built yourself? You can’t beat that.”
Jenny Bennett is editor of Small Boats.
Do you have a boat with an interesting story? Please email us. We’d like to hear about it and share it with other Small Boats readers.
A week ago, I walked past a neighbor’s house and saw they had parked an inflatable dinghy in the front yard with “Free” written on a piece of cardboard taped to one of the sponsons. The boat, complete with foot pump, was clearly well-used and of some considerable age, but nevertheless I snapped a picture and sent it along to some friends. Back in August they had expressed interest in purchasing one of a couple of inflatable boats that were coming up in the town’s Fireman’s Auction. They would be away for the auction but asked me to bid on their behalf.
“No more than a couple of hundred,” they had instructed as they left town.
Both boats sold for well in excess of $500. At the time, my friends’ interest had seemed more spur-of-the-moment whim than serious plan, but now, in light of that “Free” sign I got to wondering.
“Do you still want an inflatable?” I asked when I texted them the picture.
“Sure,” came back the swift reply. “Is it OK?”
“Well,” I said, “it’s certainly not beautiful, but it’s inflated and looks serviceable.”
“Can you grab it and throw it in our barn?”
I could. With the help of the obliging neighbor and his truck, we delivered it the same day. As I told the neighbor of my friends’ gratitude for the unexpected gift, his face lit up. “It makes me happy that it’s going to another good home,” he said. “We rescued it from the dump 17 years ago.”
Christopher Cunningham
This Bolger pirogue was rescued by Christopher Cunningham. As built in 1995, it had been equipped only to sail. His modifications included installing risers to support a removable thwart for rowing and paddling, and converting the leeboard, with its awkward outboard brackets, to a daggerboard with an inboard trunk.
There’s something about boats, and the feelings people have for them, that just keeps them going and going. Small boats, in particular, seem to outlive their expected years, time and time again. There comes a point in a boat’s life when, in financial terms, it probably no longer has much value, but if it still floats (and sometimes even if it doesn’t) we’re reluctant to just throw it away. If it’s a small boat, one that can be stored in a barn, fixed up for short money, or simply used as is, then there’ll always be someone happy to take ownership.
For my friends, this worn but still intact inflatable dinghy was exactly what they were looking for: a boat to leave at the town landing so they could get out to their sailboat in the harbor. Indeed, the inflatable’s very appearance of dilapidation was appealing: “Can’t see anyone choosing that one to steal,” was their salient observation.
Christopher Cunningham
The Piccolo canoe—another Cunningham rescue—had spent years unused, resting on a rack in a back yard, literally gathering moss. It was just a bare hull, without floorboards, seat, or backrest.
Of course, not all free boats are sought. Sometimes the availability of a boat comes along, and you just can’t refuse. Our editor-at-large, Christopher Cunningham, has taken in four boats that were destined for the curb or landfill: a 12′ outboard skiff made of textured exterior siding, a 14′ battered aluminum johnboat, a scuffed and mossy 12′ Piccolo canoe, and a 16′ Bolger pirogue that had idled for years in an asphalt parking lot. I, myself, have a 9′ skiff that had once been mine, but which had been sold along with a bigger boat more than a decade ago. Then, late last year, it unexpectedly came back to me from the then-owner. “We’re not using it and thought you might like to have it…it only needs a lick of paint. We can drop it off.” I didn’t need another boat, but my daughter insisted I say yes; LITTLE MADGE is the first boat she truly remembers.
Jenny Bennett
“It just needs a lick of paint…” Sometimes “free” translates to “no money up front but a definite labor of love required.” When LITTLE MADGE, our old skiff, came home, we were somewhat daunted by the amount of scraping and filling and fixing of rot that would be required to get her back into commission.
Sometimes the offer of a free boat will not only extend the life of that boat, but will also transform the life of the recipient. Take the Heron dinghy that was given to Alex Latham (featured in our Adventures article this month). When he accepted the gift, Alex couldn’t sail and wasn’t looking for a boat, and yet, there it was, a small boat looking for a home. Within two years, Alex had learned to sail and had set off on a challenging multi-day solo dinghy cruise. The Heron, the catalyst that had changed Alex’s life, has since been handed on, as has the Enterprise dinghy that replaced it.
I find it hard to come up with other things that get passed freely along, often to strangers, even when they are long past their “use by” date. What is it about small boats that makes them special in this regard? Is it that, regardless of their condition, they convey a sense of potential that speaks to the imagination of those who yearn to be afloat? Or is it simply that people do offer them for free and no one likes to look a gift horse in the mouth? I suspect there’s some truth in both answers, but I further suspect that the overriding reason is that we hold an almost sentimental affection for a small boat that just won’t let us condemn it to the dump. After all, none of us wants to be that person.
In 2010, while visiting The WoodenBoat Show at Mystic Seaport, my wife and I turned a corner in the “I Built It Myself” section, and discovered a delightful, whimsical mini tug named TOOT-TOOT. We admired its charm, and, after a while, my wife suggested that perhaps I could build one. Inspired by TOOT-TOOT’s builder, Mike Magnant—whom I now regard as a friend while continuing to value him as an extraordinary mentor—I did some research, and purchased the plans for a Candu E-Z Mini Tugboat from the Berkeley Engineering Company. It took me 12 years to gather the confidence, but in August 2022, I began building my own Candu E-Z, which I proudly launched on April 28, 2025.
The Candu E-Z was Berkeley Eastman’s debut design. He conceived the idea in 1986 and began with a scale model before committing to a full-sized build. It would be the first in a series of Eastman’s tugboat and houseboat plans. The plans were eventually translated into CAD drawings by David Cronk, whose close collaboration with Eastman ensured the plans remained both comprehensive and easy to follow. From what I understand, until his passing, Mr. Eastman was always generous with his time, readily offering guidance to those undertaking a build of one of his designs.
Adam Riso
The bottom panel comprises four sheets of plywood butted together, the joints glued with epoxy and reinforced with fiberglass tape. Once it was finished, I moved on to the 1⁄4″-thick plywood topside panels, which I ’glassed on the interior faces prior to installation. The building platform was on a modified trailer so I could easily move the hull outside when I needed more space.
The Candu E-Z measures a compact 14′ 3″ in length with a beam of 5′. Some builders opt to extend the length or increase the cabin height to suit their needs. The boat draws approximately 17″.
The sale of plans is still fulfilled by Eastman’s family through Berkeley Engineering. When I purchased mine in 2010, the 65 pages included the lines, photos of build stages, and a step-by-step guide that comprised a general inventory of materials, a summarized sequence of building instructions, and dimensional drawings for every component of the boat that needed to be cut out presented in a clear, sequential order, so that even an amateur could build the boat. With only common tools—those found in most homes or easily obtained—each component can be cut out and built with confidence. Every piece of the boat is precisely dimensioned, with reference points to ensure correct orientation during assembly. Transferring those measurements from paper to plywood demands care and precision. Each page of the plans reveals not only the dimensions, but also the location of the piece within the whole boat, making it easier to visualize the final form as it takes shape.
Building the Candu E-Z
For construction, the plans call for ACX-grade plywood in both 1⁄4″ and 1⁄2″ thicknesses, but instead I chose meranti marine plywood in equivalent sizes. While I wouldn’t call my build a “Covid project,” it did begin during the pandemic, and at the time, marine plywood was locally scarce and expensive, so I sourced some from a Midwest lumberyard, which shipped me everything I required. Despite the shipping costs, it was a cost-effective solution.
Adam Riso
The original plans for the mini tug call for an inboard electric motor. Instead, I decided to install a 20-hp outboard for which I constructed a box with an opening cut into the stern and hull bottom for the lower unit.
I built a wheeled platform to serve as the foundation for building the hull, and construction of my Candu E-Z began with the hull’s bottom and keel. Since I was working in the garage, this platform allowed me to easily move the project outdoors whenever I needed more space to work on it. The bottom panel is cut out of four sheets of 1⁄2″ plywood, butted together and glued with thickened epoxy, reinforced with fiberglass tape embedded in a routed-out channel to accommodate the single layer of tape without adding to the thickness of the joint. The bottom was then sheathed on its interior surface with two layers of fiberglass cloth. The chine logs and bulkhead supports were also attached at this time using thickened epoxy. Before fastening the keel, I sheathed the bottom with 6-oz fiberglass cloth followed by multiple layers of epoxy. The keel is hollow, framed in fir and faced with 1⁄2″ plywood, to give it a wide and strong connection to the hull. It is approximately 10′ 6″ long, to provide the short hull with directional stability. The original design was drawn to be powered by an inboard electric motor, with a driveshaft passing cleanly through the keel, but like many builders, I opted instead for an outboard motor. This allowed me to forgo the shaft opening, and I filled the keel with expanding foam. In lieu of fillets of epoxy thickened with wood flour, a 2×4 sawn in half on the diagonal adds strength to the connection of the keel to the bottom. It was coated inside and out with fiberglass cloth and epoxy in addition to being fastened to the bottom of the boat with stainless-steel screws. I further strengthened the bottom assembly with three coatings of truck-bed liner for additional durability. The finished bottom is turned over and the rest of the hull is built onto it.
The boat took shape in quick succession: the topsides and cabin rose, the helm station followed, then the roof, and finally, the seating area in the cockpit. The topside panels were cut from 1⁄4″ plywood and were fiberglassed on their interior surfaces prior to installation. Once all the topside panels had been fitted, the hull’s exterior was sheathed in fiberglass and epoxy. Each component of the boat was cut out following the exact dimensions outlined in the plans. The interior structure was built entirely from 1⁄2″ plywood. Before assembly, every piece was sheathed in fiberglass and sealed with epoxy to ensure durability and strength. Installation was then achieved using stainless-steel screws, fiberglass tape, and thickened epoxy. In the course of the build, I used roughly 15 gallons of epoxy resin and hardener.
Taylor Riso
On the water, the Candu E-Z is every inch a mini tug from the substantial rubrail and large-windowed jaunty cabin to the sheer that sweeps from a high bow to a low stern.
One modification I made concerned the folding mast. The original plans called for a mast that runs from the cockpit sole to a hinge at cabintop level, but to raise and lower it would require balancing on one of the narrow side decks. Instead, I put the break in the mast below the cabintop at about my shoulder height, and mounted the hinge on a block just above the cabintop to create a lever between break and hinge that can be easily reached to raise and lower the mast from the cockpit.
When it came to choosing a motor for my mini tug, I followed the advice of fellow builders and installed a short-shaft 20-hp Tohatsu outboard without power tilt. I constructed a motor box in the stern, with an opening cut into the stern and hull bottom to accommodate the engine’s lower unit. The change from the inboard motor specified in the plans to an outboard offers several advantages: it eliminates the need for a drive shaft passing through the keel, maximizes interior space, and simplifies ongoing maintenance. I installed two batteries, one starting and one deep-cycle, which are in an enclosed storage area behind the after bench.
The Candu E-Z on the water
Inside the cabin, the steering wheel and controls are arranged in a center console. Forward visibility is excellent, thanks to the multiple cabin windows. However, reversing can be somewhat challenging, as the only view is through the cabin door and an aft-bulkhead window. The boat pushes along with ease, even with six adults on board. I don’t yet know what its top speed is as I have been using the boat quite conservatively, staying within the harbor channel and close to shore.
Taylor Riso
The Candu E-Z creates very little wake at any speed. On windy days the high sides and cabin can cause the tug to be knocked off course but with practice it’s not a hard boat to steer.
Boarding the boat is effortless. With its generous beam offering excellent stability, and bench seating that doubles as a step in the cockpit, climbing aboard is easy. People moving around the boat can, of course, affect trim and balance, which in turn mildly influences steerage, but with ample seating, adjustments are easily managed. With its flat bottom the boat doesn’t always track perfectly, even with its keel, and because of the high cabin sides, it can be knocked off course by a strong breeze. But thanks to the high freeboard, the Candu E-Z offers a remarkably dry ride, and with practice and attention, it is easy to hold a steady course. I often steer with one hand—if you’re in a mini tug you need one hand almost permanently free so you can wave at admiring passers-by.
The Candu E-Z is designed to comfortably accommodate three to five, and even up to seven adults. Most builders configure the cockpit with athwartships seating for two in the stern, and side storage lockers double as side benches. In the cabin there is room for one or two more seats, but we have left this space empty of furniture; it is large enough for a queen-sized air mattress (with one end tucked under the foredeck) making it well-suited for an overnight on board. There is a storage area in the bow, beneath the foredeck, which is commonly used to house an anchor or porta-potti. This space can be accessed from within the cabin and a hatch in the foredeck provides access from above. However, the hatch is relatively small, so it doesn’t provide easy access to the foredeck from below. Instead, we have found the best way to reach the bow is by walking along the narrow side decks.
Adam Riso
AWOOGAH and TOOT-TOOT were together at the 2025 WoodenBoat Show at Mystic Seaport. To fit on a standard 8′ 6″-wide trailer, the Candu E-Z—with a beam of 7′ 4″— must be elevated above the fenders.
The Candu E-Z is a delightful little vessel—straightforward to build yet rewarding in its challenges. Ours, outfitted with playful touches such as resounding horns, bright lights, and fluttering flags, is as much a conversation piece as it is a boat. Graceful on the water and cheerful to experience, it never fails to bring a smile to those who see it. It is not designed for speed or flashy maneuvers. Yet these mini tugs possess a unique power of their own—the ability to bring joy, wonder, and smiles to those who encounter them.
Adam Riso works in healthcare and is looking forward to spending more time in his Candu E-Z, AWOOGA, with his family. He kept a photographic record of the building of AWOOGA at www.awoogatug.com.
Is there a boat you’d like to know more about? Have you built one that you think other Small Boats readers would enjoy? Please email us your suggestions.
I grew up paddling cedar-strip canoes in northern Ontario and, as an avid woodworker for 30 years, I had always dreamed of building one. However, it wasn’t until I was 50 years old that I built a 17′ tripping canoe followed by two 15′ wilderness canoes.
In June 2024, I decided to take on a more challenging project: the elegant Liz Pulling Boat designed by Ken Bassett and detailed in Susan Van Leuven’s amazing book, Woodstrip Rowing Craft: How to Build, Step by Step. I thought it would be perfect for early-morning workouts on the water as well as enjoying being afloat with my family and friends. It was designed to be built lapstrake, but Newfound Woodworks in Bristol, New Hampshire, has adapted the design for strip-plank construction. I bought the standard set of detailed plans, which contained 19 pages of full-sized drawings and was accompanied by a 48-page instructional manual illustrated with multiple photographs. Throughout the project, whenever I emailed Newfound Woodworks with specific questions, they were always helpful.
Ty Bailey
I built the Liz with strip planking and no staples, using cargo straps to apply the required pressure while the epoxy cured in the seams. Unlike in canoes where the strips leave an awkward football-shaped hole to be filled in the bottom of the hull, in the Liz there is a keel plank to which the ends of the strips are glued before being easily planed flush.
Building the Liz
After I purchased all the wood, I set up the molds on the strongback in my workshop. Then I built the transom by laminating 1 1⁄4″ × 8″ pieces of cherry joined with #0 biscuits; the keel plank was fashioned from a 16′ length of 1″-thick Douglas fir, and the stem from two pieces of solid white ash, joined with a scarf joint. All three of these structural members required a rolling bevel, which was new to me, but the plans and book provided comprehensive and clear instructions. For the planking, I bought 10 pieces of 1″ × 8″ rough-cut, clear, white cedar boards, which I milled to 5⁄16″ × 3⁄4″ strips before planing them with a thickness planer to exactly 1⁄4″ thickness before routing the bead and cove profiles.
I spent some time bookmatching the strips and then planked about eight strips per day using the staple-less method. Aside from getting tennis elbow from the repetitive use of the spring clamps, the planking was quite straightforward and began with the sheer strip. Unlike the canoes of my previous experience, the beveled keel plank in the Liz makes planking toward the bottom of the hull easier as the end of each strip is glued to the keel and then easily planed flush with it, thus eliminating the problematic football shape that must be filled in the bottom of a keel-less canoe hull.
Ty Bailey
With the hull planked up, it was turned over and I faired the inside. Then began the fitout. The cherry inwales were installed first, then the foredeck, then the cherry outwales. The very light-colored sheer planks contrast nicely with the darker-toned gunwales.
I was pleased that I had spent the extra time carefully planing the strips before building the hull, as it made fairing surprisingly easy using a block plane and spokeshave followed by a random-orbit sander with 80-grit, and then 120-grit on a longboard as well as a flexible sanding pad for the curved surfaces. For the sheathing, I used System Three Silvertip epoxy with slow hardener. Its long working time allowed me to really work it into the 6-oz fiberglass when applying the saturation coat, and gave me 72 hours in which to apply additional coats without having to sand between them. Once the epoxy had cured, I was able to sand the hull, again using a random-orbit sander with 120-grit discs.
Once I had finished fairing the hull, I built the 16′-long wear shoe by scarfing two lengths of 1⁄2″ × 6″ white oak. The wear shoe is attached to the bottom of the keel to protect it when beaching. I fastened it with #6 × 1″ wood screws in countersunk holes which I filled with wooden plugs set in epoxy; once the epoxy was cured, I sanded the plugs flush with the surface. I then sealed the join along the edges between shoe and keel with a generous application of thickened epoxy to create a watertight filleted edge.
Three months after starting (having worked about 15 hours per week), I flipped the hull. I fashioned the gunwales—created with inwales and outwales built separately—of 1″ × 1″ cherry scarfed to provide the required length. The inwales have scupper holes cut every 6″. I produced these by clamping both inwales together and drilling holes along the centerline with a 7⁄8″ Forstner bit, then cutting out the wood between the drill holes with a jigsaw, and finally hand-sanding the inside faces of the scuppers with 80-grit paper taped to a wooden block as well as a 1⁄2″-diameter dowel for the curves. Once shaped, the inwales were glued to the hull with thickened epoxy and fastened with #4 × 1″ wood screws from the outside. When I planked the hull, I had chosen a very pale strip for the sheerplank strips so that it would contrast with the deeper tone of the cherry gunwales.
Lisa Bailey
For a novice sculler, the stability of the Liz is forgiving while the light weight and waterline length provide easy acceleration and satisfying speed.
With the inwales in place, I crafted the small foredeck—just 18″ in length—using cherry with two ash accent strips. This was through-fastened to the inwale with #8 × 1 1⁄2″ screws, and then I completed the gunwales by fitting the outwales, again using thickened epoxy. For extra strength, I added three #8 x 2″ screws through the completed gunwales and into the deck. The screws were set in countersunk pre-drilled holes that I subsequently filled with cherry bungs.
Although my Liz would have a sliding-seat rowing rig, I fitted two fixed thwarts made of 7⁄8″-thick solid cherry with contrasting ash strips. The plans show a single seat in the stern, somewhat larger than my boat’s aft thwart, but I decided on two thwarts to add additional stiffness to the hull. The thwarts can be used by passengers when the sliding seat is being used. I have found that having a passenger in the stern seat is ideal as it does not affect the trim but when there is a passenger in the bow, the trim is less good as the bow drops somewhat. With their ends shaped to the contour of the hull interior, the seats are screw-fastened to risers epoxied to the hull. Each thwart has a central support standing on the keel plank. After that, all that remained was to build the two stands for the sliding-seat rowing unit.
As I completed work on the boat, I also built a pair of 9′ 6″ hollow-shaft sculls using plans from Angus Rowboats.
Ty Bailey
I included an extra thwart forward of the rowing station to give the hull extra strength and stiffness. The plans call for no forward thwart but do include a generously sized seat in the stern.
I began varnishing the boat’s interior in early April, making sure to keep the shop’s electric heater going all night so the temperatures would be warm enough for the varnish to cure. Once the finish was complete, I installed the Piantedosi rowing unit. At first glance, installing the stands and attaching the rowing unit to them seemed daunting, but once again Van Leuven’s book was thorough and walked me through the process step-by-step. I was unable to source the gunwale clamps specified in the book to secure the unit’s wings to the gunwales; instead, I used bronze side-mounted oarlocks with 1⁄2″ carriage bolts anodized with a black finish and lock washers.
The Liz on the water
The build took 300 hours, and once I had launched the boat, I was pleased to find that, when getting in and out, it feels very stable. This is also true underway in open water even with waves exceeding 18″ and winds of about 15 knots. It glides through the water gracefully with no hint of porpoising as my weight shifts fore and aft on the sliding seat. The Liz is often referred to as elegant, and this can be applied equally to its appearance and its performance in a variety of conditions.
Lisa Bailey
The Liz is satisfying to build, fun to row, and pleasing to look at—a good choice for the amateur builder and new rower alike.
When I launched the boat, I was new to rowing, but as I have learned proper sculling technique and have been able to get into a rhythm, I have been impressed by the speed at which Liz moves through the water (I average about 100 yards per minute). On a few occasions, the wind has picked up, but the boat has handled it well, cutting through the chop and maintaining its course. Recently, a passing pontoon boat created a 2′ wake on my beam but the Liz neither rocked crazily nor took on any water.
For an amateur boatbuilder looking for a fun yet challenging project, I would recommend the Liz; and for a novice rower, seeking an elegant and forgiving boat in which to enter the world of sliding seats and sculling, the Liz Pulling Boat is a great choice.
Ty Bailey is a recently retired high school guidance counselor who lives in Bobcaygeon, Ontario, Canada. He enjoys a variety of forms of woodworking such as timber-frame construction, log-cabin building, cabinetmaking, carving, and most recently has developed a love for boat building. When not in his woodshop, Ty can be found enjoying a variety of outdoor sports such as cycling, skiing, golf, tennis, and of course, rowing.
Full plans (price $160) and a kit (price $3,870) for the strip-planked Liz Pulling Boat are available from Newfound Woodworks.
Is there a boat you’d like to know more about? Have you built one that you think other Small Boats readers would enjoy? Please email us your suggestions.
Alex Latham was 31 when he learned to sail. He had been thinking about it for years but never quite got around to it. He was just too busy with other things: mountaineering, foraging, paragliding, mountain unicycling, and generally having a good time while living on a boat with his partner, Heather, in the ultimate party town of Brighton, on the southeast coast of England. He was young, he was a free spirit, and he loved outdoor adventures.
The couple moved west, back to south Devon, where they both grew up, in 2017. Alex launched a business teaching foraging and outdoor survival skills in his family’s 10-acre woodland near Chagford on Dartmoor. Then Covid happened and, like everyone else, he found himself with a lot of time on his hands. Someone offered him an old 11′ Heron dinghy, and Alex jumped at it. It wasn’t in the best shape, but he patched it up and took it down to Stoke Gabriel on the River Dart where, over the next few months, he learned to sail.
Learning to sail
When Alex decides to do something, he throws himself into it absolutely; he’s an all-or-nothing guy. In a logbook of his first 100 sails, he recorded his first lesson with instructor Will Howitt from the Stoke Gabriel Boating Association on November 9, 2020. By the following November he’d been out sailing on a variety of boats (many loaned by the association) 48 times—almost once a week, including through the winter. It took him just over two years to clock up his first 100 sails.
Photographs by Alex Latham
HECATE was Alex’s entry into the world of sailing. An older Heron dinghy, given to him by a friend, she served him well as a starter boat, but was soon replaced by a larger Enterprise dinghy.
The logbook is full of accidents and mishaps, as you’d expect from a complete beginner, as well as sublime sailing moments and nature observations (seals are commonplace on the river). He and his friends were repeatedly getting stuck in the mud or tangled up in the trees, which grew on the bank, or running out of fuel; and various bits of various boats broke (boom jaws, tiller extension, halyards, a forestay). After a month he had his first capsize, followed a week later by his first singlehanded sail. By March 2021, he’d learned to reef the sail, and the following month he took his own boat to sea for the first time.
By this time, he’d bought another boat, a 13′ 3″ Enterprise dinghy. He based it at Hope Cove, a picturesque village on the south coast of Devon, which has a sandy beach popular with local boaters and tourists alike. On a clear day, to the west, you can see the coast of Cornwall stretching around from Plymouth as far as the Lizard peninsula—50 miles away.
An early voyage
In April 2021, Alex and Heather headed out of Hope Cove in their heavily laden Enterprise in the company of a few friends in kayaks and canoes and on paddleboards. The flotilla followed the coast north for 3 miles to Burgh Island (setting of Agatha Christie’s novel, And Then There Were None), where they had chips at the Pilchard Inn, before continuing another mile to Aymer Cove, where they all set up camp. Alex went snorkeling and caught a dogfish with his speargun, which he cooked on an open fire and served with foraged sorrel and sea beet. The next day, they sailed back to Hope Cove; they had completed their first overnight dinghy cruise.
Nic Compton
The layout in the Wanderer (made famous by Margaret Dye for whom it was designed) lends itself to cruising, with generous storage space in the stern locker and beneath the foredeck. For smaller gear needed during the day, the open-face storage bins beneath the side decks give ready access.
“That was my first experience of not only sailing and camping overnight, but also catching the food that we ate!” Alex later recalls. “Seeing the potential for adventure that you can get from a small boat which sails, compared to, say, a kayak or something like that, was really amazing. It’s the amount of equipment you can carry, but it still felt like it was super simple to camp on that beach.”
In truth, dinghy cruising had always been Alex’s ultimate goal. He had read about intrepid small-boat sailors such as Frank Dye, who sailed a Wayfarer from the U.K. to Iceland and Norway and later cruised extensively with his wife Margaret; Jonathan Dunnett, who windsurfed solo around the British Isles; and Yvan Bourgnon, who sailed around the world in a 21′ homemade cabinless catamaran. Such challenges appealed to him. “I am drawn to sailing in small boats because it’s a way you can bring a good sense of adventure close to home, affordably,” he says. “That really appeals to me: affordability in both financial and environmental terms: adventure that doesn’t cost the earth. Boats are often seen as quite wasteful, but dinghy sailing has no more impact than camping in a tent in the hills, and it’s unusual and adventurous in a way that hiking isn’t. For me, it was a way to take another step of adventure that really felt challenging, but which I could achieve out of the back door.”
First, however, he had to find the right boat. After nearly a year of sailing the Enterprise, it was tired. Toward the end of 2021 a shroud pulled out of the deck, and on closer inspection, Alex discovered it had been attached with just a few small screws and no backing plates. “It was a break waiting to happen,” he wrote. He realized he needed a more seaworthy vessel if he was to venture farther afield. Three months later, he bought his third boat, a 14′ fiberglass Wanderer. The price tags for his three boats had gone from Free (the Heron) to £300 (the Enterprise) to £1,300 for the Wanderer with a 2.3-hp outboard.
Fixing up the Wanderer
Older and wiser after 15 months of sailing, Alex wasn’t taking anything for granted. “I knew this was going to be my more expedition-worthy boat,” he says. “I felt ready and wanted to make sure that the boat was ready, too. I thought if I really went over the whole boat, every single bolt, then I would feel confident. Because, ultimately, I’m still pretty new to it. I just wanted to really understand the boat.”
Nic Compton
MEANDER sails well under mainsail alone. Alex frequently roller furls the jib and then, if he’s still over-pressed, ties a reef in the main.
Alex spent three weeks inspecting every last inch of the new boat. MEANDER (as she was called) had been set up for racing, so he stripped back and simplified the rig. He changed the standing rigging so he could lower the mast on his own at sea, in case of emergency. He made canvas holders for the oarlocks and halyards, and for general stowage. He stripped and varnished every piece of wood. He even sewed an extra line of reef nettles into the mainsail, which he hasn’t yet needed to use. And he went over the engine, teaching himself the basics.
“It was so cheap to do up—just a few hundred pounds,” Alex says. “And, honestly, I have done just a few hours a year since then, maintaining the boat. It is amazing how putting in that time at the beginning, all the maintenance woes seem to disappear. I’ve been surprised at how little I’ve needed to do since. And she just keeps sailing beautifully.”
Early cruising
Despite the prep work, it’s fair to say that Alex’s first cruise on MEANDER—also his first solo overnighter—was not a great success. Tempted by that tantalizing view to the west, he decided to cross Plymouth Sound—an open body of water 3 miles wide at its entrance that can get quite rough—and venture past Rame Head, about 20 miles away, into neighboring Cornwall. He had a fast crossing in a fresh easterly breeze, but once he landed in Cornwall, he found that the beach he’d chosen was on a lee shore and struggled to get the boat back in the water because of the waves. “It was a lesson in how hard it is to singlehandedly launch something like a Wanderer, which isn’t even all that heavy.” Reluctantly, he started up the outboard and headed east back across Plymouth Sound to a beach at the mouth of the River Yealm where he anchored off. There Alex spent an uncomfortable night in the bottom of the boat—he had made no provision for sleeping on board—before motoring home early the next morning. “A wet and miserable passage!” he wrote in his logbook.
Crossing Plymouth Sound in a small boat is always daunting. The combination of open, often rough, water on all sides and commercial traffic coming and going from Plymouth’s busy port requires an attentive skipper. For Alex, on his first overnight solo outing, it was a stressful time in a stiff breeze.
The experience didn’t put him off, however, and a few weeks later he started planning his longest trip to date: 120 miles from Hope Cove, Devon, to Falmouth, Cornwall, and back. It was an audacious voyage for someone with relatively little experience (he had been sailing less than two years). The Cornish coast is famously rocky and inhospitable—not for nothing is the area known as “the graveyard of ships”—and negotiating its many offshore rocks is a fair challenge for an experienced sailor on a well-found yacht, never mind a novice in a 14′ dinghy. Yet Alex wasn’t fazed by the undertaking.
“I’m lucky to have spent a lot of time in pretty rough weather, in the mountains, with my outdoor pursuits,” he says. “So, even though I was new to sailing, I already had a certain level of experience in terms of management of gear and self-management, and a sense of self-reliance in an inhospitable environment that gave me the confidence to do it. Whether or not that was sensible is up to other people’s interpretation, but it certainly seemed sensible to me.”
Roger Siebert
.
MEANDER was, by now, well-prepared for the voyage; it was just a matter of packing personal gear, such as a tent, a bivouac, and some food. Again, he didn’t plan to sleep on board, partly because the curved thwarts were uncomfortable and partly because he wanted to get off the boat each day. As a longtime hiker he’s well equipped for camping ashore but, he acknowledges, there were times on the trip when sleeping on board might have been useful.
Alex planned to make the voyage in two parts. First he would sail west to Falmouth, where he would leave the boat and travel overland back to Chagford to teach a foraging class at his woodcraft center. Then, a week later he would return to Falmouth to sail home.
Alex typically anchors the boat offshore and camps ashore, but the sandy bottom at Hemming Beach made for a soft overnight landing.
He packed enough food for a week. His pantry included all the usual long-life foods such as pasta, rice, bread wraps, pouches of ready-cooked lentils, and some canned fish. He also took a lot of fresh vegetables, because “I find it very mindful just sitting there and cutting vegetables really inefficiently with a small penknife.” He scoffed at the idea of energy bars; he prefers a slice of whole wheat bread and peanut butter to boost his energy. Liquid refreshments included home-brew beer and some elderflower champagne.
Practicing what he teaches, Alex is a keen forager and supplements his onboard supplies with samphire from the seashore and various seaweeds, particularly spaghetti seaweed, which can be lightly boiled and added to a stir fry. His foraging includes fishing, either by line or with a speargun (his preferred method). Spear fishing, he argues, is the least impactful way of catching fish because you can select exactly the species, size, and even the sex of the fish you are shooting. There is no bycatch and little chance of the fish escaping with an injury (as often happens when using a fishing line) because he rarely misses his mark.
The big trip
Alex arrived in Hope Cove the night before his planned departure and, after enjoying a drink with friends on their yacht anchored in the bay, headed up to Bolt Tail—the headland that forms the southern arm of the bay—to camp for the night. The forecast for the coming week was for easterlies, which in theory, would push him down the coast towards Falmouth. By the time he got going the next morning, however, the offshore northerly breeze had kicked in and flattened the promised easterly; MEANDER drifted gently past now-familiar sights. This is one of the loveliest and most unspoiled stretches of Devon’s extensive coastline, with high rocky headlands topped by arable and grazing land, and sheltering secluded beaches, each prettier than the last: Hope Cove, South Milton, Thurlestone, Bantham, Bigbury, and Mothecombe.
Leaving an anchorage in the early morning often required dealing with beach surf, a light onshore breeze, and an incoming tidal current. Despite having an outboard motor, however, Alex prefers to use the paddle whenever possible.
But it is not without its perils. Between the beaches, the cliffs are stark and unforgiving, and between the Devon coast to the east and the Cornish coast to the west is Plymouth Sound. Alex remembered his first trip down this way and decided not to tackle the Sound late on his first day but, instead, tucked into the River Yealm. There were people on the small beach enjoying a fire, so he anchored off and cooked a meal on board MEANDER, before setting up camp ashore once they had gone.
He had decided that it was usually better to anchor off, rather than try to beach and risk getting stuck or damaging the boat. The tidal range in these parts averages between 11’ and 16’ and if you get your calculations wrong things can quickly go awry. But getting ashore from anchor provides its own challenges. Alex does have a pack raft, which he made from a kit, using heat-sealable fabric, but not wanting to use it every day and risk it being damaged—he thinks of it as his emergency raft—he decided to swim ashore. He stuffed his overnight gear into a dry bag (also homemade, from an old truck tarp) and swam into the beach where he made camp.
Alex set off the next morning and crossed Plymouth Sound, past Rame Head—where he had got into trouble on the previous voyage—and on toward the historic fishing harbor of Looe, some 17 miles away. When he arrived, he decided he wasn’t interested in engaging with human society, and instead, in a dying wind, motored past Looe Island to a small beach on Talland Bay.
Rame Head, to the west of Plymouth Sound, is a landmark headland that tells sailors they are leaving Devon and entering Cornwall. On the summit of the headland is the ruin of St. Michael’s Chapel, built in the 14th century.
The next day, the winds were light again, but he made fair progress westward, sailing 19 miles before the wind faded once more and he had to motor around the 375′-high cliffs of Dodman Point into Varyan Bay. Once again he camped on the beach, and once again he got up late to find the early morning breeze had faded to nothing. He set off, slowly drifting along the coast, and was joined by a large pod of dolphins some 20 or 30 strong, frolicking around the boat. Eventually, Alex drifted back a mile to end up at Hemmick Beach and found himself joining a group of people engaged in a dance-movement class on the beach.
“I landed on the beach in the golden evening light, and there was a large circle of people doing really strange movements around a campfire,” he says. “So, I sat with them for a while and had a really cool evening, watching the full moon rise and drinking whisky from a hip flask. It could have been anywhere in the world, but was just a few hours from home.”
His time was running out, however, so the next morning Alex got up early and set sail for Falmouth, still 11 miles to the west. At last, the wind cooperated and by lunchtime he had picked up Heather from the front in Falmouth and together they sailed up the Helford River—a few miles to the west—and moored MEANDER up a narrow sheltered creek, which was safe, quiet, and remote.
The return journey
A week later he was back, and after freeing MEANDER from the mud, he set sail for Hemmick Beach once again. The wind had shifted to the southwest, as he’d hoped, and he had a fast, exciting run along the coast under spinnaker. There were no dancers or dolphins in Varyan Bay, and the idyllic Hemmick Beach had become a lee shore. Nevertheless, he anchored off and went ashore for the night.
On his voyage from Hope Cove to Falmouth and back, Alex saw a variety of weather from flat calms to strong winds, bright sunshine and fair breezes.
“Perhaps I let familiarity get the better of me,” Alex says. “I just thought, ‘It’s late, this is where I need to go.’ I wasn’t thinking with the same critical eye as I had on the way down, when every beach was new.”
As the wind picked up the next morning, he realized he needed to make a quick getaway. The tide was going out, so he quickly waded MEANDER out into deeper water, clambered aboard, and tried to start the engine. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing. On the last day of the outward voyage, he had lost the gas-tank cap over the side. He had bought a new one, but it hadn’t fit quite right and, he reasoned, water must have made its way into the tank. He raised the sails and for nearly an hour tacked into the onshore breeze as he struggled to round Dodman Point. It was a classic lee-shore scenario, one that has been played out countless times by much bigger ships along this coast and has all too often ended in shipwreck and terrible loss of life.
But, says Alex, “It was never perilous. It was just: ‘I’m not going anywhere, but I’m also not going the wrong way, either.’ Something like that makes you appreciate how much security engines add to your setup. The thing is, people make mistakes, and it’s good to have an engine for when that happens.”
Soon after MEANDER eventually cleared Dodman Point, the wind died, and Alex managed just 10 miles that day, reaching Polridmouth Bay, just south of Fowey. The next morning, he rowed into Fowey, where a friendly mechanic took the outboard away to be fixed. It was the only time during the trip that MEANDER was moored overnight in a harbor. But, not having a boat tent, Alex grabbed his bivouac and camped on a deserted beach on the other side of town.
The following morning, the mechanic showed up with the outboard, fixed and with a correctly-fitting gas cap. Alex headed out to sea again. A Force 6 offshore wind was blowing as he headed out of Fowey and sailed along the coast under reefed main and no jib. When he arrived in Plymouth Sound, there was a nasty chop—the conditions were challenging, but exhilarating.
The view from Cellars Beach at the mouth of the River Yealm became a familiar sight for Alex, who stayed here on both his solo trips. Here, looking west to Rame Head in the distance, the headland to the right was, for the second half of the 20th century, home to a Royal Navy gunnery school. The land is now owned by the National Trust and has been returned to its natural state. At left, Great Mewstone (known locally as, simply, The Mewstone), half a mile off the coast, is one of the largest islands off the South Devon coast. Once in the firing line of the gunnery school, it is once more an important nesting site for seabirds.
He covered 20 miles that day, finishing up at his now-familiar beach at the mouth of the River Yealm. But it was the following day, as he was sailing under mainsail and spinnaker, trailing a line over the stern to catch some fish, that he had his epiphany.
“After nine days of sailing singlehanded, I was hiked out slightly, with the spinnaker flying and the fishing line streaming behind me; that’s when I started to feel like I was getting it. That was the high point of the trip.”
So content was Alex that, rather than head straight home to Hope Cove, he turned back and sailed for another hour, before reluctantly heading in to land. And, for the first time on the trip he caught some fish: four fine mackerel to share with Heather for dinner. A video he made of the trip captures the moment he came into Hope Cove and patted the boat, saying, “Well done, MEANDER. Well done.” It was the end of the voyage, but there would surely be many more.
Alex has rigged a line to hold the tiller, allowing him to relax and enjoy the view. MEANDER is set up so that everything—from running lines to VHF radio—is within easy reach for singlehanded sailing.
“It was probably the most empowering adventure I’ve had up to now, because it was the combination of so many things that I’ve aspired to learn over the years, from foraging to fishing to sailing to being psychologically independent. All those things came together on this trip, and I felt like I was thriving,” Alex says.
“When you’re singlehanded sailing at sea, there’s a lot going on, and it fills the mind with the immediacy of the moment and what you need to do. People achieve that mindfulness in different ways, through meditation or yoga for example. For me, it’s a very special thing that I can achieve sailing a small boat at sea by myself, not so far from home.”
Nic Compton is a freelance writer and photographer based in Devon, England. He has written about boats and the sea for more than 30 years and has published 16 nautical books, including a biography of the designer Iain Oughtred. He currently sails a 14′ Nigel Irens skiff and a 33′ Freedom cat-ketch. For more adventure articles by Nic, see “Wolf Rock Light,” “The Betty Effect,” and “A Man’s Best Friend.”
If you have an interesting story to tell about your adventures with a small boat, please email us a brief outline and a few photos.
As Ezra Pound wrote, “Winter is icumen in, Lhude sing Goddamm.” For those of us in the north, winter is indeed coming in. We need to think about putting away our boats. Managing a small fleet is challenging but there are steps to take and ways to work methodically that will make life easier and promote the longevity of your boats. Here are some of the lessons I’ve learned (some the hard way): clean, de-salt, and dry your boat and gear; remove as much gear as you can (from the boat); store as much as possible indoors.
There are four principal goals when putting a boat away:
Keep out the weather
Keep out the critters
Keep your gear safe and together
Keep your trailer in good condition.
Photographs by the author
It’s handy if you are able to make use of a boat’s own hardware to create support for a winter cover. Here, for the cover on my dory, I bend 1⁄2″ PVC-pipe hoops and mount them, with dowels, in the boat’s oarlock sockets. The hoops are stabilized by a 1⁄4″ line stretched bow to stern along the boat and hitched to each of the hoops.
Keeping out the weather
Protecting your boat from the winter weather—especially rain and snow—is vital. Unless you are lucky enough to have a solid roof to store it under, you will need some kind of tarp or tent. There are many ways to support a cover, depending on the size and type of your boat. I have a fitted cover for my Harrier, RAN TAN, but it isn’t peaked-up enough for snow and ice, so I add a second cover with two A-frames bolted into the four posts that I have attached to my trailer (see “Modifying Trailers”) and a solid 2×4 ridgepole. I use a white poly tarp (1,000-denier), which can last multiple seasons. The tarp is tied down to the trailer or, where that is not feasible, I weight it down by hanging partially filled gallon water jugs on the lines. If you do not have suitable posts on your trailer, you can also build A-frames that make use of the boat’s own structure.
For rowing craft, I use 1⁄2″ PVC tubes to create arches. To locate these, I insert 1⁄2″ dowels into the oarlock sockets, over which the tubes can be placed. It is good to use dowels that are slightly smaller in diameter than the sockets, as they will swell over the winter. I connect the arches to one another, fore and aft, with a length of 1⁄4″ line tightly stretched from bow to stern, clove-hitched to each of the arches. This stabilizes the arches and creates a ridgeline for the cover. Again, I use the same 1,000-denier white poly tarp.
When I set up a tarp as a cover for the first time, I mark the bow and stern: it takes the guesswork out of the job when unfolding it for reuse the following year.
Jenny Bennett
A simple wooden A-frame support for a tarp can be built to stand on a sailboat deck, making use of deck hardware where possible to hold the frame in place. When the support structure is not in use, the central beam can be unscrewed from each of the A-frames so they can be stored flat, and even hung on a wall. If summer storage space is not an issue, the frame can be lifted off in one piece.
Once covered, if possible I park the covered boat in the shade.
Keeping out the creatures
Covered boats are prime real estate for wintering mice. To minimize snug nest sites, I open up all the non-watertight compartments and pull up the floorboards. I remove anything that could be chewed and made into a nest.
In the past I’ve had trouble with critters gnawing trailer wiring where it runs—out of sight—inside the framing. Now, no wiring is led inside the trailer, instead I tape it all along the outside of the center frame.
If you have any wiring on board—perhaps to a center console—consider protecting it either with tape or tubing.
Mice love to nest in stowed sails, so I always remove them from the boat. To keep rodents away, there are commercial repellants available, and many people place mothballs in sail bags or within the folds of spar-wrapped sails. Indeed, some people also put mothballs in boats, although I have never needed to. Sails that come off spars can be cleaned, checked for damage, dried, bagged, and stored in an attic or basement, anywhere a bag can be hung. Sails that stay laced to spars can be hung in the garage, but if you are leaving them wrapped up for the winter, remember to rinse off any salt and make sure they are dry before putting them away.
My Harrier, RAN TAN, has a fitted cover, but its slope is not enough to shed snow in the winter. I create a second frame—using the trailer as a platform and a mast as a ridgepole—over which I drape a heavy-duty tarpaulin.
Keeping your gear organized
Boats need gear, some specific to a boat and some that can move from boat to boat. Any gear that is specific and will not be in danger from animals or damp—such as a rudder or oars—can be stored beneath the cover. For gear that is coming off the boat I use different storage for different items:
For running rigging, I use lidded bins, and I label the rigging if it’s at all complex.
Items like anchors and rodes can be stored together. Before putting them away, rinse the rodes with fresh water and hang them to dry thoroughly. Mice find buckets and bags of anchor line nice places to nest, so the best defense is to store them in lidded bins.
While I store navigation and emergency gear, tools, and repair kits in individual dry bags—the nav dry bag, the flare dry bag, etc.—I combine them in mesh bags, such as are used by scuba divers. During the boating season these mesh bags and their contents can simply be brought on board a boat and they are easily transferred from boat to boat.
Before putting flashlights and electronic gear away, remove their batteries. There is no such thing as a leak-proof battery.
Mesh bags are useful for storing smaller items like emergency kits and flares both during the boating season and over the winter when the bags and their contents can be hung up for storage.
Mark the expiration dates on all your flares with a big marker so they are easy to read.
Check your first-aid kit—if it has been on the boat for a sustained period, it may well have been affected by damp—bandage packaging is not proof against dampness.
PFDs and foulweather gear should be thoroughly rinsed, especially if they have been in a saltwater environment, and dried before being put away; and they should, preferably, be hung up for storage.
Mark all your bins on the outside and tag hanging bags.
Taking care of your trailer
In his article “Winterizing Trailer Tires” in the January 2025 issue of Small Boats, Christopher Cunningham wrote comprehensively about protecting tires and bearings while your trailer is laid up for the winter. I confess, I’m not that thorough but I do make sure that if a trailer is used in salt water, I douse it with fresh water as soon as possible after use, and I lubricate the trailer’s hitch before laying it up for the winter. I also jack up the trailer and use blocks or jackstands to take the weight off the tires.
The benefit of making lists
Making lists is always helpful. There is the “putting away” list, which itemizes all the tasks that need to be done as you put your boat away. It’s a good way to keep track—especially if you are joined by a helper. It’s also a good place to note where gear is stored—many of us have so many options of “great places to keep things” that we often forget where they are and waste time tracking down “lost items” each spring.
Sail and gear bags don’t have to be fancy or expensive to be suitable for winter storage. The important thing is that the contents are put away dry, the bags are hung rather than piled on the floor, and they are labeled for easy identification.
Then there are the “to do” lists that you can make as you go: there is no better time than at season’s end to list the stuff that you need to do before next season, the little things that get missed in commissioning but can be dealt with off season. And I often make a list of “improvements” that may not be essential, but that I would like to do.
The more organized and thorough you are when decommissioning a boat, the easier it will be when it comes to getting afloat in spring. And the more care you take when putting everything away, the less time you might have to spend on unexpected maintenance and repair come spring.
Ben Fuller, curator emeritus of the Penobscot Marine Museum in Searsport, Maine, has been messing about in small boats for a very long time. He is owned by a dozen or more boats: kayaks, canoes, a skiff, a ducker, and a sail-and-oar boat.
You can share your tips and tricks of the trade with other Small Boats readers by sending us an email.
There are many options for boating footwear, and I’ve tried just about everything from sandals to mukluks, but what I now wear most often are Cressi’s Minorca Shorty Boots. More shoe than boot, they have 3mm neoprene uppers with seams that are both glued and sewn. On either side are pairs of 1⁄16″ holes, down low and just in front of the heel. The insoles are also 3mm neoprene and are glued to the uppers along their perimeters. All of the neoprene is faced with a tightly knit, scuff-resistant stretch fabric. Both the toebox and heel are reinforced and protected by a layer of textured sheet rubber about 1⁄16″ thick. The sole is roughly 1⁄4″ thick and textured with slightly wavy ridges for traction. It is secured with thick black rubbery glue that overlays the seams with a lightly brushed fillet which prevents snagging and separation. Each of my boots—U.S. size 13 (EUR 47/48)—weighs 8.9 oz.
Photographs by the author
If I’m launching from a dock and keeping my feet dry, I wear the Minorca Shorty Boots with socks, as I am on my right foot in this picture. But if I’m wading out on a beach launch, I wear waterproof socks, as can be seen here on my left foot. With or without socks the booties are comfortable.
Thanks to the Minorcas’ low cut and stretchy neoprene the booties are easy to put on. In a pinch, I can even put them on with one hand—there’s no fussing with laces or pulling the collar over ankles. Taking them off can be done hands-free by first stepping on the back of the bootie to release the heel of the foot, and then stepping on the toe so the foot can pull out backward. The only time I’ve had a Minorca come off accidentally is when I’ve worn them over my drysuit’s built-in waterproof socks while doing sea-kayak wet-exit and reboarding drills—there simply wasn’t enough friction between the innermost socks and the rather slack drysuit socks. Fortunately, the booties float so I haven’t lost one.
The Minorcas are comfortable worn over bare feet and have enough stretch to be equally comfortable over waterproof socks with insulating socks underneath. The close fit, in either case, limits the amount of water that can get in. There is no sloshing after stepping out of the water and walking on dry land.
In the restricted space of a kayak cockpit, the compact size of the booties is especially important for my size-13 feet. The reinforcement on the heels protects the neoprene from wear while kayaking.
The tread on the soles provides good traction on many slippery surfaces, yet the shallow contours don’t get clogged with mud that could get tracked aboard; nor do the soles have the siping—thin slits cut in a rubber sole—common in deck shoes, which can trap sand. While thick enough to provide protection from sharp objects, the soles are not so thick that they make it difficult to feel what’s underfoot.
When the weather is warm, I’m often barefoot while boating, but after once goring my big toe on a broken drinking glass hidden in mud, I make it a habit to step ashore with something on my feet. The Minorcas are easy to have at the ready and can be put on in seconds during the approach to landing.
The simple, ridged tread on the sole provides traction while accumulating very little, if any, sand or mud.
When I’m not boating, I keep the Minorcas at hand to slip onto bare or stockinged feet when I’m taking out the trash or tending to boat tarps when the weather gets lively.
I’m on my second pair of Minorcas. I wore through one heel on my first pair after four or five years of regular use. Years from now, when I’ve worn through my current Shorty Boots, I’ll buy another pair.
Christopher Cunningham is editor at large of Small Boats.
I am an occasional painter, not a professional, and my level of competence with a paintbrush is not bad but nor is it remarkable. I achieve a decent finish, and for the most part my efforts seem to hold up well. As a child I was given the job of painting the bottom of the family boat and gained experience in not overloading my brush, not permitting the edge to dry out, watching for runs and “holidays.” Over time my technique improved, and as it did so, I was allowed to paint some of the more visible parts of the boat. By the time I was good enough to paint a deck I had, of course, developed a social life and lost interest. But those skills—such as they are—have stayed with me, and to this day, I enjoy painting. I have acquired my favorites: my favorite paint, my favorite sanding block, my favorite scraper. But, until recently, I had not homed in on a favorite brush.
Photographs by the author
The 2″ Shortcut brush is the perfect size for dipping into a standard quart-sized paint can.
For painting in the house with latex and other water-based finishes, I have tended to buy inexpensive brushes that do the job adequately, but when it comes to boats and the application of oil-based paints and varnish, I have leaned toward high-end brushes. Long ago I was told the only brush for marine finishes was a natural-bristle brush, because it holds the paint or varnish well and synthetic bristles can be weakened by oil-based finishes, so that is what I’ve always bought. And, because even with my amateur skills I can tell the difference between an uneven-tipped brush that liberally deposits bristles with every stroke, and a brush that hangs on to its bristles and leaves a clean edge, I have typically bought the more expensive ones. But, if I have one fault when it comes to painting, it is caring for (or rather, not caring for) my brushes. I always intend to clean them out properly, but ever anticipating one more coat or one more boat to be painted, I often leave them standing in a jar of thinner. And every year, I throw away at least one, if not two brushes that have stood too long and are beyond saving. It is an expensive failing.
A couple of years ago, when buying paint at a big-box DIY store, I spied some short-handled brushes in a box next to the cashier. Intrigued, I picked one up. The brush’s bristles and ferrule were standard lengths, but the handle was short, really short. Not only that, it was flexible. The packaging blurb said the Wooster Shortcut brush was suitable for all paints, and as the price was around $5, I bought one.
The Shortcut comes in a protective card holder—although it does not open fully for storing the brush, as some holders for other brushes do, and so is not easily reused. The brush at left has been used multiple times over the past year and has stood in a cup of thinners for more than a couple of months but shows no sign of degradation.
The Wooster Brush Company has been making paintbrushes since 1851 when Adam Foss and his brother went door to door in Wooster, Ohio, selling hog-bristle brushes. Since then, the company has been responsible for more than one paintbrush innovation: in 1926 they created a new cement to hold the bristles of their brushes; in 1937 they invented the angled brush—now said to be the most popular style in the U.S.; in 1941, when World War II stopped trade with China and thus cut off the supply of natural bristles, Wooster worked with DuPont to develop synthetic-filament bristles and supplied the U.S. military with nylon brushes; in 1999 they introduced the innovative Shortcut.
The Shortcut is a surprising little brush. Its handle—made of a soft, flexible, rubber-like material called Shergrip—feels good in the hand, and it gives me as much control as a conventional long-handled alternative, especially when cutting in. Because the handle is short, the brush is particularly useful in tight spaces—if you’ve ever painted the inside of a boat locker, you know all about fighting that long wooden brush handle as you try to reach the innermost corner. The brush is 2″ wide, so it’s suitable for most applications in my boats, and the sharp, angled edge of its tip creates a line smoothly and easily. The bristles are a synthetic blend and, while solvents can break down synthetic bristles, I have not yet found this happening with the Shortcut. Indeed, I have left a Shortcut standing in a jar of thinner for close to four months with no apparent degradation to either bristles or ferrule, although the shape did flare out some.
The short flexible handle is comfortable to hold and easily controlled, especially when used in tight spaces. Its only drawback is that it is too short and soft to insert into a brush spinner for cleaning.
With a Shortcut I can produce as fine a finish with varnish as with paint, and it holds onto its bristles—no more picking out those errant hairs left behind in an otherwise perfect application. The brush has worked well for both oil- and water-based finishes; I use separate brushes for each to avoid cross-contamination. It’s easy to have a dedicated Shortcut for each type of finish because the price is unbeatable: at under $6 it’s certainly more expensive than a disposable chip or foam brush, but its performance is vastly superior, and with proper care, it will last multiple seasons. Yes, I still have my first Shortcut brush, bought on a whim, but subsequently used and cleaned and used again.
Jenny Bennett is editor of Small Boats.
Wooster Shortcut brushes are available at most marine, hardware, and big-box DIY stores. Prices vary, but are typically under $6.
Is there a product that might be useful for boatbuilding, cruising, or shore-side camping that you’d like us to review? Please email your suggestions.
In 2021, Michel Sailhan was, like so many millions of people around the world, stuck at home confined by a Covid lockdown. He lives in Arès, a small town on the northern shores of Arcachon Bay in southwest France. The large bay is edged by sand dunes and pine trees and opens to the Atlantic Ocean via a narrow channel to the south beset by strong tidal currents. Michel is a retired journalist, not a boatbuilder or designer, and, he says, he has a poor grasp of mathematics. Yet, with time on his hands, he began to think about designing a boat that he could sail after the pandemic restrictions were lifted and he was again allowed to explore his local waters (in Arcachon the lockdown restrictions extended to coastal waters as well as land). He decided that for the bay, where the water is shallow and there are numerous sand and mud shoals, a shallow-draft, flat-bottomed boat would be best. Beyond that, he would like his boat to be “user-friendly—suitable for people like me who are starting to show their age.” It would be easily launched and recovered, and simple to rig. Influenced by the traditional rig of local fishing and oyster-farming boats, he decided that a single lugsail on an unstayed mast would be ideal. His dreaming eventually evolved into a lug-rigged, stitch-and-glue plywood scow of between 5 and 5.5 meters (17–18′), weighing 300kg (660 lbs) all up.
Photographs courtesy of Michel Sailhan
Thanks to a generous donation, Michel and his crew of volunteers were able to pay to have every part of the hull’s structure and its six female molds CNC-cut before they began the build.
Designing through models
Recognizing his complete lack of experience in naval architecture, Michel decided that he would begin not with pen and paper or computer programs but with a model. With lockdown restrictions still in place, he was unable to travel to nearby Bordeaux where there were modeling shops selling suitable materials. Instead, he visited the local supermarket and picked up three wooden crates used for transporting vegetables. The rough, light wood was perfect for creating thin strips of modeling wood that he could bend and glue together. He built first one model then a second. When Model 2 was complete, he visited the local boatyard and showed it to the owner. “He didn’t laugh at me,” recalls Michel, but rather, “he gave me some invaluable advice on how I might improve the design.”
About 20 volunteers were involved in building the boat. They all took part in a two-day training session in the basics of stitch-and-glue construction, and subsequently, everyone did a bit of everything.
By 2022, the number of Covid cases in France had dramatically declined and the lockdown was lifted. Michel contacted his friend, Xavier Guilbaud, a naval architect with the innovative yacht-design firm, VPLP Design in Vannes, Brittany. Guilbaud invited Michel to come visit and together they spent three hours developing Michel’s design. Before proceeding further, Guilbaud suggested putting the data of the current model into a computer program to calculate the weight distribution, and thus find the center of gravity and center of buoyancy. While he told Michel “doing that will be good,” Guilbaud cautioned him to “bear in mind that on a boat like this, the most important factor will be the position of the crew in the boat.” Nevertheless, like the boatyard owner before him, Guilbaud had not laughed at Michel.
Michel built two more models and then decided the time had come to convert his ideas to a CAD program. Another friend, Allel Behidj, a designer at Sardine Boats, a yard near Nantes, helped him to input all his information into the design program DELFTship, and to create CAD drawings for every piece of the boat. Michel at last had a named design: he was creating the Voilier Nord Bassin (the North Bay Sailboat). All he needed now was some funding and a few helping hands and he could build his boat.
The hull and deck were spray-painted to a very high quality. The hull was painted bright red, but in the cockpit and on deck the more subtle off-white was complemented by the oiled mahogany trim and accent pieces. One of the trickiest parts of the build was lifting the 154-lb stainless-steel centerboard into its trunk, seen here aft of the companionway.
Michel does not do things by half. Not for him was the idea of plugging away on his own in his garage. Instead, his next step was to set up and register a community volunteer group and start looking for sponsors. A year later, he had been joined by an enthusiastic band of about 30 volunteers who were meeting every month to discuss ways to raise funds, find a building space, and set up the yard. The town of Arès loaned them a garage, complete with running water and electricity, and allotted them some municipal funding. Then the Paris-based firm of Serpentaire, a legal consultancy for doctors and surgeons where Michel’s son works, came forward with a generous donation that allowed the group to pay for all 38 CNC-cut pieces needed to build the hull and the six female molds, and to pay for each volunteer to attend a two-day training session in the basics of stitch-and-glue construction.
Building the Voilier Nord Bassin
Ultimately, the boat was built by a team of about 20 volunteers, men and women from different backgrounds, mostly retired, working two days a week. They began by setting up the backbone and six molds, into which they laid up the two bottom panels. Next came six ’glassed and epoxied MDF frames and the topside panels. In total, the build used 12 sheets of 250cm × 122cm (8′ × 4′) 9mm marine plywood. Scarf joints were needed for the bottom and sides, and the entire construction was stitched with copper wire and glued with thickened epoxy. Everybody, says Michel, took part in everything: assembling, scarfing, stitching, gluing, laminating, fiberglassing, sanding, more sanding, and painting. After the isolation of the COVID lockdown, it was good to be among people again.
The Voilier Nord Bassin has proven fast and stable even in a stiff breeze. The yard and boom were fashioned from donated windsurfer masts.
Among the many donations that went into the build were an old Flying Dutchman rudder, which fit the boat well, a supply of mahogany sold at a discounted price—enough to build the gunwale, beam shelf, cabin doors, and other trim—two fiberglass windsurfer masts that were used for the yard and boom, and an old pinasse (the local traditional working boat) sail that was recut to the correct dimensions. The final touch, says Michel, was the choice of “Ferrari red” for the hull color.
Michel designed the Voilier Nord Bassin with a single large lugsail but found that the boat was difficult to turn into the wind, and indeed, was not at its best when closehauled.
Sailing the Voilier Nord Bassin
They launched at the beginning of the summer, 2025, in Arcachon Bay. With a crew of four, the builders were delighted to find the boat stable, even in a strong wind. On a beam or broad reach and when going downwind the performance was excellent, but when they turned onto the wind, they found it difficult to flatten the lugsail and were forced to sail more free than they would have liked; in light airs it was hard to bring her into the wind to tack. After the first trials, they came up with a plan to move the center of effort aft: they would add a mizzen. As with so many aspects of the Voilier Nord Bassin story, the crew experimented with what was readily available and by August had determined that a donated Optimist rig best solved the problem. Now, the boat performs well on all points of sail and has achieved a top speed of 8 knots.
The introduction of a mizzen—a recycled Optimist rig—has made all the difference to the Voilier Nord Bassin’s upwind performance and she now handles well on all points of sail.
The Voilier Nord Bassin is now owned, and will continue to be owned, by the association that Michel set up for the build. She is available for all members—families and friends—to sail and will be used for teaching new sailors. As for Michel, his mission complete, he has no future plans to extend his new-found knowledge of naval architecture but, as they say in France—with a shrug of course—on ne sait jamais.
Jenny Bennett is editor of Small Boats
Do you have a boat with an interesting story? Please email us. We’d like to hear about it and share it with other Small Boats readers.
This article was originally published in WoodenBoat No. 145
What is the best way to store a wooden boat for the winter to ensure that the wood will be protected? Clearly the boat needs to be kept out of the elements, but what prevents the boat from drying out too much?
At the heart of the storage problem is a dichotomy: The goal is to keep moisture in the planking and hull timbers but to keep the elements, including precipitation, out of the boat. In general, the solution is to keep the boat under cover and apply a solution to the hull to help hold some of its moisture.
Protecting the hull
To keep the bottom moist, the best method is an old method. After the boat has been sitting for about a week, it is time to cook up an age-old preservative: linseed oil and turpentine. I mix 70% raw linseed oil with 30% turpentine in a pot that fits on top of my shop woodstove. I let the mixture heat to about 150°, at which point it has the consistency of water.
Using a paint roller and brush, I apply this mixture to the bottom of the boat right over the existing paint from the keel to the waterline, making sure to thoroughly coat the stem, sternpost, keel, rudder, and planking. The mixture should be painted on very liberally to assure good coverage and penetration. This mixture serves two purposes: first, some of it penetrates the bottom paint and adds its own moisture to the wood; and second, it acts as a vapor barrier, helping the wood to hold some of its existing moisture. During the spring refit, this finish can be given a light sanding, after which the bottom paint can go on right over it.
Keeping the hull moist will keep the seams from opening up during the winter. If the wood dries out, several things can happen. For one, as the planks shrink, the seams will open, allowing the caulking cotton to dry out and loosen. If this happens, it will be hard to make the boat watertight at launch time. In addition, as the planks dry out, the fastenings can loosen, which in turn allows the planks to loosen. Another problem is that a boat may have planks that are rather old but still adequate, but when these planks dry out they can split along the grain. If they are kept moist, these planks could still have some useful life, but once split they may need to be replaced.
How to cover a boat
The best way to store a wooden boat is inside a building with a dirt floor. Concrete or blacktop, which are found in a lot of boatyards these days, draw moisture out of wood. Some boatyards, when they have a wooden boat in their shop, will pile sawdust under the hull and hose it down to create a more humid environment which, in turn, helps prevent moisture from being drawn out of the wood. However, ideal indoor storage is not available to many of us. So the challenge is to find the best way to protect the boat outside.
There are several ways to cover a boat that is not stored in a building. The work involves constructing a framework that will support a covering material. The selection of a covering material will help to determine what kind of a framework will be needed. The covering choices are canvas, plastic tarpaulins, or heat-shrink plastic. A canvas cover, being heavier and holding more snow and ice than the slippery heat-shrink plastic, will need a comparatively heavy framework. Air circulation is critical: the worst thing you can do to a wooden boat in storage is to give it a cover that creates a pocket of dead air.
The best material for the boat is a cover of canvas, which will breathe and allow good ventilation. When the cotton canvas is dry, the weave is open, allowing the material to breathe. With this air circulation, any moisture that is trapped inside the boat can dry out. When it rains, the cotton fibers swell, tightening the weave and making the canvas watertight. Like canvas camping tents, canvas boat covers are treated, which also helps in repelling water.
The canvas cover can be made up of over-the-counter canvas tarps, or it can be custom-made to fit the boat, with access flaps and vents. Although the initial cost is high, a good-quality canvas cover will last many years. In the long run, canvas is the least expensive and the best for the boat.
As a substitute for canvas, a lot of people are turning to the common blue or green plastic tarps because of their significantly lower initial cost. These don’t have the breathing quality of canvas, but the fact that it’s impossible to get a really tight seal with them works in their favor: the overlaps typical when using these tarps allow good ventilation. Like canvas covers, these tarps should be tied down with breast lines running under the boat. Regardless of what kind of cover is used, it is important that it never be tied down to jackstands, which could be dislodged by the covering’s movement during a storm.
In recent years, a lot of owners have begun using heat-shrink plastic covers. These have the advantage of being quick to install, and they don’t need an elaborate or heavy framework. Because they are smooth plastic, they are the most effective at shedding snow. They also do not soak up rainwater, so they do not gain weight in a storm.
They have the disadvantage of being usable only once, although the plastic is recyclable. Another disadvantage is that for the most part shrink-wrap is not a cover that a person can install by himself. The material has to be bought in bulk, and it requires a specialized propane heat gun to make it shrink. Most boatyards have the ability to shrink-wrap boats, and in many areas there are specialists who go around to private homes as well as boatyards to install covers. Through the winter, these covers have to be watched for the development of holes, which need to be repaired with the heat gun and additional plastic.
But the biggest problem shrink-wrap covers pose to wooden boats is that they fit very tightly and do not breathe. In my work as a marine surveyor I see many cover installations, and I always find that the boats with tight-fitting, shrink-wrap covers are damp and steamy on the inside. If you are going to use shrink-wrap to cover your wooden boat, the proper way to do it is to plan for good ventilation at the time you install the cover.
What I recommend to my customers is that they build a framework that extends out-board of the sides of the boat and terminates well below the sheer. If the framework is built of 2 x 4s on edge, this will leave a 4″ air gap all the way around the perimeter of the boat. In addition, forward and aft vents must be cut into the cover. These should be fitted with vent scoops, which can be purchased from shrink-wrap installers or made from the shrink-wrap plastic itself.
The installation of shrink-wrap is easy. The plastic is cut in such a way that one sheet will pass over the boat from one side to the other. If more than one sheet is needed, the edges are rolled together, and when these are heat-fused, a watertight seam is formed. The outboard edges are then rolled up all around the perimeter framework. When heated, this all fuses together and tightens. The cover only needs to be lain over the frame. No fastenings are needed. When heated, the plastic shrinks the same way plastic home window covers do when heated with a hair dryer.
Constructing framework for covering a boat
The framework must be strong enough to support the material chosen and stand up to the elements. For two reasons, the framework should be constructed with a high peak: first, snow will slide right off; second, a high peak will give you headroom under the cover for working on the boat during the winter. A frame can be as simple as a series of, say, 1 × 4″ wood straps or as complex as a custom-made aluminum one that can be reassembled each year.
Aluminum framing can be made by bending it into shape with a conduit bender. The conduit and bender are available from local hardware stores. Bend a section of conduit in such a way that it will form an arch from one side of the boat to the other, with the top of the arch forming the peak of the cover. Frequently these arches are attached to the boat’s stanchions to give vertical support. A ridgepole is then formed with conduit, with U-bolts joining it to the peak of the athwartships arches. If a conduit bender is not available, an aluminum frame can be made using conduit unions of various angles to tie the sections together.
Wood framing is used in most cases with blue plastic tarps or canvas covers. To set up a wood frame, first construct a ridgepole of two sections of 1 × 2″ strapping the length of the boat and double them. This ridgepole forms an arch from the bow to the stern, and it is supported by 2 × 4s cut to the desired height of the cover. Additional 1 × 2″ strapping runs from the ridgepole out to the outside of the hull, to the deck edge or to the stanchions. The 1 × 2s and the 2 × 4s can be secured together with sheetrock screws. All sharp edges should be smoothed or covered with sections of car-pet to prevent punctures in the cover. In the case of canvas or tarp covers, breast lines should be tied to the edge of the canvas and passed under the boat and up to the other side.
Tips for attaching the boat cover to the framework
Make sure that the hull is fully supported by keel blocks, cradle, or poppets
Lash the corners and edges of the canvas or plastic-tarp covers under and around the hull
Do not tie covers to the supporting poppets, which might be pulled loose with flapping
Frame the bottom of the cover away from the hull so that there is full ventilation from underneath—especially with shrink-wrap covers
Finishing touches
When the boat is properly covered, the hatches, portholes, and companionway should be opened. Inside the boat, all the lockers should be left open. The purpose of opening everything is to allow air to circulate, which will help prevent mildew. This also helps keep the interior of the vessel dry and prevents pockets of moisture that could lead to rot over time. As a further retardant to moisture and mildew, some people leave a 110-volt light or a small fan turned on inside; these should be securely held in position so they will not pose a fire hazard.
Periodically during the winter, make sure the jackstands or other hull supports are uniformly snug but not overly tight. Check the cover to make sure it is holding well, and inspect the bilges for evidence of water. If the boat is not going to be launched until late in the spring or into the summer, then during April or so heat up another batch of the mixture of raw linseed oil and turpentine and apply another liberal coat to the hull from the waterline to the keel.
With a good cover that allows ample work space under it, a lot can be accomplished during the winter, and more time in the spring can be devoted to painting and other commissioning tasks. A proper cover will also give you the satisfaction of knowing you’ve done the best you can for your boat’s long-term health.
Get your boat ready for the winter
Covering and storing your boat is a big part of protecting it during the winter, but you still have some work to do. Check out our thorough guide for winterizing a small boat for more important steps.
I spent the last week of August in Washington, D.C., visiting colleges with my daughter, a senior in high school. Coming, as we do, from a very small coastal town in Maine, a big-city visit is always a treat. But as the days progressed, the weather endlessly warm and dry, we found our footsteps mysteriously taking us ever nearer the Potomac River. We never quite made it to the edge, but occasional glimpses of water at the bottom of a dead-end street or beneath a bridge were refreshing to our spirits.
We flew back to Maine on that Friday, and as we exited the Portland airport terminal I fancied I could smell the ocean, perhaps even taste the salt in the air. I breathed deep. We arrived home in the dark and rain but when the next day dawned cloudless and calm, I made my way down to the harbor. It was still only late summer, but probably a third of the moored boats had been hauled out for the winter during the week we’d been away, and of the boats that did remain, only two—apart from the working lobsterboats—were over 20′ in length.
Jenny Bennett
I occasionally find a home-built boat at the dinghy dock (such as the Shellback Dinghy seen here, five boats from the bottom of the picture) although, of course, many of their owners may prefer to keep their beloved projects away from the crowd.
Conversely, the dinghy dock was as full as ever, and as I sat in my rowboat and bailed the previous night’s rainfall, I mused on the differences of small and large boats and, in particular, the planning and forethought required by big-boat ownership when one is dependent on yard schedules and commercial storage spaces. Even the weekend residents pull out their big boats as soon as the long family vacation is at an end; after all, who wants to leave thousands of dollars of boat and systems unattended on a swinging mooring? Better, surely, to have them safely stored ashore.
But the small boats on the dock tell a different story. A Maine winter can be cold and stormy, but on the dock, dinghies can be kept afloat well into the fall to be used on weekends or holidays or whenever the summer folk have time to return. And even if they don’t make it back more than once or twice, the mere knowledge that the boat is there, ready to be used, is perhaps enough to sustain their owners as they head inexorably into a landlocked winter.
I thought, too, of all the ways one can get into small-boat ownership these days. As ever, you can buy new or secondhand, and for the latter there are many online markets that even 20 years ago were few and far between. But the greatest changes have, surely, been in the opportunities for home boatbuilding.
Christopher Cunningham
This traditional faering was under construction at the Aspoya Boats shop in Anacortes, Washington, in 2020. Such a project may be out of reach for many potential builders but thanks to the innovative work of designers like Iain Oughtred and producers like Chesapeake Light Craft, today’s amateur builder can find many boats based on traditional designs and re-conceived for modern, more easily achieved, building techniques.
For a century, someone wanting to build their own boat has been able to buy plans, but for much of that century to actually complete the construction of anything more than the simplest hull design required specialist knowledge, the skills to loft lines, steam planks; and the time and money to invest in traditional materials. As technology has raced ahead, however, those requirements have diminished. First came new materials: plywood, glues, fiberglass, fast-curing and forgiving finishes. Then came sophisticated hand-held power tools and computer software. Today, with CAD programs and CNC routers, the ability to build a boat is within most anyone’s reach.
Of course, for those wanting to rise to the challenge of doing it the hard way, opportunities still abound. But for others looking for the satisfaction of building their own boat with little or no previous experience, there is a vast range of attainable alternatives. Take, for example, two projects featured in this month’s Small Boats. At one end of the lineup is NELI, an Annapolis Wherry Tandem from Chesapeake Light Craft built and reviewed by John Carey. At the other is LARK, a strip-planked 15′ canoe built by John and Justine Diamond. What makes these two projects disparate are not the boats themselves (although they are significantly different) but the approaches taken by their builders. Both John Carey and the Diamonds were first-time builders. But where the Diamonds sought the challenge of doing everything themselves, from selecting the cedar boards to building the strongback, seats, and paddles, John Carey chose to “assemble” his first boat from a highly-sophisticated kit of pre-cut plywood pieces, that came with everything except epoxy, finishes, and the required basic power tools. Yet, despite their obvious dissimilarities, these two approaches share commonalities: both projects were made possible by modern materials and technologies (even building from scratch, the Diamonds benefited from CAD files for the molds, which they cut out with a CNC router); both projects were greatly assisted by first-class support from the respective companies; and both projects, like many other thousands, ultimately resulted in small-boat ownership at affordable prices.
Jenny Bennett
Designed by Joel White in 1989, the Shellback Dinghy is a modern design with traditional appeal. Before the advent of good-quality plywood and effective waterproof glues, such a build would have been beyond the means of most home builders. Today, the Shellback is available in an all-inclusive kit.
Homebuilt boats may yet be in the minority at a dinghy dock or launching ramp, but thanks to the myriad products from plans to all-inclusive kits and everything in between, they are a growing breed.
To build a boat is truly a breathtaking achievement, mastered by a special breed of people. But when I reached the point in life when I wanted to “build” my own boat, I quickly seized upon the benefits of innovation and the technology of precision-cut CNC components brought together by epoxy and the stitch-and-glue process. I would assemble a boat rather than build one.
After months of intermittent reading and ruminating, I settled on the Chesapeake Light Craft (CLC) Annapolis Wherry Tandem. The boat can be used for fixed- or sliding-seat rowing, can accommodate a single rower or two, and is beautiful in all respects. The design is based on the 19th-century working livery wherries of England’s River Thames, and the folks at CLC produce CNC-cut planks of marine-grade plywood to echo the originals’ lapstrake hulls. CLC’s interpretation is a safe and swift boat in which to stay fit on the water, and to carry a passenger for the day or gear for a week. CLC’s owner and designer, John Harris, has refined the wherry design into a true masterpiece of precision parts ready for assembly.
John Carey
The Wherry’s length of 19′ 10″ does mean that it overhangs an average family car, but its hull weight of 90 lbs makes it suitable for car-topping. A canoe loader/support mounted in the trailer-hitch receiver provides more stability and support for the Wherry than the car’s closely-spaced factory roof racks can.
When searching for a boat to build/assemble, if at all possible, try an example before you write the check. Yes, you can read endlessly, and you should. But the rowing community is out there and often willing to meet up. I have had my boat for seven years and have encouraged many interested people to take it for a spin. CLC understands this. When I was still looking, I stopped by their display at that year’s WoodenBoat Show in Mystic, Connecticut, and they allowed me to “test-drive” several boats. The first few strokes in the harbor and the first slow row out to the drawbridge and back in an Annapolis Wherry sold me. All I needed to do was purchase an Annapolis Wherry Tandem kit, which could be loaded onto my car’s roof rack.
The all-inclusive kit
Unpacking the kit from its neatly arranged 8′-long box was the beginning of discovering a thoughtful design. With the exception of finishes and epoxy, everything is provided. No tools are needed beyond the basics—quite a few 3″ spring clamps, a palm sander, jigsaw, drill, and a flexible Japanese ryoba saw. The construction manual is superb, one of the best pieces of project documentation I have seen. It is a well-written sequenced narrative with useful photos, and lists of parts and materials; its pages are sturdy and spiral-bound. Who wants to refer to a tablet screen in the shop, or shuffle a pile of printed sheets while your warming cup of epoxy is waiting?
The CNC-cut okoume-plywood planks are in three pieces, each ending in a curvy puzzle joint that matches its corresponding mate. These joints are glued together to create the full-length planks and bottom panel. The frames, transom, and forward and after flotation-chamber panels are all cut with extreme precision and include tabs and slots for aligning the bulkheads’ angled joints, tiny holes for copper-wire stitches, and curved profiles. The assembly is straightforward and requires almost no fastenings. The planks, bottom, and transom are stitched together with a hundred or so copper-wire twist-ties—enough for the entire hull. While the original Annapolis Wherry was designed with a skeg and garboards that curve upward to meet the transom, the Tandem’s garboards are “boxed”; that is, they run straight to the stern and twist in their ends to meet each other vertically beneath the transom. The arrangement is self-aligning, adds volume and buoyancy, and gives the hull a tracking ability much like that of a double-ender. A small skeg on the Tandem further enhances the tracking and protects the garboards. The overlapping plank lands are filled, inside and out, with epoxy mixed with wood flour, to create extremely strong bonds when cured. When all the epoxy has cured, the wire ties are snipped away, and below the waterline the hull is sheathed, inside and out, in 6-oz fiberglass cloth and epoxy.
The only design decision that has to be made prior to installing the four structural frames is how you wish to row. While the frames are cut and profiled for specific locations, additional blocks must be installed to accommodate a sliding-seat rig. My wherry, NELI, has a drop-in Piantedosi rowing station (I borrow a second whenever I am joined by a rowing partner) that elegantly attaches to two cleats with two stainless-steel bolts and wingnuts. Many Annapolis Wherry builders opt to construct fixed-seat rowing stations with stretchers. The 119-page manual includes clear narrative and photographs on the steps required to accommodate either sliding-seat rigs or fixed thwarts.
John Carey
The frames are cut for specific locations, regardless of whether the ultimate use will include fixed-thwart or sliding-seat rowing rigs. An extra block is attached to the forward face of each frame to accommodate the sliding-seat rig. Here, the Tandem Wherry is set up for a single rower. When two are rowing, this rig moves forward to the front two frames and a second is installed between the after two frames.
Closely following the manual and sticking to the described process rewards the builder with a boat ready for finish and hull paint. From unpacking to completion, the assembly took me 58 hours over the course of a month.
Moving the boat from the barn to home strapped to a station-wagon’s roof rack was a harbinger of great things. The bare boat without the Piantedosi drop-in unit weighs 92 lbs. Fully rigged with the unit installed and carrying carbon-fiber Macon-blade sculls, the wherry tips the scales at 114.5 lbs. Though I have carefully balanced and walked the boat on my (padded) head, and rolled it into knee-deep water a number of times, there always seems to be a person around who is glad to put hands on the stern and walk it to the water’s edge with me. CLC also sells a lightweight aluminum Trailex trailer, which is the perfect size for the boat. For now, my aim is cartopping to ponds, rivers, and shorelines, and garage storage on a custom-built wall rack. In my older years, I’ll spring for the trailer and cover.
The Annapolis Wherry in action
Having built the Wherry as a simple sliding-seat boat for one or two Piantedosi stations, I use the open space in bow and stern to carry gear. A cooler, PFDs, and a small battery-operated bilge pump—useful when rowing in ocean swells—are among the items I’ve carried. The two flotation compartments are large, and I installed a standard round hatch with cover in the bow compartment so I can use it for dry storage of the essentials. A similar hatch could be installed in the stern, but for now I have left it enclosed. Many owners create clever and comfortable passenger setups in the stern—and there is plenty of room to do so.
Robert Englehardt
I am 6′ 5″ and weigh more than 200 lbs but have found rowing the Wherry comfortable and stable. While rowing with a smaller partner—as I am here with University of Massachusetts varsity oarsman Luke Shamaly—the Wherry is best trimmed if I row stroke.
At 19′ 10″, the boat has the length to maintain speed without porpoising as the rower’s weight shifts back and forth on the slide. I am 6′ 5″, weigh 207 lbs, and have a long stroke; in shorter rowing boats porpoising has sometimes been an issue. Though I’ve never measured it, I trust CLC’s published cruising speed of 5 to 6 knots. Compared to most sport-sculling or racing shells, the boat is rock steady, requiring no effort to set (or keep on) an even keel during each recovery when the oar blades are not in the water and the hull alone provides the stability. When rowing with a skilled partner, I agree with CLC’s own description: “With two rowers aboard, top speeds are definitely in the ‘racing’ category.” Indeed, I have raced NELI with a partner three times in the 20-mile Blackburn Challenge; each of us weighs more than 200 lbs, and she slips confidently along; her specified carrying capacity is 650 lbs. Our best estimate with this year’s finish time of 3 hours and 20 minutes, was an average speed of 6 knots given the course steered; the conditions were near-perfect. In 2024, the conditions were less than perfect—2′+ swells and an 8-knot breeze—and we had to bail frequently.
Mostly, however, the sharp entry seems to help the boat track its course, and the flare in the bow knocks away spray. The boxed garboard and wooden skeg are adequate for tracking.
Robert Englehardt
The Wherry’s sharp entry assists with its tracking, while the flare in the bow deflects spray away from the boat in most conditions. When rowing through 2′ swells and into a headway—far from optimal conditions—my partner and I did need to bail.
With a bright-white hull and varnished interior, gunwales, and breasthook, the Annapolis Wherry Tandem is a head-turner. From astern, abeam, on the water, or dragged up on a beach, complimentary commentary from strangers is a constant. The functional beauty of a gentle and traditional sheer above a lapstrake hull takes the mind and heart somewhere else. “Just look at it,” said a passerby recently. With time and space, perhaps a partner to work with, some drive, and a little courage for the first-timer (like me), you, too, can assemble a truly fine boat.
John Carey has rowed competitively and recreationally for 38 years, coaching high school and college crews. He is an educator at a technical high school in western Massachusetts and was inspired by his students to build his first boat.
The Annapolis Wherry Tandem complete kit from Chesapeake Light Craft is $1,935; plans and manual are $139.
For information on the Annapolis Wherry Solo, go to The Annapolis Wherry by Mike O’Brien.
Is there a boat you’d like to know more about? Have you built one that you think other Small Boats readers would enjoy? Please email us your suggestions.
To build a boat is truly a breathtaking achievement, mastered by a special breed of people. But when I reached the point in life when I wanted to “build” my own boat, I quickly seized upon the benefits of innovation and the technology of precision-cut CNC components brought together by epoxy and the stitch-and-glue process. I would assemble a boat rather than build one.
After months of intermittent reading and ruminating, I settled on the Chesapeake Light Craft (CLC) Annapolis Wherry Tandem. The boat can be used for fixed- or sliding-seat rowing, can accommodate a single rower or two, and is beautiful in all respects. The design is based on the 19th-century working livery wherries of England’s River Thames, and the folks at CLC produce CNC-cut planks of marine-grade plywood to echo the originals’ lapstrake hulls. CLC’s interpretation is a safe and swift boat in which to stay fit on the water, and to carry a passenger for the day or gear for a week. CLC’s owner and designer, John Harris, has refined the wherry design into a true masterpiece of precision parts ready for assembly.
John Carey
The Wherry’s length of 19′ 10″ does mean that it overhangs an average family car, but its hull weight of 90 lbs makes it suitable for car-topping. A canoe loader/support mounted in the trailer-hitch receiver provides more stability and support for the Wherry than the car’s closely-spaced factory roof racks can.
When searching for a boat to build/assemble, if at all possible, try an example before you write the check. Yes, you can read endlessly, and you should. But the rowing community is out there and often willing to meet up. I have had my boat for seven years and have encouraged many interested people to take it for a spin. CLC understands this. When I was still looking, I stopped by their display at that year’s WoodenBoat Show in Mystic, Connecticut, and they allowed me to “test-drive” several boats. The first few strokes in the harbor and the first slow row out to the drawbridge and back in an Annapolis Wherry sold me. All I needed to do was purchase an Annapolis Wherry Tandem kit, which could be loaded onto my car’s roof rack.
The all-inclusive kit
Unpacking the kit from its neatly arranged 8′-long box was the beginning of discovering a thoughtful design. With the exception of finishes and epoxy, everything is provided. No tools are needed beyond the basics—quite a few 3″ spring clamps, a palm sander, jigsaw, drill, and a flexible Japanese ryoba saw. The construction manual is superb, one of the best pieces of project documentation I have seen. It is a well-written sequenced narrative with useful photos, and lists of parts and materials; its pages are sturdy and spiral-bound. Who wants to refer to a tablet screen in the shop, or shuffle a pile of printed sheets while your warming cup of epoxy is waiting?
The CNC-cut okoume-plywood planks are in three pieces, each ending in a curvy puzzle joint that matches its corresponding mate. These joints are glued together to create the full-length planks and bottom panel. The frames, transom, and forward and after flotation-chamber panels are all cut with extreme precision and include tabs and slots for aligning the bulkheads’ angled joints, tiny holes for copper-wire stitches, and curved profiles. The assembly is straightforward and requires almost no fastenings. The planks, bottom, and transom are stitched together with a hundred or so copper-wire twist-ties—enough for the entire hull. While the original Annapolis Wherry was designed with a skeg and garboards that curve upward to meet the transom, the Tandem’s garboards are “boxed”; that is, they run straight to the stern and twist in their ends to meet each other vertically beneath the transom. The arrangement is self-aligning, adds volume and buoyancy, and gives the hull a tracking ability much like that of a double-ender. A small skeg on the Tandem further enhances the tracking and protects the garboards. The overlapping plank lands are filled, inside and out, with epoxy mixed with wood flour, to create extremely strong bonds when cured. When all the epoxy has cured, the wire ties are snipped away, and below the waterline the hull is sheathed, inside and out, in 6-oz fiberglass cloth and epoxy.
The only design decision that has to be made prior to installing the four structural frames is how you wish to row. While the frames are cut and profiled for specific locations, additional blocks must be installed to accommodate a sliding-seat rig. My wherry, NELI, has a drop-in Piantedosi rowing station (I borrow a second whenever I am joined by a rowing partner) that elegantly attaches to two cleats with two stainless-steel bolts and wingnuts. Many Annapolis Wherry builders opt to construct fixed-seat rowing stations with stretchers. The 119-page manual includes clear narrative and photographs on the steps required to accommodate either sliding-seat rigs or fixed thwarts.
John Carey
The frames are cut for specific locations, regardless of whether the ultimate use will include fixed-thwart or sliding-seat rowing rigs. An extra block is attached to the forward face of each frame to accommodate the sliding-seat rig. Here, the Tandem Wherry is set up for a single rower. When two are rowing, this rig moves forward to the front two frames and a second is installed between the after two frames.
Closely following the manual and sticking to the described process rewards the builder with a boat ready for finish and hull paint. From unpacking to completion, the assembly took me 58 hours over the course of a month.
Moving the boat from the barn to home strapped to a station-wagon’s roof rack was a harbinger of great things. The bare boat without the Piantedosi drop-in unit weighs 92 lbs. Fully rigged with the unit installed and carrying carbon-fiber Macon-blade sculls, the wherry tips the scales at 114.5 lbs. Though I have carefully balanced and walked the boat on my (padded) head, and rolled it into knee-deep water a number of times, there always seems to be a person around who is glad to put hands on the stern and walk it to the water’s edge with me. CLC also sells a lightweight aluminum Trailex trailer, which is the perfect size for the boat. For now, my aim is cartopping to ponds, rivers, and shorelines, and garage storage on a custom-built wall rack. In my older years, I’ll spring for the trailer and cover.
The Annapolis Wherry in action
Having built the Wherry as a simple sliding-seat boat for one or two Piantedosi stations, I use the open space in bow and stern to carry gear. A cooler, PFDs, and a small battery-operated bilge pump—useful when rowing in ocean swells—are among the items I’ve carried. The two flotation compartments are large, and I installed a standard round hatch with cover in the bow compartment so I can use it for dry storage of the essentials. A similar hatch could be installed in the stern, but for now I have left it enclosed. Many owners create clever and comfortable passenger setups in the stern—and there is plenty of room to do so.
Robert Englehardt
I am 6′ 5″ and weigh more than 200 lbs but have found rowing the Wherry comfortable and stable. While rowing with a smaller partner—as I am here with University of Massachusetts varsity oarsman Luke Shamaly—the Wherry is best trimmed if I row stroke.
At 19′ 10″, the boat has the length to maintain speed without porpoising as the rower’s weight shifts back and forth on the slide. I am 6′ 5″, weigh 207 lbs, and have a long stroke; in shorter rowing boats porpoising has sometimes been an issue. Though I’ve never measured it, I trust CLC’s published cruising speed of 5 to 6 knots. Compared to most sport-sculling or racing shells, the boat is rock steady, requiring no effort to set (or keep on) an even keel during each recovery when the oar blades are not in the water and the hull alone provides the stability. When rowing with a skilled partner, I agree with CLC’s own description: “With two rowers aboard, top speeds are definitely in the ‘racing’ category.” Indeed, I have raced NELI with a partner three times in the 20-mile Blackburn Challenge; each of us weighs more than 200 lbs, and she slips confidently along; her specified carrying capacity is 650 lbs. Our best estimate with this year’s finish time of 3 hours and 20 minutes, was an average speed of 6 knots given the course steered; the conditions were near-perfect. In 2024, the conditions were less than perfect—2′+ swells and an 8-knot breeze—and we had to bail frequently.
Mostly, however, the sharp entry seems to help the boat track its course, and the flare in the bow knocks away spray. The boxed garboard and wooden skeg are adequate for tracking.
Robert Englehardt
The Wherry’s sharp entry assists with its tracking, while the flare in the bow deflects spray away from the boat in most conditions. When rowing through 2′ swells and into a headway—far from optimal conditions—my partner and I did need to bail.
With a bright-white hull and varnished interior, gunwales, and breasthook, the Annapolis Wherry Tandem is a head-turner. From astern, abeam, on the water, or dragged up on a beach, complimentary commentary from strangers is a constant. The functional beauty of a gentle and traditional sheer above a lapstrake hull takes the mind and heart somewhere else. “Just look at it,” said a passerby recently. With time and space, perhaps a partner to work with, some drive, and a little courage for the first-timer (like me), you, too, can assemble a truly fine boat.
John Carey has rowed competitively and recreationally for 38 years, coaching high school and college crews. He is an educator at a technical high school in western Massachusetts and was inspired by his students to build his first boat.
The Annapolis Wherry Tandem complete kit from Chesapeake Light Craft is $1,935; plans and manual are $139.
For information on the Annapolis Wherry Solo, go to The Annapolis Wherry by Mike O’Brien.
Is there a boat you’d like to know more about? Have you built one that you think other Small Boats readers would enjoy? Please email us your suggestions.
As a sail-training boat, the Turnabout/N-10 has not had the success of, say, the Optimist. The 9′ 8″ cat-rigged dinghy was once a staple of junior programs in yacht clubs along the New England coast and on lakes of the Northeast, but there are, today, just a handful of clubs that still support a fleet. Yet, at those clubs, the Turnabout/N-10 is loved and cherished for what it is: a safe training boat that offers a good grounding in techniques and an excellent means of fostering the joys of social sailing. About 10 years ago, when chatting with John Hanson, the founder of Maine Boats Homes and Harbors magazine, I mentioned that my new-to-sailing daughter was embarking on her first full season in a Turnabout. He sighed with an obvious longing for simpler days. “You know,” he reminisced, “I met one of my best friends sailing Turnabouts as a kid. We shared what seemed like endless summer days laughing at crude jokes and armpit farts, and somewhere along the way, without realizing it was happening, we learned to sail.” As praise for a kid’s boat, that’s hard to beat.
Photographs by the author
With a newer, well-trimmed sail, the N-10 is quite close-winded, although it never pays to over-sheet the mainsail; keeping the boom just over the inside of the stern quarter is optimal.
The Origins of the Turnabout
The Turnabout was designed, and originally built, in about 1950 by Harold Turner of Parker River, Massachusetts, and was adopted as a class by the Ipswich Bay Yacht Club whose members were seeking a new training boat that could cope with strong tidal currents and often choppy seas. Turner’s cat-rigged boat was constructed of plywood, fastened with nails and glue. The class suited Ipswich Bay well and before long it had spread to other clubs and programs along the east coast. By the mid-1960s, Turner’s boatyard had built more than 2,000 of the dinghies, some of which are still in commission.
PIPER is an original plywood Turnabout, hull number 1568. The floorboards are typical and help to keep skipper and crew dry when seated in the bottom of the boat. Note her oarlock sockets; the red fiberglass N-10, just visible to the right, has none.
Toward the end of the ’60s Turner’s yard began producing Turnabouts in fiberglass but they were not a success. More expensive than the wooden versions and thought by many to be slower, production was limited. Then, in 1972, Joe Duplin, one-time Star-class champion, took a mold off a fast wooden Turnabout, produced a new fiberglass hull with a balsa core, and rigged it with aluminum spars. But Turner would not give up the name and so the new boats, built by Duplin Marine, were dubbed National 10s (N-10s). For the ensuing 50 years the two boats have coexisted in sail-training fleets across the Northeast. In 1990, production was taken up by Steve Winkler formerly of Duplin Marine, in Winthrop, Massachusetts, and in 2002 by Jack Gannon of J.G. Marine in Burlington, Massachusetts. A few years ago, Jack ceased building new boats (the combined Turnabout/N-10 class is currently up to hull number 4256), but he still sells parts and would like to sell the molds so that production of new hulls could resume.
Among the older N-10s an area of weakness has been beneath the rudder fittings on the transom; owners often introduce more strength by through-bolting a solid-wood pad on the transom under the gudgeons.
At 9′ 8″ LOA and 5′ 3″ in the beam, the Turnabout/N-10 boasts a well-raked stem, vertical transom, and a shallow-V underwater shape that quickly broadens out to its maximum beam. The hull has a hard chine with, in the Turnabout, an interior chine log. While the Turnabout has three plywood structural frames, the N-10 has none and the cockpit is unobstructed save for the centerboard trunk and a thwart that is part of the deck molding. The rig consists of a single Bermudan sail set on a mast stepped through the foredeck and supported by two shrouds and a forestay. Its sheet leads from the end of the boom down to a running block on a rope traveler atop the transom, back along the boom and down to a cleat typically mounted on the thwart. There is a pivoting metal centerboard and a fixed-blade rudder. The only unusual feature is a spinnaker, which on a boat so small and low-key seems incongruous but has, I suspect, done much to keep the class alive, as it introduces new challenges as sailors become comfortable on the water.
The Turnabout/N-10 Today
Over the past two decades, many clubs have moved away from Turnabouts in favor of the International Optimist, but there are still fleets in New Jersey, Rhode Island, Massachusetts, and Maine. At Monmouth Boat Club in Red Bank, New Jersey, and Newport Yacht Club in Newport, Rhode Island, N-10s are enthusiastically sailed by adults in a Frostbite season. In Southport, Maine, the yacht club has been a proponent of the boat since the junior sailing program was established there in the 1960s. The founding director of the program favored the Turnabout for its easy reassuring performance for new sailors, and for its contribution to “social sailing.” As my daughter said when she was eight years old and it was suggested by an instructor that she might like to move into the Optimist fleet: “Why? I don’t want to sail on my own. What’s the fun in that?”
So similar are the N-10s and the Turnabouts that their sails are interchangeable. While the hulls here are all N-10s, two of the nearer sails bear the Turnabout insignia.
The Turnabout/N-10 has a versatility that other small training boats lack. They are neither fast nor elegant, but they are hard to beat as a sailboat for the very young that can also be sailed and enjoyed by adults. They are robust, safe, have few moving parts, and can sail in virtually no wind up to 20 knots, they can also be rowed (although some of the later N-10s do not have oarlock sockets). They perform better with weight carried forward, but in high winds have a tendency to bury the bow, and at such times, crews can be seen quickly shifting aft in an attempt to keep water out of the boat. Their volume—which has gained them the nickname of “Turnatubby”—can comfortably accommodate as many as four children (often three new students and an instructor) or two adults. Fully laden or sailed singlehanded they are, quite simply, unsophisticated and fun.
N-10s often have a towing eye low down on the stem, but typically a deck-mounted cleat or handle and cleat are used when making fast the mooring line.
The year my daughter eschewed the idea of moving out of Turnabouts and into Optimists was the year we bought our own N-10. We named her MOUSE, and she quickly became a favorite in the fleet. Our plan had been to keep her for the three or four years until my daughter moved into the 420 fleet but somehow, 10 years later, MOUSE is still part of the family, and has continued to be used in the yacht club’s sailing program every summer. Her sails are not as pristine as they were, and her tiller (not her original) has been through a few iterations, but she is still much loved. My daughter doesn’t sail her so much anymore, but I take her out from time to time either alone or with a friend.
Sailing the Turnabout/N-10
From stepping aboard to leaving the mooring takes well under 10 minutes. When derigged, we use the main halyard as a topping lift, stabilizing it with the rope traveler and sheet. I tend to leave it that way while I lower the centerboard and install the rudder. Once those two steps are taken, it’s time to raise the sail. The halyard is detached from the boom and reattached to the head of the sail. The foot is loose, tacked down with a simple pin at the gooseneck, and clewed out to a track-mounted block at the after end of the boom, cleated off a couple of feet forward. The luff has slugs that slide in a groove, but it’s easy to feed them in and hoist the sail singlehanded. Once the sail is raised, its luff snugged down tight with a single-line downhaul led through a jam cleat, all that remains to be done is to cast off and set sail. Our mooring field is tight, but the Turnabout/N-10 picks up speed fast, is surprisingly close-winded, and if necessary, sails backward well, making maneuvering in close quarters easy.
Main halyards are used as topping lifts to raise the booms out of the boats when on the mooring.
Despite the speckled texture set into the interior gelcoat of some boats, the inside of an N-10 can get slippery when wet. Various approaches have been used to combat this in different boats—from nonskid tape to wooden slatted floorboards—but we’ve had the best success with nonskid paint applied in two strips on either side of the centerline. There are few other hazards when sailing. If singlehanding, the skipper will change sides with each tack or jibe, sitting to windward on a breezy day or to leeward on a calm day. Two children will usually change sides together each tack, but when sailing with two adults on anything but the windiest of days, the easiest method is to stay put, one on either side; if you don’t have to move to trim the boat, there is ample room for two adults aft of the thwart, but it can get congested if you start moving around. Smaller (and more agile) sailors can sit forward of the thwart and the smallest of all can sit on top of the thwart, but for the most part, sailing a Turnabout/N-10 is done seated on the bottom of the boat or, on a breezy day, up on the windward rail.
There is no built-in buoyancy in either the Turnabout or the N-10. Some owners fill the space beneath the small foredeck with Styrofoam blocks, buoyancy bags, or airtight plastic bottles. On MOUSE we have laced in closed-cell Styrofoam boards—as sold for home insulation projects—along both sides of the cockpit; not only does it add a modicum of flotation, but it also makes for a comfortable backrest when sitting on the floor leaning back on the hull side.
While four teenagers are making the most of a fair breeze to fly the spinnaker on MOUSE, with so much weight forward and the spinnaker pulling well, the boat is unquestionably down by the bow.
Like everything else on the Turnabout/N-10, the setup for the spinnaker is unsophisticated. There are two sheets and a halyard: no pole, no uphaul or downhaul. It’s not a big sail, but newer sailors still struggle to master raising and lowering it, setting it, and keeping it filled. The jury is out as to how much value it brings in terms of speed, but in terms of training it’s unquestionably worthwhile. As one of the 420 coaches in the Southport sailing program commented last summer, “You can always tell which sailors grew up in the Opti fleet rather than the Turnabouts—the Opti kids have no clue when it comes to the spinnaker; the Turnabout kids are all over it.”
In a Turnabout or N-10 there is ample room for three younger children and an older teen. Here the teen, amidships, and skipper are both seated on the cockpit floor, while the two other children are sitting up on the thwart, either side of the centerboard.
On any given summer weekday, the Southport sailing program can have up to 15 Turnabouts out sailing. They will be crewed by two to three new sailors, some of whom are the second or third generations of kids learning to sail in a Turnabout, sometimes the same Turnabout. They will be laughing and squealing, singing and telling jokes, and somewhere along the way, without even knowing it, they’ll be learning to sail. Because it’s cool, the more experienced among them will make fun of their fat little boats and declare them to be slow and ugly, but one day, when they’re older, and they’re racing their Turnabout with an adult friend on a Saturday afternoon, they’ll realize: this simple little boat has earned a place in their hearts, and with good reason.
Jenny Bennett is editor of Small Boats.
Turnabout/N-10 Particulars
LOA: 9′ 8″
Beam: 5′ 3″
Sail area: 61 sq ft (spinnaker approx. 28 sq ft where luff is 9′ and half girth is 3′ 6″)
Displacement: 255 lbs
The most recent builder of the N-10, J.G. Marine, continues to sell parts for N-10s and Turnabouts and is hoping to sell the molds so construction of the hulls can resume: contact Jack Gannon at [email protected].
Is there a boat you’d like to know more about? Have you built one that you think other Small Boats readers would enjoy? Please email us your suggestions.
CRAACK! And then nothing. Well, not nothing. I was in 15 to 18 knots of wind in the shallow waters of Tampa Bay. The sun was high in the sky, but the occasional spray of salt water over the bow was keeping me cool. The boat was doing some considerable bucking and jiving up and down and side to side in steep 1′ to 2′ waves, even though the rudder felt steady and I was holding my course as close to the wind as I could. I wasn’t totally sure what I’d heard or where the noise had come from. I looked around the boat. Both masts were standing firm, even though they were working hard. The starboard ama was spending most of the time out of the water and appeared to be in good shape; the port one was mostly submerged but looked the same. The akas also showed no visible changes.
I looked down into the water just off the starboard beam. Ah, I had heard a crack: the bottom half of the centerboard was sticking out at a right angle to the boat and was waving at me just beneath the water, swinging back and forth in the opposing forces of boat and waves. It must have been hanging on by threads of fiberglass cloth and epoxy. What the heck! I’d worked hard on that centerboard—I wasn’t about to let it float away. I reached down, grabbed its forward edge, and pulled back. I stuck it under the rowing wing across the two seats of the cockpit. What now?
Roger Siebert
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I was out on the shakedown cruise of my new boat—an Angus RowCruiser that I had built over 18 months of part-time construction. During the six months prior to the build I had studied many designs, searching for a boat I could sleep on, that would sail and row efficiently, looked good, and wasn’t so complex that I’d spend the rest of my retirement years building it. So far, I had been pleased with my choice. The boat had gone together well and the support from the designer, Colin Angus, had been outstanding. But my dreams don’t always coincide with reality, and the principal objective of this first cruise was to see how my image, perception, and understanding of the boat dovetailed with actual experience. I was also excited to explore Tampa Bay by water and to get away from the “urban jungle” of too many cars, people, and noise.
Now here I was with a broken centerboard. I had left Davis Islands, in the southeast of Tampa, just a mile and 20 minutes ago. I could sail back to the launching ramp, and call it a wasted day. But I was reluctant. Maybe I didn’t have the centerboard, I reasoned, but I had everything else. There was no real emergency. Neither the boat nor I were in any danger. I was well outside the shipping lane. I should be able to tuck in to and sail along the spoil island just ahead, which should break up the wave action and allow me to get farther out into the bay. Besides, if I couldn’t get anywhere because of the headwind, I could always turn around and get home fast with the wind behind me. I went for it.
Photographs by the author
When I awoke on my first morning afloat, conditions were calm. I sat and drank my coffee and watched the rising sun’s light illuminate the clouds.
Sailing but no headway
The spoil island, maybe a mile in length, was upwind, but too far away for me to take advantage of its lee. I could see its scrubby undergrowth with a narrow beach along the shoreline. The boat struggled to make headway against the wind: without the centerboard, we were being blown sideways even though my boat speed remained fast. I tracked the sideways progress against the wreck of a 40′ cruiser sitting in the mud and sand 1⁄4 mile off the shore: I was making little headway and major leeward slip. I tried to tack, but without the centerboard things quickly became tricky. I tried to build speed before putting the helm hard alee. No deal. I bore away, picked up speed and tried again, only this time I rowed like hell with the leeward oar to push the boat around. I finally made it, but I’d lost a lot of ground in the process. Next time, I wore around, pulling the tiller hard to windward and jibing. It worked but, again, I lost a lot of ground.
An hour passed—the wreck was still there. I had gone nowhere. It was getting late, I was tired, and I needed to figure out where to anchor for the night. The wind was starting to ease as I headed west to the spoil island. If I could anchor close to shore, I reasoned, I would be out of the worst of the wind and waves. I struggled on and, as time passed, the wind died. At last, I let go the sheets, slid the oars out of their stowed position, and set to rowing. It felt good to make way in the direction I wanted to go.
Docking at Apollo Beach to have lunch at Finn’s Dockside Bar and Grill was challenging. The finger docks and slips were not designed with a trimaran in mind. Eventually, I set a stern anchor and tied the bow to one of the very few ladders. During lunch, I was able to keep an eye on the boat and the weather.
As I rowed, the wind and waves continued to calm. Out of the corner of my eye, maybe 50’ away, a fish soared out of the water. It flew, briefly, fully clear of the now 6″ waves, looking like a tiny Concorde jet and, in an instant, dove back down with a perfect 10.0 landing. A manta ray—the first I’d ever seen. I rowed on, my heart rate slowly returning to normal. As I neared the island, I was guided by sight as well as the raucous sound of birds. The shoreline was alive with terns and gulls, skimmers, and oystercatchers. I might be serenaded a little too loudly for good sleeping.
I pulled into shoal water and dropped the anchor. I had made it. For the first time since the centerboard broke, I breathed easily, and realized I was both hungry and thirsty. I dug around in the food bags and found a cold dinner of crackers, dried pineapple, and nuts, chased down with some lukewarm water. Not a three-star dinner, but it’d been a long day, and I was beat.
As I get older, I’m amazed—sometimes confounded—by the things I don’t plan for. No more than a couple of weeks earlier, I had realized that it might be a challenge to rig and de-rig the Angus RowCruiser once afloat. Each fully battened sail has a sail sleeve in the luff into which the sectional mast is inserted. The mast is then brought upright, lifted into the boat, and stepped into its keel-mounted maststep. The boom is then attached to the mast, and the sail is tacked down with a deck-mounted downhaul, and clewed out on the boom. Finally, the sheet is clipped to the end of the boom, and the boom vang is attached. It is a straightforward procedure. However, to de-rig the sails, one must do all this in reverse and, if anchoring off, one must do it while afloat, with little room to move in the narrow cockpit. I began to think it might not be so easy. I could not wrap the sails because of their battens. The only way to de-rig was to take everything down. I wondered if the mast sections would float if I messed up.
The cockpit was the perfect length for me. I could sit facing aft with my back against the cabin and my feet up against the after bulkhead. For sailing, I reversed this position. On the horizon over the stern are the high-rise buildings of Tampa. The previous day I had rowed from there against short steep waves and into a 17-knot headwind.
I was tired, very tired. I was anchored in the lee of the island. The wind had died to almost nothing. The water was calm. I decided to leave the sails up. I let go the sheets, took off my still-wet spray-drenched shirt and shorts, and slid awkwardly into the little cabin to sleep.
Most small-boat mariners have been kept awake by water slapping against a hull: my boat had three hulls. It was downright loud; there was just enough wind and tiny waves to slap, jingle, and jabble against all three hulls. Adding to the cacophony were the sails slatting back and forth, and the mainsheet dragging across the cabin roof above my head. The birds, at least, were silent, they must have gone to sleep. Not me, but I was too tired and lazy to do anything to help myself. I lay awake, glad that it wasn’t too hot and that the tiny breeze was keeping the mosquitoes away. Sometime in the middle of the night, the natural forces quieted, and so, at last, did I.
From the Spoiler Island to Finn’s Dockside
The day I’d left for my cruise, my friend Pete had texted, “Hey… Let’s meet for lunch at Finn’s. They have a dock.” Why not? Finn’s Dockside Bar & Grill in Apollo Beach was only 5 miles to the south; even without the centerboard it should be no problem. After finding the stove, the coffee, and a granola bar, I sat in the cockpit and enjoyed the early morning. The sun was just coming up, lighting the clouds in subtle shades of pink. The temperature was pleasant, the air still, the water flat calm. It was hard to believe I was barely 5 miles from the city. An occasional seabird squawked or cried. I heard the screech-chirp of an osprey, and spotted it flying high, hunting over the water. It looked like it would be a great day for rowing.
Typically, I love being out of cell-service range when I’m adventuring. But when I came upon these horseshoe crabs, having a signal allowed me to access the internet and learn about the mating habits of horseshoe crabs on Tampa Bay beaches.
And it was. The sails were still raised but with the rudder set amidships, the boat moved along easily at 2 1⁄2 to 3 knots. Once I got up to speed, the repetitions of the sliding seat and the oars moving through the water felt good. Pelicans flew by. From time to time, they would tuck their wings and plummet to the water at seemingly breakneck speed. Almost immediately, they bobbed back to the surface, like giant corks. Sometimes, the water still dripping from their heads, they tipped their bills high into the air and gulped down their unfortunate prey. Other times, with barely a pause, as if embarrassed that failure might be witnessed, their wings immediately flapped, and they were off.
Occasionally, sportfishing boats flashed by with fishing rods glinting in the sun. As I approached the point off Apollo Beach, I saw a splash in the water. I stopped rowing. Two bottlenose dolphins were zooming back and forth, up and down, back and forth, close to the surface of the water, occasionally breaking the surface with a dorsal fin or tail. I saw there was a third, smaller dolphin, in the mix. Then I saw some action on the water—the surface was crinkly and shimmering with the baitfish just below. One of the larger dolphins immediately peeled off, the other stayed with the young one. Whoosh! The big one screamed through the baitfish, water spraying from its side. Then the other two followed, side by side. I sat and watched the fun. Days later, I told a fisherman friend what I’d seen, and he said that it was likely parents teaching a young one how to hunt and feed.
By the time I’d rowed to Finn’s, my hands were starting to feel some rub spots—in spite of my repurposed bicycle gloves. The long timber dock had multiple raised finger pontoons with open slips, but none was wide enough to accommodate my boat, nor did there appear to be any ladders to climb up to the pontoons. I was perplexed. How was I to moor, let alone disembark? Eventually, I spotted a ladder, and figured it out: I set a stern anchor, tied a bow line to the ladder, and stepped off the bow. I was reasonably sure that the bow wouldn’t bump against the ladder or pilings, but planned to sit where I could keep watch just in case.
My centerboard broke barely 20 minutes out from Davis Island, so I couldn’t sail westward and downwind as that would have meant an upwind return involving a lot of rowing. I proceeded instead along the eastern side of Tampa Bay, which offered spectacular sunsets over the city of St. Petersburg.
I wandered up to the restaurant to find Pete. Through a lunch of fish tacos, I glanced repeatedly down to the boat and harbor. The wind was starting to build. Without the centerboard I didn’t want to attempt to sail in the close confines of the harbor; it was time to be gone. I shook Pete’s hand, thanked him for lunch, and made my way back to the boat. A crowd of restaurant patrons watched as I cast off and pulled out on the anchor; I managed to complete the maneuver without embarrassing myself.
I had been right about the wind: it was building but there was still no significant wave action in the harbor. I rowed the 3⁄4 mile to the entrance and as I neared the open water both wind and waves built and became challenging. Nevertheless, I planned to row southwest for 4 miles, away from the built-up shoreline, tuck in behind a point, and anchor for the night. The sails were still up and slatted in the 15-knot headwind, the steep chop impeded progress, and the day was heating up to more than 90°; the sun was merciless. When I stopped to rest or drink some water, I was blown back, undoing the progress of the previous 15 or 20 minutes of rowing. It was a battle of sore hands and shoulders, weary body, and stubbornness; soon it was sore hands, exhausted body, and sheer stubbornness.
During my slow progress from the harbor, I followed a line of signs that said, “MANATEE PROTECTION AREA! SLOW SPEED! MINIMUM WAKE!” All had been quiet within the zone but then, not far inshore of the line, a speedboat zipped through at close to 30 mph. Almost simultaneously, about 50′ from me, a manatee snout came out of the water for a breath. It was swimming toward the shore, on a path across the boat’s wake. The University of South Florida reports that between 100 and 130 manatees are killed by motorboats every year.
I have plenty of storage space under the stern deck, accessed through two circular deck hatches. However, my smallest cooler is too large to fit through either of them, so it spent the trip resting atop the cabin roof and leaning against the solar-panel platform. I was pleased with the solar panel; it produced enough power to run lights, a fan, and the autopilot, and to charge my cellphone.
In the wind and short, steep waves, it was challenging to row my fully laden boat with sails raised and amas on either side. Sometimes the amas but not the hull were affected by waves; sometimes one ama but not the other was; sometimes all three were. I would get knocked off course when the edge of one of the sails caught the wind. Then, with a wave slapping into the windward ama, I would struggle to keep the boat moving and back on course. And there was no way I could take a break.
Despite it all, after three hours of hard work in which I covered just 4 miles, I reached my goal. It wasn’t pretty. My hands were blistered, my shoulders ached, and my brain was mush. In normal circumstances, with no sails up, I might have rowed there in half the time. I anchored as far as possible from the mangroves, in hopes that I would not be pestered all night by mosquitoes, and took stock. It was a pretty little cove. The thick leaves and twisted trunks of mangrove extended into the water. I pulled out the stove and heated water for a ramen bowl, stirred in a can of chicken, and settled down to eat, topping off dinner with some cookies and a cup of box wine. I watched the pinks and reds of the sunset climb into the western sky across the bay.
The cabin is far from luxurious, but it accommodates my 6′ 4″ frame and is surprisingly comfortable. However, at 70 years old, I do find getting in and out of the close quarters somewhat awkward.
Somewhere above me came the familiar call of an osprey. I scanned the sky until at last, I saw it, flying low, laboring to carry a fish half as big as itself up to its nest in a tree standing tall above the mangrove. There were few other sounds during the evening, save the occasional slap of a mullet’s tail as it flicked a sharp turn through the surface of the water. After the previous night’s terrible sleep and the tough row of the afternoon, I was bone-tired and called it a day. I arranged the mosquito netting over the open hatch cover and, as the wind died and the water leveled to a flat calm, listened to the rising monotone of mosquitoes above me. It mattered not; I slept like the dead.
The lure of a campground
Once again the day dawned sunny. I didn’t need to look at the forecast on my phone to know it was going to be hot, but I did anyway. Today’s forecast high, 95°. After coffee and oatmeal, I carefully clambered forward to weigh anchor. It was another task I had underestimated when thinking about the boat. Although the boat as a whole is very stable with the outriggers, the narrow hull is difficult to move around. On all fours, keeping my knees and hands spread to the sides of the central hatch cover, I carefully climbed over the forward aka where the hull narrows still more, and the boom and rigging blocks of the foresail are an extra hazard. The deck was also slippery—I had, perhaps, worked a little too hard on the paint finish. Fortunately, there was only 12′ of rode to pull up, but it was far from ideal.
I spotted this small beach among the mangroves and stopped for a rest and to stretch my limbs. When I landed, there was almost no wind, but when the breeze filled in from the west, it pinned the boat and entangled it in the mangroves—it made for an ungainly departure.
Anchor raised, I looked at the blisters on my hands and was relieved I wouldn’t need to row. A light easterly was settling in and, with just a gentle pull on the sheets, the boat was moving off downwind along the east–west shore. I relaxed into the easy motion until, just 30 minutes later, I saw some small beaches among the mangroves. They were perfect to pull into, and it was too tempting, so I beached the boat and checked it out. Flush toilets! A picnic area with shade! While the air temperature was still under 90°, I put on my walking shoes and strolled around.
I had landed at the E.G. Simmons campground within the conservation park of the same name. There was a protected swimming area marked by a line of buoys, a boat launch (in rough shape after Hurricane Helene), and two camping sites next to the water. Other than the occasional sportsfisherman casting from a beach, I saw few people. I walked a couple of miles, mostly along the park roads, to get my blood going. Then I returned to lay out my camp chair, a book, some snacks, and a bottle of water in the shade under the picnic roof. There was a light breeze blowing onshore—a warm breeze, for sure, but at least it was some air movement. I spent the day reading and writing while keeping cool with a wet bandanna, and used the hose spigot to wash the salt out of yesterday’s clothes.
Late in the afternoon, I went back to the boat. Next to it a cluster of horseshoe crabs was half buried in the sand, half submerged in the water. There was one large one and a number of smaller ones scrabbling over each other. It was, evidently, mating season.
At Pine Key I was happy to find some shade in which to sit and read a book for a while. The 90° temperatures and cloudless skies were relentless.
With time on my hands and space on the flat sandy beach, I finally de-rigged before anchoring out for the night. For once there would be no slapping sails and, again, I slept well.
The next morning, I had coffee on the boat and then rowed into the beach to eat breakfast at a picnic table. The wind was a steady 12 knots out of the east, and I raised the sails and set off to the southwest. For two and a half hours, with the wind picking up to 15 to 18 knots on the beam, it was downright fun. With each gust, the boat dug in the leeward ama and leaped forward. I was aiming for Bishop Harbor, about 10 miles south, and I almost made it—the GPS recorded that we covered 11.3 miles in 2 hours and 40 minutes with an average speed of 4 1⁄4 knots and a top speed of 8 1⁄2 knots. But as the afternoon wore on, the wind veered more and more to the south, forcing me onto an ever-closer reach. Bishop Harbor could wait; I’d done enough fighting on this trip.
In 2024 Pine Key was hit hard by Hurricane Milton’s 100-mph winds. Many of the trees in the shoreside woods were downed or tangled up with one another, and the beach was strewn with debris.
I turned around and spied a perfect 30′-long beach tucked into the mangroves where some shade promised a modicum of respite from the heat. I sailed in but, just before making land, the wind shifted, and I was on a lee shore. Without the centerboard the boat refused to turn, and in a very short time the bow was nudged into a forest of mangrove branches hanging over the water. There was no room to use the oars; the forward mast was nestled between a couple of branches. For a few minutes, I thought we might be tangled in the mangrove forever. But, at last, using an oar as a pole I managed to push back out of the branches and turn around. I rowed away and, 20 minutes later, rounded a small headland and tucked in behind an island. I was just happy there had been no witnesses to such an inept sideshow.
With no wind, the sun was merciless. I headed back to Simmons Park, where I knew there would be shade and breeze. The wind was still blowing 15 to 20 knots out in the bay, and 90 minutes later I reached the park; it was time to call it a night. I watched a glorious sunset directly over the city of St. Petersburg on the far side of Tampa Bay, and swatted way too many mosquitoes off my legs.
These pilings at Pine Key, stripped bare by the hurricane, have become a popular resting place for terns and pelicans. At the left, in the near distance beyond the pilings, is a navigational light marking the shipping channel, while in the far distance is the city of Tampa.
A fast sail home
The next day, in the same 15 to 20 knots of wind, I sailed for “Beer Can Island,” officially Pine Key. One of the more famous (or infamous) islands in the bay, it is known for being a haunt of fancy boats, bronzed bodies, and lots of alcohol. The wind had piped up and with it now blowing 18 knots from the southeast, we arrived in what seemed like no time at all. I beached the boat to check it out. Pine Key was severely impacted by Hurricanes Helene and Milton, and there are now few trees to provide shelter from the sun. With the island pretty much blown away, there were no other boats. I stretched my legs with a walk around the perimeter, coming across remnants of makeshift drinking bars and downed trees. Back on the boat, in two hours and 20 minutes and with an average speed of of almost 5 knots, I turned the corner into the Davis Island Yacht Club basin, where I had started just five days ago.
The run home to the Davis Island Yacht Club basin was the best sailing of the trip. The autopilot steered, the boat surfed at up to 9 knots, and no water came over the rail. It was a fun ending to the adventure.
It had been an eventful five days. I had learned a good deal about the boat, had proved that she was a lot of fun, rowed well, and sailed like a rocket. Above all, I had learned that I wasn’t getting any younger: clambering around on a narrow boat, and climbing in and out of her small cabin, was not as easy as it might have been 10 years ago. I had a new list of things to do and/or figure out how to do. I needed to build a new centerboard; figure out a way to anchor from the cockpit; design a mechanism to raise and lower the rudder without having to lean over the stern; adjust the distance between the autopilot and tiller; and find a way to shorten or lower the sail while on board. As shakedown cruises go, it was possibly more exciting than it should have been, but the valuable lessons were second to none and the fun I’d had for those five days in a boat that I built myself—well, that was unbeatable.
Bill Hutton likes to build, sail, row, paddle, and drive small boats. Over the years, he also worked with mostly Native Alaskan students in Alaska schools, fished commercially for halibut and salmon, walked the mountains, ran rivers, bicycled multi-day routes, and enjoyed adventures with his wife and family. He now lives in Florida for most of the year.
For more Florida adventuring with Bill Hutton see “Thwarted.”
If you have an interesting story to tell about your adventures with a small boat, please email us a brief outline and a few photos.
This article was originally published on WoodenBoat Mastering Skills website
It’s a luxury to work on a boat in the controlled environment of a shed. But sufficient indoor space for a moderate-sized boat is a rare commodity in most locales, and it can be downright expensive to rent for a long-term project.
For temporary needs, construction of a permanent shed is not practical. Conversely, for perennial storage, a temporary shelter may not be economical in the long run. To address this range of needs, here are three buildings that have caught our eye over the years. Each one fits a specific niche: The half-lobster-pot shed was designed as an add-on to an existing shop, although it will also stand on its own; the bow-frame shed is a free-standing temporary shelter; and the boat barn is a no-nonsense, permanent shed.
The descriptions of these buildings are meant more as inspiration than as step wise construction details, as size of project, site of building, duration of storage, and a host of other factors will dictate much customization. We hope these examples provide good ideas for your own shed.
Kathy Bray
This shed was designed as a temporary add-on to an existing building. However, it has also been used as a free-standing structure with some modification.
A Double-Sawn-Frame Lobster-Pot Boathouse
by Greg Rössel
I developed this shelter in a moment of exigency one January for the accommodation of a large mahogany speedboat that had been delivered to me for repairs to damage suffered in a major storm. I had space beside my shop for the boat, but it was unsheltered. What to do?
Casting about for an idea, my eyes lit upon a sepia photo on the wall of an old office. On the ways were a series of tugboats with their stout double-sawn frames securely set up with ribbands wrapped about them, serenely awaiting their planking. But, of course! For a boat shelter, I could build what amounted to half-double-sawn frames on the shop floor, production fashion. The frames could be built from scrap lumber, and fastened together with drywall screws and glue. These identical arches then could be erected like flying buttresses over the boat.
The frames are relatively light and easily assembled. After the arches are set into place, they need only to be joined together with wooden strapping and sheathed in plastic. And when the boat project is finished, the strapping can be quickly removed and the arches stacked—knocked down like a deck of cards to await the next project. How many frames will a building require?Consider them like roof rafters—the bigger the building and/or the greater the expected snow load, the more you will need.
To build the frames, begin by calculating the height and width of the structure. In my case, the height was the distance from the ground to just below the eaves of the shop roof. The width at the base was what was needed to allow for working space around the boat. With the building’s dimensions established, clear a space on the shop floor to draw the curve. Start by drawing a baseline and erecting a perpendicular, much as if you were setting up to draw a body plan on the lofting floor. After driving nails at the ends to work against, spring a flexible batten out into a curving arch similar to the midsection of a boat. How does it look? Is there enough slope near the top to shed snow and rain, yet still allow headroom to work on deck? Tweak it until it looks right (sketch in your boat, if it helps), then draw the curve. That will be the outside of the curve. Next, draw the inside face of your arch (6″ to 8″ of depth works well).
The frames, or arches, are composed of two layers of 1″-thick wood, cut with the proper curve and fitted to shape. The joints between the individual pieces should fit tightly, at near right angles to the curve, and be staggered (i.e., those on the top layer should fall roughly halfway between those of the bottom layer). When laying out your joints, check that the full depth of the frame can be gotten out of your lumber. (The joints may need to be closer in the “turn of the bilge” region.)
When it looks right, the drawn shapes can be transferred to the wood. You can do this by the process described in WoodenBoat No. 137 (“Setting Up a Building Jig”), or you can lay nails at 12″ intervals along the curve, and press the board onto these, thus transferring the points of the curve.
Cut out the first pieces on the bandsaw, and continue this process until you have made and labeled all the pieces for the bottom layer of the frame. Then repeat the steps for the pieces of the top layer of the frame. This time, the joints should fall roughly halfway between the joints of the bottom half. Now it’s time for mass production. Using the original master pieces as templates, trace and cut duplicate futtocks for as many frames as needed, until you’ve got a whole stack of pieces prepared for assembly. Fasten a series of keeper blocks along the curve drawn on the floor. These blocks will help keep things lined up during assembly.
Plug all the pieces for the bottom layer of frame No. 1 into place. They should fit snugly between the keeper blocks. For extra security, spread yellow carpenter’s glue atop the first tier. Then plug in the pieces for the top layer. Drive plenty of drywall screws through the top layer into the bottom one. The completed frame can then be lifted out of the keepers, and a new one started.
With all the frames built, determine the location of the fore-and-aft strapping, or ribbands, that will tie the whole business together. Align the whole stack of arches so they are dead square, one atop the other. Placement of strapping is basically by eyeball, but the idea is to have it fall at regular intervals along the curve of the frame. The more ribbands, the stronger the building. You should have more near the top where the greater snow load will be, less on the sides. Use a scrap piece of ribband to mark the locations along the outer corner of the top arch, then transfer these marks onto the rest of the stack of frames using a square. The ribbands should be flush with the outside edge of the curve; the easiest way to accomplish this is to bend ribband-sized strips snugly between the ribbands. If the curve is severe, cut kerfs in the backs of these strips to ease the bend.
When using the frames against an existing structure as I did, sockets made of plywood—or steel rafter brackets from the lumberyard—are needed to support the tops of the arches. And a sill board is needed, too. It must be as long as the building and blocked level to support the bottoms of the frames.
It’s best to begin construction with the center frame. Hoist it up, plug it into the socket on the building. Then swing the frame out until it is perpendicular with the building, screw-fasten the lower end to the sill board, and temporarily brace it plumb with diagonals. This arch will be the keystone of the operation, as the remaining frames will be braced from it, with ribbands added as needed to aid alignment. When all the frames are set up plumb and perpendicular, fasten them with screws. Fasten a few diagonal braces internally to stiffen the structure and prevent wracking. The ends can be customized by adding doors, access ports for lumber, or whatever. Don′t forget the ribbands.
What about using the trusses in a free-standing structure? It can be done. Vertical legs must be added to replace the strength afforded by the adjoining building. And hefty gussets and diagonal bracing are important here to resist downward pressure of snow load; also, plenty of cross bracing on the back wall is required. As with any free-standing plastic building, thought should be given to placement. It should only be used in sheltered locations, and be well anchored, either to the ground or the boat.
Several products work well for sheathing, and these are described on page 75. I prefer the plastic specifically designed for greenhouses. It is rugged, difficult to tear, and quite resistant to UV breakdown from the sun. It is also extremely flexible at low temperatures, and it seems plenty slippery to let snow slide off.
How does this building work as a shop? Quite nicely. Plenty of room for workbench and storage racks on the vertical wall, lots of space to work on deck, and enough solar heating and sunlight in February to make you feel like you’re in the Bahamas even if you’re in Maine.
Greg Rössel, a boatbuilder and WoodenBoat School teacher, is a frequent contributor to WoodenBoat.
Kathy Bray
A well-built bow-roof shed, with a good foundation, end walls, and covering, will last for many years.
The Bow-Roofed Shed
by Matthew P. Murphy
The origin of the bow-roofed shed is somewhat apocryphal; the concept has appeared in various pieces of boatbuilding literature for a number of years—including this magazine, back in issue No. 48. But the idea of this building is so elegant—and cost-effective—that an article on boat sheds would be incomplete without it.
The idea is simple: Trussed bows are preformed by bending furring strips (1 x 3″ strapping) around a series of 2 x 3″ spacer blocks that are temporarily fixed to the shop floor; the resulting bow experiences very little springback. Paired bows are then set up on level sills to form an arch, a ridgepole is fastened, the structure is braced longitudinally and diagonally, and covered. But there are many variations—some of which can turn this big ol’ tent into a semi-permanent shed.
For example, many inexpensive bow-frame sheds use simple stakes to support the sills; longer-lasting structures are built on kneewalls of wood or concrete. Solid end-walls, collar ties, and a partial sheathing of plywood will also solidify things.
To house a short-term boatbuilding or repair project, boatbuilder David Stimson has designed a 14 x 32′ bow-roofed shed, expandable to 20 x 60′ overall. He sells plans for this, as well as a 25-page instruction manual (information below). I used Stimson’s instruction as a departure point when I built my own shed, but I wanted a few modifications.
The original Stimson plans suggested assembling the bows with drywall screws as fasteners. This is fine for a temporary building—and inexpensive. But, within a year, several of the spacer blocks in my bows had cracked across the grain as a result of this construction. Dave now suggests through-fastening all of the spacer blocks.
To allow for quick disassembly, I used plywood gussets to join my “half bows,” and notched these to receive a ridgepole. I thought I was being original until I learned in reading The Gougeon Brothers on Boat Construction that I’d been beat by 15 years. However unoriginal, the concept works well, and has the added benefit of fulfilling the role of collar ties, as well.
Simple collar ties, however, are also a good option. A few years ago, Brooklin Boat Yard erected a bow-frame shed to house a 60′ P-class sloop. At 20′ high, this building was probably the maximum height for this type of construction, considering available lengths of lumberyard strapping. This shed would break apart into two 18 x 30′ units. Despite generous diagonal strapping, the finished building was a bit limber in a blow. Collar ties stiffened the structure considerably, although they also lowered the controlling height of the shed.
Here at WoodenBoat, our Friendship sloop, BELFORD GRAY, spends its winters in one of these buildings—probably the best example I’ve seen. The kneewalls, about 3′ high, are staked into the grassy substrate with generous lengths of rebar. The building is covered in white heat-shrink plastic, except for the first 4′ of the sides. These are sheathed in plywood, which adds great rigidity to the structure, as do the plywood endwalls, complete with hinged barn doors. These features also add a degree of permanence, which may or may not be desirable.
Heat-shrink plastic is marvelous stuff for a shed cover; well applied, it can be downright elegant. But there are other options, and David Stimson has laid down a few estimates of longevity: clear polyethylene, six months; reinforced poly tarp, one year; greenhouse plastic, three to six years; and canvas, five to ten years. But I’d stick with heat-shrink plastic; it looks great, shrinks very tight (the thunder of a loose-fitting cover can be unnerving and distracting), and lasts…well, the shed here at WoodenBoat is going on three years, and there are no signs of failure.
Since plastic has virtually no thermal mass, heating one of these buildings can be inconsistent. I haven’t tried this yet, but I think a sheathing of plastic on the inside of the building would create a good dead air space, making the building more energy-efficient.
A plastic-wrapped structure is essentially a sealed bubble, and condensation is a major issue; the shed must be ventilated. BELFORD GRAY’s home uses store-bought vents mounted in the endwalls.
My materials cost to build a bow-roofed shed was about$1 per sq ft in 1993, which is a substantial savings over many manufactured systems—which run from $4 to $15 per sq ft. My total labor time, with two people working, was about 20-25 hours.
Plans for a bow-roof shed are available from Stimson Marine, RR I Box 524, River Rd., Boothbay, MT 04537; 207-633-7252.
Kathy Bray
This boat barn is a no-nonsense permanent building with good access and ventilation.
A Boat Barn for All Seasons
by Ken Textor
Creating my own building for the storage, maintenance, and construction of wooden boats was quite different from other homes and barns I’ve built. The criteria for my “boat barn” had to take into consideration some special needs of wooden boat ownership: a space with adequate light and ventilation that wouldn’t create excessive drying; a handy and easily used working space with year-round access; and long-term thrift.
Oddly enough, thrift was one of the prime considerations for building my 22 x 38′ boat barn. Before the barn, I always relied on fitted canvas covers to preserve my three wooden boats through Maine’s long winters. As the cover for my 30′ sailboat began to wear out, I priced a replacement. Around $2,500 was the average quote. Looking 20 years into the future, I could easily see $10,000 being spent on several new covers for each of the boats. From my experience in residential construction, I knew I could build the shell of a building for less than that. Moreover, such a building would add permanent value to our property. Thus was born the idea of a boat barn.
Special boat-oriented design considerations were the driving forces behind the construction plan details. From the experience of other wooden boat owners who store their vessels indoors, I knew a concrete foundation was ill-advised. Concrete floor and sills will draw moisture out of the air, making the boat’s seams open up more than they would during open storage, one owner told me. Moreover, keeping a concrete floor clean is an impossible chore. And working on a concrete floor is hard on your feet, knees, and back.
So I opted for a gravel floor with a crushed stone surface. The gravel stays slightly moist year ’round, which helps keep drying of the boat to a minimum. There’s also just enough “give” in the crushed stone to keep chronic feet, knee, and back problems from developing. And, the gravel resists frost-heaving much better than the exposed ground Mother Nature usually provides. And the crushed stone on top of the gravel also prevents gobs of sand, sawdust, etc., from attaching to your shoes and being tracked around the shop or into the car and home. Most sawdust just falls between the stones.
For a foundation, I sunk creosoted posts 6′ into the ground. This is not only cheaper than concrete posts, it actually will increase the longevity of the structure. That’s because after you fasten 6 x 10″ hemlock sill beams between the posts, the wooden poles eliminate moisture problems. Concrete posts tend to “sweat” in the summer, forming a perpetually soggy spot where the beams and posts join. Wooden posts don’t sweat and, in my experience, they don’t wear out any more quickly than concrete.
Although 6 x 10″ sill beams may sound a bit excessive, my engineering tables called for at least that size because of other special boat barn considerations. First, I knew I had to build a structure without any center supports. Tractor-trailer boat haulers have enough problems maneuvering in relatively small spaces without adding more structures they must avoid. So posts were out. Additionally, I knew the barn’s loft floor would have to be at least 14′ above the stone-and-gravel floor, again to accommodate a large trailered boat. Thus all the weight of the barn had to be supported by the sills under the outer walls. With the creosoted posts set 8′ apart, the 6 x 10″ sills were a little better than adequate.
The cavernous open interior space also created other problems, not the least of which were large wind-loading surfaces, plus a long and potentially expensive clearspan for the loft floor. I solved these problems by using a solution from my days of building post-and-beam structures: the diagonal brace. Although I had ruled out a post-and-beam structure as too expensive, the diagonals normally used in such a building became extremely valuable. Sticking with 2 x 6″ spruce studs for the walls, I used cut-in 1 x 6″ diagonal oak braces at all the exterior corners, both uppers and lowers. Likewise, the 2 x 10″ spruceloft joists were locked in place with more interior 2 x 6″ spruce diagonal bracing. This added more strength to the entire building and has prevented any wracking from strong coastal winds. The diagonals also reduced the unsupported clearspan from 22′ to 14′ and made the loft floor available for all kinds of gear stowage and (someday!) a heated, dust-free paint and varnish room.
Having once worked in busy farm barns, I knew my boat barn’s design would have to include serious ventilation. A haymow in July is the last stop before Hades itself, and all that hull-drying heat can usually be felt throughout an ordinary barn. But in my boat barn, I specified the use of shiplap boards for the walls and a large cupola in the middle of the roof. This has worked extremely well. Even on the hottest summer days, the barn’s upper floor is no hotter than the air outside. The hotter it gets outside, the more the cupola literally sucks the air out of the building. Moreover, that open gravel floor constantly cools and moistens air that seeps in through the shiplap boards. Thus, the barn actually stays cooler than the air outside, sometimes by as much as 10°.
Without the worry of excessive drying, I didn’t hesitate to put lots of large, multipaned windows in my boat barn—ones I had salvaged from a local school. I was specifically looking for such multipane, thermally inefficient windows for two reasons. First, lots of small panes mean the occasional breakage common in heavily used woodworking areas is cheaper and quicker to fix. Additionally, thermally inefficient glass will tend to keep interior temperatures down.
With these school windows, there was the added bonus of the glass being extra thick, which keeps breakage to a minimum. The windows also allow some solar heating in the winter when I close the cupola and the morning sun shines bright and early.
Finally, in designing a building, 1 knew it would be impossible to foresee everything, particularly when jockeying boats around to best advantage. So I specified large access doors on three of the four walls. The biggest are the two hinged doors on the north side, which have a combined opening of 12′ wide and 13′ high. A 10 x 10′ sliding door on the east side has allowed me to remove the small boats when late winter frost heaves still block the north side opening. And a smaller hinged door (4 x 8′) on the south side allows me to put items like saw horses, sheets of plywood, and staging planks temporarily outside while I rearrange the work area inside.
Total construction time for this boat barn was 10 weeks. I built it alone, working about 60 hours a week on it. The total materials cost was $8,700 in 1994, including the hired bulldozer operator who spread the gravel and stone, and the post-hole digger who was a local power company subcontractor. The cupola was added after the first winter. It was built on the ground, disassembled, and then reassembled on the roof. A 4 x 4′ trapdoor positioned in the loft floor above the cockpit of our sailboat makes annual gear removal very easy. Access to the barn is gained through our potting shed, which is attached to another barn, which is attached to the house. Thus I no longer have to work on boats while exposed to the wind and weather.
Ken Textor, a writer and woodworker from Arrowsic, Maine, wrote about refastening in WoodenBoat No. 135.
A Final Note
Be sure to check local building codes and regulations before beginning any of these projects.
Small boat winterization guide
There are some important steps you need to complete before you move your boat into its winter storage. Follow our complete boat winterization guide for more ways to protect your craft from the elements and more.
Back in the 1970s I bought my first International Canoe (I named it HARM’S WAY because it was meant to be sailed fast). To move it around, I needed a long, narrow trailer and found one made by the R.J. Cox Company of Ohio that, with a little modification, would suit my needs well. Using dimensional lumber, I fitted it up with crossbars to which I could lash the spars and seat, and even double-stack it with the canoe below and a kayak or two above. HARM’S WAY has passed into other hands, but I still have the Cox trailer. I’ve renewed its double decking and, by adding 2×6 boards, turned it into a platform trailer that can handle anything: a skiff, a dory, a ducker, a faering, even an iceboat. The raised crossbar system can support whatever I can lift up onto it.
Making a trailer suitable for multiple boats
Photographs by the author
The overall look of my trailer may not be pretty, but the modifications are inexpensive and practical. The carpeted walkways allow boats to slide across the boards and make for safer walking when the trailer is wet. Note the two wood blocks near the front of the boards; these are beveled to catch the chines of my dory and skiff so that they are more easily centered on the trailer; the blocks are bolted to the boards and easily removed. The T-shirt-covered fenders on the back posts help to guide and center a boat as it is pulled up onto the trailer, while also protecting it from being damaged against the posts. The T-shirts prevent the fenders from rubbing against and potentially scuffing the boat’s paint.
My modifications to the trailer are sturdy enough that shallow-keel boats, such as my faering (which measures 18″ from the bottom of the keel to the turn of the bilge), can self-guide with gunwale-to-post contact, and be supported by the posts without the need of bunks. It’s a setup that can be built using readily available timber and galvanized decking hardware. The key is two 4×4 crosspieces U-bolted to the trailer frame, front and back. Shallow notches lock them to the frame of the trailer. At the ends of these crosspieces, vertical 4×4 posts are held in place, at the bottom, with BC post caps through-bolted in place. On each side of the trailer, each post is braced with 1×2s led diagonally between the posts, lag-bolted into place, top to bottom. Each of the four posts is further braced with a short 1×2 diagonal lag-bolted about 2′ from the bottom and about 2’ in from the end of the crosspiece. The top of the vertical posts are half-lapped to receive a 2×4 crosspiece bolted into place whenever a second tier is needed, for spars perhaps, or a second boat (these crosspieces can be easily set up and removed depending on need).
The top of each post is half-lapped to accept a 2×4 crosspiece bolted into place whenever a second tier is needed.
The posts can support an upper tier, serve as guides when retrieving a boat from the water, provide raised locations for lights, and offer steadying holds if you need to stand up on the trailer.
Making a walkway platform
Over the years I have also modified the bed of the trailer so that it can be used as a flatbed on which to move a snowblower, and so I can walk out onto the trailer when launching or retrieving a boat when I don’t want to immerse the wheels and their bearings. The sturdy, wide platform makes it easy to walk out along the trailer in order to lift and push the boat into the water.
I have left a gap between the boards on either side of the bunks so that I can raise them if I’m transporting a round- or V-bottomed boat that needs more support. Here the bunks are angled upward to make them more visible. When in use, they are set parallel with the boards and raised just enough to make contact with the hull.
The 4×4 crosspieces that were previously bolted to the trailer to support the vertical posts are notched in the center to take a carpeted 2×4. This does the job once done by the central rollers that came with the trailer, but which were poorly suited to supporting a lightly built boat. The roller brackets were, however, ideally placed to support a 2×4 laid flat on top of them. Once the 2×4 was bolted in place, I extended the platform on either side of it with lengths of 2×6 that I had left over from another project. These boards are screwed with #9 GRK 2 1⁄2″ framing screws to the 4×4 crosspieces front and back. I laid them so that between the boards placed on either side of the trailer’s bunks there is a 3″ gap—large enough for the bunks to be raised if needed, say, to support the bilges of a round- or V-bottomed boat. Raising the bunks does mean spending some time on my back beneath the trailer. Near the front end of the platform, I have removable lag-bolted blocks that catch the chine of my dory or skiff, allowing them to center themselves when pulled up. The whole affair is carpeted with indoor-outdoor carpet remnants and boat-bunk carpet. Finally, the back-end posts are protected with T-shirt-covered fenders, which don’t improve the overall look but do help to center a boat and guide it into place—the T-shirts prevent paint from being rubbed off by the fenders.
With the upper 2×4 crosspieces installed the trailer can be used to transport multiple items and boats. Here a peapod is carried on the upper beams above a Penobscot Salmon Wherry, which is resting on the flatbed bottom. Modifying a trailer with wooden additions makes it easy to add extras, such as the wooden cleat seen here.
With a little imagination and rudimentary skills, boat trailers can be modified to be more versatile and user-friendly. Sturdy posts let you carry more gear while also raising the taillights to keep them out of the water at the ramp and make them more visible to following traffic on the road. Walkways and platforms allow you to walk around dry-shod and with improved stability. Just because a stock trailer wasn’t designed to be a workhorse for all of your boats and gear, doesn’t mean that it can’t become one.
Ben Fuller, curator emeritus of the Penobscot Marine Museum in Searsport, Maine, has been messing about in small boats for a very long time. He is owned by a dozen or more boats: kayaks, canoes, a skiff, a ducker, and a sail-and-oar boat.
Kathy Mansfield
Kathy Mansfield
Kathy Mansfield
