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Eel

When I sail WINKLE, my William Garden–designed Eel, people almost always take out their cameras. The 18′6″ canoe yawl was designed as a slightly shorter and much lighter version of the original Eel designed by George Holmes in 1895. Holmes was one of the pioneers of the canoe yawls that became popular in England at the end of the 1800s. Recreational boating was then in its early stages, and canoe yawls, derived from canoes and other small boats meant for work and pleasure, appealed to sailors drawn to longer cruises in more open waters. They were perhaps the first “pocket cruisers,” a category of small boats that have recently become popular once again.

Those 19th-century canoe yawls were often sailed on the rivers and estuaries of England and so were typically of shallow draft. The Garden-designed Eel draws only about 11″ with the board up. It can be nosed up to a beach, but its 330-lb external lead keel, about 4″ square and about 4′ long, makes it impossible to drag the boat up on a beach. You can omit the lead keel and use bags of lead shot as internal ballast instead if your sailing regularly brings you ashore.

Plans for the Eel consist of five sheets of drawings and a table of offsets that detail how to build the boat using carvel, strip, and cold-molded construction methods. I chose strip-building, as I had previously built a Wee Lassie cedar-strip canoe. My hope that the Eel would just be a bigger version of that project was not off the mark. Its hull is like that of a canoe, the lack of reverse curves simplifies the planking, and it’s built upside down, with the strips glued together over lofted station molds.

The strips were 3/4″ thick and 1-1/4″ wide—harder to bend than the strips I used for the Wee Lassie—and it was necessary to kerf some of them to take the tight curve around the canoe stern. I made a thin, 2′ cut down the middle from the end of the strip so I could more easily bend what had become, in essence, a pair of flexible 3/8″ strips instead of a stiff, single 3/4″ one. And yet, while strip-building is probably the simplest way to build the hull, the Eel is not a beginner’s building project. Doing the lofting, making the lead keel, building a cabin, and making spars call for some advanced skills and patience.

The Eel has a gunter rig with a vertical gaff that is an extension of the mast. I have come to really appreciate the rig; the shorter spar lengths are much easier to manage. I have built a tabernacle for the mainmast, and now I can quickly raise and lower it by myself. Another advantage of the gunter rig is that when you reef, you are lowering the gaff along with the sail, decreasing the weight aloft.

Apparently, some owners have complained that the gaff needs to be lowered all the way to the cockpit to change the attachment of its halyard for reefing. I added a second halyard that goes from a block higher up on the mast to a point higher up on the gunter. To reef, I slack the primary halyard and pull this one in. It works very well and makes for rapid reefing, shaking, and resetting. It does complicate the rig a little more with the addition of another line; however, this boat is light, and it is important to have the correct amount of sail up, so I think that it’s worth it.

I built the main mast and gaff hollow using the bird’s-mouth method, and the weight savings is significant. It does take some intricate work to mill the eight strips, tapered on one side and notched on the other. It is really fun and exciting when you put them together, and they create a long, faceted cylinder. The mizzen mast and booms are solid.

The centerboard has an arm going forward out of the top of the trunk. A line from the tip of the arm goes forward through blocks and then aft to a cleat in the cockpit. The board can be raised and lowered from the cockpit and works well. The plans call for the centerboard to be made of 5/16″ steel plate, which would weigh about 100 pounds. I made mine of 3/4″ marine plywood enclosed in fiberglass to save money and get a little bit of a foil shape. I added two lead inserts, but it still doesn’t weigh that much. I have thought about adding additional weight to the keel. My boat does seem a little tender as it heels quickly in puffs; it may a little underweight. Other Eel builders who kept to the plans report their boats are stiffer under sail.

The only other major modification I made to my Eel, beyond the tabernacle, was to the shape of the rudder. Garden’s plans call for a deep, removable spade rudder that can be pulled out through a trunk when encountering shallow water; then a paddle or an oar serves as a rudder. There are many bars and shallows where I sail, and I worried about snagging the rudder, or even bending the rudder shaft and then not being able to pull the blade up into the trunk. I had seen a picture of an Eel in WoodenBoat  (Launchings, Sept/Oct 2001) mentioning a “winged” rudder. I was able to chase down the owner and creator, Roger Dahlberg in Tasmania, Australia, who graciously shared his plans with me. His rudder doesn’t extend below the keel and has a horizontal plate along the bottom to improve performance. It has worked well for me.

The centerboard trunk divides the cabin's sleeping quarters, but intrudes little into the cockpit.Randy Colker

The centerboard trunk divides the cabin’s sleeping quarters, but barely intrudes into the cockpit.

 

The cockpit of the Eel is very comfortable. After consulting a furniture-making manual, I made some alterations to improve the seating. I slanted the coamings outward about 10 degrees and the seat bottoms at about a 6-degree angle. This was extra work, but really added to the comfort. While the coamings offer good back support, but angled or not, they rise high enough above the deck to make hiking out impractical and uncomfortable.

The Eel is a very dry boat, and handles chop well. The cockpit is not self-bailing, which is not unusual for a boat this size; I don’t have a cover for the boat and I have to bail water after a rainfall.

I did not build cruising accommodations in the cabin, as I expected I would only use the boat only for daysailing. Other Eels have been equipped with two comfortable 6′-plus berths in the cabin and a good bit of storage, making them better suited for cruising. In 1983, Bruce Baker sailed his newly purchased Eel from Schooner Bay Boat Works (where about a dozen Eels were built in the 1970s and ’80s) in Anacortes, Washington, to his home near Juneau, Alaska, a trip up the inland passage of about 900 miles.

With 201 sq ft of sail, the Eel makes good speed. The 300 lbs of lead in the keel stiffens the hull for windward work.Tom Wessels

With 201 sq ft of sail, the Eel makes good speed. The design calls for 300 lbs of lead in the keel and a steel-plate centerboard  to stiffen the hull for windward work.

Space in the cabin is tight and it takes a bit of flexibility to move around in it. There is about 38″ of headroom under the forward part of the cabin top, and 43″ aft. If you are sitting on the sole, without anything built in, you can sit upright. The plans call for hinging the cabintop at the front so that it could be raised for more headroom in the back. I did do this in case I ever decided to use the boat for cruising, but haven’t yet added the canvas panels to cover the openings at the sides.

While I was building my Eel, I read about the perils of sailing a boat without built-in flotation and so, despite the extra shop time it added, I put a watertight compartment in the bow and foam flotation under the deck, seats, and floorboards. I wanted to buy a flotation bladder to go under the aft deck, but couldn’t find one in the shape I needed, and the bladders I did see were prohibitively expensive. I settled on two heavy plastic bags filled with empty 2-liter soda bottles and gallon milk jugs.

Originally, I had intended to use a Seagull outboard for auxiliary power. The classic motors are light and in keeping with the character of the boat. Unfortunately, the Seagull I had was not cooperative when it came to starting and idling. I then tried a Torqeedo 1003 electric outboard. It comes apart in three pieces, which makes it easier to put the engine on and take it off. The Eel has a canoe stern, so the outboard needs to be mounted on a bracket hung over the side, and my preference would be to take it off while sailing for appearance’s sake as much as to keep it from dragging while heeling. Taking the three pieces apart and putting them back together wasn’t as easy as I’d hoped, so I settled for tilting the engine up, and swinging it over on the deck on its side when it is not in use. This has proved satisfactory, though the motor goes through one charge of the battery fairly quickly. Rowing is another option for auxiliary power. The Eel can be outfitted with elevated locks for stand-up, forward-facing rowing, but I have not yet invested in the locks and oars.

The Eel is very easy to trailer and launch. I have done it comfortably with my mid-size, six-cylinder Toyota sedan. With three sails, five spars (seven including the bowsprit and boomkin), roller-furling jib, and my reefing system, there is a lot to be assembled. It takes an hour to an hour and a half to set up at the launch ramp.

Instead of incorporating the rudder specified in the original design—a vertical blade that retracts into a trunk—the author's Eel has a rudder that is even with the keel and longer, allowing it to be used to sail in shallow water.Randy Colker

Instead of incorporating the rudder specified in the original design—a vertical blade that retracts into a trunk—the author’s Eel has a rudder that is even with the keel and extends aft rather than down, allowing it to be used to sail in shallow water.

My mainsail cover fits around the gaff, sail, and boom. This creates a nice package that can be taken off the mast in one piece and tied down for transport. The bowsprit and boomkin can stay in place while the boat sits on the trailer, though I wouldn’t want to tow it any distance with the boomkin on, as it would be too vulnerable sticking out the back. The mast can stay folded down in the tabernacle for both storage and transport, which is very convenient.

Dropping the main and leaving the jib and mizzen flying reduces the sail area while keeping the helm well balanced.Leigh Fenigsohn

Dropping the main and leaving the jib and mizzen flying reduces the sail area while keeping the helm well balanced.

Once the Eel is in the water, getting under way is rapid and easy. The jib’s roller-furling is a joy to have. The Eel is great fun to sail. It is fast, very responsive, and with 201 sq ft in the jib, main, and mizzen, it sails surprisingly well in very light winds. With a mizzen staysail rigged, I have sailed at 2 to 3 knots in 5-knot winds. I don’t think you could use the staysail in winds any higher than this without being overpowered. The fastest speed I have measured was 6.1 knots in about 10 knots of wind without really trying. I was happy with this as the theoretical hull speed for a boat this length is 5.7 knots. Maximum speed for just the jib and mizzen in higher winds has been 5.2 knots. It points very well with the full suit of sails, though not quite as well closehauled with just the jib and mizzen. Having the three sails makes for a very balanced boat with little weather helm. It also provides many sail combinations for different wind conditions, which is important for a light boat with this much sail area.

The author reports that his Eel, WINKLE, is "a joy to sail, fast and responsive. Immensely satisfying."Tom Wessels

The author reports that his Eel, WINKLE, is “a joy to sail, fast and responsive. Immensely satisfying.”

My Eel took over five years—and an enormous amount of patience from my wife for a project that took over half of our garage—for me to build, but it was well worth the effort. It has been a pleasure to own and sail, and generates many compliments. WINKLE sails the Poquoson River which feeds into the Chesapeake Bay just below the York River. My wife often joins me, and many of the folks who helped build the boat volunteer to serve as crew. Whoever comes aboard is soon smiling. 

Randy Colker is a retired psychologist living in Yorktown, Virginia. He started building boats after attending a class at The WoodenBoat School in Brooklin, Maine, and built several working his way up to the Eel. He loves beautiful wood and working with it.

Eel Particulars

Length:   18′ 6″
Waterline:   14′ 10″
Beam:   6′
Draft, board up:   5″
Draft, board down:   1′ 3″
Displacement:   1,350 lbs
Sail Area:   201 sq ft

 

Plans for the Eel are available from the WoodenBoat Store for $100.

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Pooduck Skiff

The Pooduck Skiff had long been a bucket-list item for me. Almost 20 years ago I bought and read Eric Dow’s book, How to Build the Shellback Dinghy, and every so often I’d take it off the shelf and reread it, rekindling the longing to build a boat and learn how to sail. It wasn’t until recently, as an empty-nester, that I finally had the time, means, and space to build a boat. I bought the plans for the Pooduck Skiff, designed by naval architect Joel White for sailing, rowing, and, sculling.

The Pooduck, at 12′10″, is 20″ longer than White’s Shellback, but they are otherwise quite similar and Dow’s book—with its step-by-step instructions for the glued plywood lapstrake construction, outfitting the interior, and building the sailing rig—can be used as a guide for Pooduck as well. I entered the project with moderate woodworking skills acquired from years of home-ownership and taking woodshop classes, so I appreciated the book’s tips on what tool is best for what job, and on building useful jigs. As an example, I don’t know how I would have transferred the angle and curve of the hull to the edge of the seats, without the using the jig presented in the book. I also had some help from my friend Steve, who had some boatbuilding experience. Still, we both learned a lot with this project. I approached the build as several smaller projects ranging from tool sharpening to knot tying, and got a lot of help along the way from instructional videos on YouTube.

While this skiff has a single rowing station, the plans call for a second station at the thwart that serves as the mast partners.Thomas Guertin

While this skiff has only a single rowing station, the plans call for a second station at the thwart that serves as the mast partner.

I have a fairly well-equipped woodshop, and while my power tools were invaluable and did some jobs faster and more precisely, not all tasks lent themselves to using a bulky tool with an electric motor. The Pooduck project deepened my experience with hand planes, and I made certain they were sharp. A bullnose rabbet plane is especially handy for working in tight spaces and for shaping plank bevels and gains.and

The plans I purchased from The WoodenBoat Store are straightforward and contain every bit of information you need to build a Pooduck, though novice builders will benefit from Dow’s book as an supplement. The six pages of plans include full-sized patterns of the molds, stem, transom, breasthook, knees, and the boat’s single frame. Patterns for the planks are not full size, but described by a measured drawing. When plotting out the coordinates of the planks on the 3/8″ plywood, double-check your measurements. The plans note: “it is advisable to get out the planks a little oversize (1/4″ to 1/2″ in width), then determine the final shape on the jig.”

The plans don't call for floorboards, but they're easily added to separate the occupants from water int he bilge. Note the elongated hole for the mast and crescent shaped plug on the thwart. The plug goes forward of the mast when the jib is used, aft for sailing with the main alone.Thomas Guertin

The plans don’t call for floorboards, but they’re easily added to separate the occupants from water in the bilge. Note the elongated hole for the mast and crescent-shaped plug on the thwart. The plug goes forward of the mast when the jib is used, and aft for sailing with the main alone.

The Pooduck Skiff materials list calls for 3/4″ (18mm) mahogany marine plywood for the bottom and transom and 3/8″ (9mm) for the planking. The 12′ and 14′ sheets called for may have been available when the plans were drawn up in 1990; the 8’ sheets available today will need to be scarfed together to get the necessary length for the planks and the bottom. Solid mahogany is specified for the gunwales, breasthook, knees, and trunk cap; white pine for the thwarts; oak for the maststep and jam cleats. I wasn’t able to purchase mahogany in lengths sufficient to form the gunwales, so there was some scarfing done here as well.

The center frame is laminated from twenty 1/8″- thick strips cut from dimensional lumber. The plans call for fir or mahogany, but Steve suggested sawing the strips from clear 2×12 spruce. The quality of 2x12s is better than that of 2x4s because they come from bigger trees, and usually have fewer knots. I cut more strips than I needed and selected only clear strips from the best part of the 2×12. It’s best to buy quality lumber, so I avoided the big box stores and went to my neighborhood lumberyard.

The mast and spars are also made of spruce. The plans recommend using two clear 2x4s for this.  As with the spruce we used for the frame, I found the quality of 2x12s to be better. With a little care, one can select the optimum pieces from the best part of the 2×12. A portion of it may go to waste, but the added expense is minimal.

An advanced builder could do it alone, but I had an extra pair of hands when attaching the planks. I found there to be a little variation between the planks as drawn and the shapes determined by the molds (as one should expect), which necessitated having a helper to locate each plank and refine its shape. Likewise, it was also nice to have someone around to help align the drill when drilling the pilot holes for fastenings, especially where the planks meet the transom.

For a bit of style I strayed from the plans, and instead of using a single piece of pine for thwarts in the bow and stern, I used leftover 18mm marine plywood to make slat seats. I used the same material to make floorboards. The one frame in the boat is under a thwart, so it’s possible to find comfortable seating anywhere in the bottom of the boat, but I’d rather be seated above any water that might get aboard. I also added two Shellback-style knees made from solid mahogany to the thwart that serves as the mast partner for additional strength. I adhered these to the hull using 3M 5200 marine adhesive instead of epoxy so it would be possible to remove them if necessary, to touch up the paint. The transom is drawn with a notch for sculling, but I didn’t include that in my boat because I had no intention of propelling it in that manner.

The boat is light, only about 200 lbs even with my extra features, and it trailers well. I treated myself to a brand-new trailer which came with two flat, carpeted bunks. They mate pretty nicely with the flat bottom of the boat. I use a ratchet strap to secure the boat to the trailer, with rags under the straps where they meet the gunwales to prevent chafing.

Empty, the Pooduck Skiff draws only about 6″, which makes it easily managed on the beach. Getting in and out of it isn’t bad either, though you have to get your weight planted in the center or have a shipmate holding the opposite side, or you may have a couple of gallons of water come over the side. It’s easier moving in and out of the boat while it is at a dock because you don’t have to climb over the gunwale. Once you’re aboard, the skiff is stable enough to stand in while afloat.

While rowing, Pooduck moves right along with little effort and tracks very well. With one person rowing, the skiff sits right on its lines with the transom just out of the water. There is plenty of room and freeboard to accommodate three average-sized people.

The option to shift the rake of the mast helps keep the rig balanced. The mast is angled aft here shifting the main's center of effort aft to compensate for the addition of the jib to the sail plan.Pam Payson

The option to shift the rake of the mast helps keep the rig balanced. The mast is angled aft here, shifting the main’s center of effort aft to compensate for the addition of the jib to the sail plan.

I found that rigging for sail is best done on the trailer. The running rigging consists of the main halyard, sheet, and downhaul and the jib halyard and sheet. It can get a little awkward keeping them all straight and in the proper position if the boat is bouncing in the surf or spinning in the wind.

Under sail, I found it somewhat difficult to move from sitting on the floor to a position up on the gunwale. This winter I plan to extend the middle seat to provide an intermediate place to sit. Under sail, two adults are the limit. My buddy and I are both about 5′6″ tall, and I suspect two large individuals would feel a bit cramped for space.

The skiff sails equally as well with or without flying the jib. The hole in the thwart that serves as a mast partner is elongated and equipped with a crescent-shaped plug, allowing the mast to be angled and maintain the rig’s balance when shifting between sailing the main alone or main and jib. I’m not an experienced sailor, but I couldn’t tell the difference between sailing her with or without the jib. She seemed to beat to windward equally well under main alone or main and jib. Sailing without the jib is much easier, as you have less to do and there are two fewer lines to tend to.

When taking the helm, sitting on the bottom is the most convenient position. Floorboards make that a more comfortable option when some water gets aboard.Pam Payson

When taking the helm, sitting on the bottom is the most convenient position. Floorboards make that a more comfortable option when some water gets aboard.

On one occasion, my inexperience led to capsizing in a strong gust. The skiff righted easily, but this is mostly because it was full of water. I did not have an easy time bailing out and I was not able to get back in without refilling the hull with water. I had to be towed to shore, with the boat half swamped. The incident turned out okay because I was on a small lake, but it got me thinking about equipping the boat for self-rescue. Flotation isn’t mentioned in the plans or Dow’s book, but I’d recommended at least adding some foam under the two center seats as close to the bottom as possible.

Building a Pooduck was everything I had hoped it would be; it was challenging enough to make it feel like a real accomplishment. It was an enormous learning experience with many take-aways that I can apply to other projects down the road. I’m proud of the way it turned out. The Pooduck’s design provides a true feel for traditional boatbuilding. It is well suited for rowing but is just gorgeous under sail. I receive compliments every time I take the boat out, and I have already begun to meet others who took on similar wooden boat projects. 

Tom Guertin lives in Warner, New Hampshire, 15 miles from Lake Sunapee and near several other lakes. His love of boats began in his youth fishing on Long Island Sound, not too far from Mystic Seaport. He sails, paddles, and fishes for bass in the many lakes of New Hampshire’s Lakes Region. He works for the State of New Hampshire’s Department of Environmental Services.

Pooduck Skiff Particulars

[table]

Length/12′10″
Beam/4′6″
Draft, board up/6.5″
Draft, board down/1′9″
Weight/about 130 lbs
Sail Area/Main, 65 sq ft; Jib, 14 sq ft

[/table]

Plans for the Pooduck Skiff are available from the WoodenBoat Store for $75.

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Wolf Rock Light

"Arrfff! Arrfff!

This was the sound of a large gray seal as it poked its head out of the water and looked in my direction with unabashed interest. Now, I love seals as much as anyone and relish my regular encounters with them while I’m rowing on the river near my home in South Devon, England. But this was different. This seal was swimming in the Atlantic Ocean, eight miles off Land’s End, and I, rather than being safely ensconced aboard my skiff, was bobbing about in the water in a semi-inflated dry suit, just a few feet away from it. And, was it my imagination, or was this seal much, much bigger than the ones back home?

After a few moments’ contemplation, the seal sighed and slipped under the water again. A feeling of relief was quickly followed by unease at the thought that this huge creature was now swimming somewhere beneath me and I had no way of knowing where it was or what it was going to do next. Even though I knew a seal was highly unlikely to hurt me, my instincts told me a different story. So I crashed about and made what I thought were suitably macho seal noises.

Arrfff! Arrfff!

Almost immediately the seal appeared on the other side of me, and once again gazed at me with those big dark eyes. I had assumed it was a male seal protecting his territory, but it occurred to me then it might be just trying to be friendly, or possibly more. Perhaps a bright yellow dry suit holds an irresistible attraction to an ocean seal, normally sheltered from modern pinniped fashion trends.

Our moment was interrupted by the appearance of Will Stirling’s 15′ dinghy suddenly looming large with her bold cream-colored lugsail. The seal glanced over, its eyes bulged open in alarm and, with a grunt, it dove underwater. It didn’t reappear again, and I was relieved when Will luffed up beside me and I was able to clamber out of the water to safety.

The incident took place while I was a participant in Will’s madcap plan to sail around every offshore lighthouse in Britain. The project began in March 2012 when he and his wife Sara sailed around the Eddystone Lighthouse, 13 miles south of Plymouth, in a 14′ open dinghy. The couple did that trip to raise money for WaterAid, a global nonprofit devoted to bringing clean drinking water and hygiene education to disadvantaged communities, and the idea grew from there. Will’s scheme is an ambitious one, not least because of the sheer number of offshore lighthouses—at least 50—but also the remoteness of some, for example, Sule Skerry is 35 miles north of Scotland. But Will isn’t in any hurry, and regards it as a lifetime project.

By summer 2017, he had ticked six more lighthouses off the list: Les Hanois in Guernsey, La Corbière in Jersey, Godreavy near St. Ives in Cornwall, both lighthouses on the isle of Lundy in the Bristol Channel, and the Longships off Sennen, Cornwall.

In one 120-mile voyage he tackled two lighthouses, Les Hanois, and La Corbière in a 14′ open sailing dinghy, a type he has been building at his boatyard for the past 15 years, but an incident during that journey convinced him he needed something a bit more seaworthy. He and a crew member were off Jersey, hanging onto a mooring buoy to hold their positon in a strong adverse current, and almost capsized the boat. Will decided there and then he needed a boat that could cope with a greater angle of heel.

The result was GRACE, his 15-footer with side decks and a cockpit coaming all around to keep the water out, and an extended foredeck to give more shelter to anyone sleeping in the bow. I joined Will for the second attempt on his eighth lighthouse: Wolf Rock, 8 miles off Land’s End at the westernmost tip of England. He had to abort his first attempt because of bad weather, and indeed our departure was postponed when a Force 5 headwind and driving rain appeared on the appointed day. The next day, however, the clouds cleared and, after rejecting several possible launching places on the south coast of Cornwall, we finally launched GRACE at Sennen on the north coast, which we judged would give us a better sailing angle in the west-northwesterly winds that had been forecast.

Leaving Sennen, Will keeps an eye on the sail as we round the end of the breakwater. His 15’ Expedition Boat was a development of his standard 14’ dinghy with side decks and a longer foredeck added to provide more protection from the elements.Nic Compton

Leaving Sennen, Will keeps an eye on the sail as we round the end of the breakwater. His 15’ Expedition Boat was a development of his standard 14’ dinghy with side decks and a longer foredeck added to provide more protection from the elements.

Sennen is a picturesque Cornish village, popular with vacationers and surfers alike. At its western end is a beautiful little stone harbor, whose main claim to fame is being the most westerly harbor in mainland England. It is still used by a fleet of fishing boats that are dragged by tractor up and down the beach for launch and haul. A steep slipway runs down from the parking lot to the beach, which made launching the 500-lb boat slightly treacherous. The last time Will launched the boat here, his van couldn’t cope with the gradient and had to be towed up by the tractor.

Will is one of these very organized skippers who’ll send you a passage plan several weeks in advance, complete with course information, estimated timings, local tides, times of sunrise and sunset, and even the phase of the moon. He is also reassuringly safety conscious, and brought along all the essential safety gear in a waterproof bag, including EPIRB, GPS, VHF, compass, and flashlight. All I had to do was turn up with my lifejacket, a dry suit, a packed lunch, and a waterproof camera.

A light northwesterly breeze was blowing as we headed out of Sennen at 11 a.m. sharp, 30 minutes ahead of Will’s schedule. The Cornish coast is famously rocky and thousands of shipwrecks litter its shore; we were put straight to work just off the harbor entrance negotiating a reef growling ominously to windward. We cleared it without any trouble and a few minutes later passed one of the most dangerous rocks along this whole coast, the infamous Longships, the site of dozens, if not hundreds, of shipwrecks. Even after a lighthouse was erected there in 1873, that didn’t stop the 282′ steam-powered coaster BLUEJACKET being driven onto the rocks just a few yards away from the lighthouse, nearly destroying it in the process, on a perfectly calm, clear night in November 1898. The crew was saved but their embarrassment was never-ending.

Having overshot Wolf Rock on the previous tack, we approaching it from the southeast. The east-going tide added about 45 minutes to our crossing, as we had to claw our way back upwind.Will Stirling

Having overshot Wolf Rock on the previous tack, we approached it from the southeast. The east-going tide added about 45 minutes to our crossing, as we had to claw our way back.

Given the fearsome history of this coast, it might seem foolhardy to navigate it in such a small boat, and certainly the sight of those shadowy cliffs rising dramatically on our port side made me feel very small and insignificant indeed. But there were definite advantages in having such a diminutive steed. For a start, we wouldn’t have been able to sail between the rocks and the shore on a bigger boat, and would have had to take a longer route around the seaward side of the Longships. And even if we had hit a submerged rock with the dinghy, in most cases it would have been a case of simply raising the centerboard and sailing into deeper water, something that was definitely not an option for the unfortunate BLUEJACKET.

Will had a more philosophical take on going to sea in a dinghy, quoting first a great poet and then a great explorer: “As T.S. Eliot said: ‘Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.’ To start with I didn’t know the capabilities of the boat or myself. But with each trip I’ve got more confident and realize we can do this. My planning’s got better too, because that’s the key. And as [Roald] Amudsen said: ‘Victory awaits him who has everything in order—luck, people call it.’ You have to be prepared, and then hopefully you can sort out whatever’s thrown at you.”

Land’s End. The very words conjure up a feeling of foreboding, and before Europeans discovered America it had a much more literal meaning. Nowadays, while the cliffs are as dramatic as ever, with clusters of fierce-looking rocks peppering the coast, the overall impression is slightly marred by a hotel and tourist developments that look anything but wild.

Roger Siebert

.

By the time we passed Land’s End, a quarter of a mile off to port, the Wolf Rock lighthouse was clearly visible as a faint finger on the horizon, 8 miles to the southwest. For centuries, the semi-submerged rock that the lighthouse rests on presented a hazard to shipping passing around Land’s End. A local diver estimated there are at least 100 wrecks between the rock and the mainland alone. From 1795 onward, four attempts were made to erect a beacon on the Wolf, all of which were smashed to smithereens by the sheer power of the Atlantic waves. Finally, in 1848, a 14′-high cast-iron beacon filled with concrete rubble was built and held fast. In 1861, work started on an elegant 135′ tower modeled on the Eddystone lighthouse. It took eight years to build, with work interrupted by severe weather and brutal waves. The new light was first lit in 1870 and operates to this day, sending out a single white flash every 15 seconds when darkness falls.

It was bright sunshine as we headed for the Wolf—so named because of the howling noise the wind makes when it blows through the islet’s fissures—and GRACE seemed to delight in the steady westerly Force 3 breeze. It was certainly a fine day to be out at sea on a small, exquisitely built wooden boat, with the sun high in the sky and the water just a few inches away. Behind us, the rocks of west Cornwall receded into the distance, while ahead of us lay what looked like an endless expanse of sea. Next stop, the Azores.

Passing the western side of the rock during our circumnavigation. Wolf Rock was the first lighthouse in the world to be fitted with a helipad on top of the tower.Nic Compton

Wolf Rock was the first lighthouse in the world to be fitted with a helipad on top of the tower.

We were soon surrounded by wildlife, another advantage of traveling by sail in a small boat. An endless array of seabirds passed us by; the ubiquitous gannets, a Manx shearwater, and what I took to be a black tern, went about their business without the slightest concern for the little wooden cockleshell in their midst. Halfway to the Wolf, I spotted a big, floppy fin straight ahead and steered GRACE to leeward of it. It turned out to be an ocean sunfish, a strange-looking white slab of a fish, as tall as it is long, that seems to be all head and no body or tail. It seemed reluctant to interrupt its sunbathing and only dipped down under the surface at the last minute, passing so close we could have touched it.

Soon after, I spotted some strange splashes in the sea about 200 yards off our starboard bow. Eventually I could identify the commotion as some dolphins, but far from being the being the playful, friendly sort who come and frolic off the boat’s bow, these guys were hard at work apparently using shock-and-awe tactics to confound a shoal of fish. We passed by unnoticed.

With the boat anchored off Wolf Rock, Will swam ashore with our cameras, phones, and VHF in a dry bag.Nic Compton

With the boat anchored off Wolf Rock, Will swam ashore with our cameras, phones, and VHF in a dry bag.

With the Wolf Rock light drawing closer, Will made a strange confession. As he described his previous trips on the boat, he admitted that none of his crew had come back for a second go, so each trip had to be done with a new crew. That gave me pause for thought. I was crew No. 8.

With the wind backing to the west and a stronger-than-expected current setting us to the east, we weren’t able to make it to the Wolf Rock in one tack. Instead, we overshot it and took a few short tacks to windward, and soon the lighthouse began to loom large over the port bow, its elegantly tapered tower making a distinctive L shape with the rock below. One of the rules Will has set for himself is to sail completely around every lighthouse on the list, so we rounded the Wolf to port and made a counterclockwise circumnavigation, and then dropped anchor in a small cove in the lee of the rock.

Can’t go over it, can’t go under it. The only way to get ashore safely was to go through the wash. We floated onto the rocks in our dry suits, relying on their buoyancy to keep us afloat.Will Stirling

Can’t go over it, can’t go under it. The only way to get ashore safely was to go through the wash. We floated onto the rocks in our dry suits, relying on their buoyancy to keep us afloat.

Anchored about 50’ away from rocky islet, we were faced with the same dilemma the builders of the lighthouse and its subsequent keepers faced: how to get on and off it. Even in the relatively benign conditions of that sunny August day, a big swell surged around the rock, rising and falling about 6’ and creating swirling eddies. Back in the days when the lighthouse was manned, the keepers came up with ingenious ways of transferring people and stores from ship to shore, including using a kite to fly a line out to the relief ship. Once the ship was in position, the men put their feet in a bight in the line and hung for dear life as they were winched on or off the rock.

This seemed to be a favorite sunbathing spot for seals. They scampered away when they saw us. The 1848 beacon is visible on the left. The landing area between the beacon and the lighthouse built in 1870 was a key part of the building the towers, as well as making it easier to get keepers and stores on and off the rock.Will Stirling

This ledge seemed to be a favorite sunbathing spot for seals. They scampered away when they saw us. The 1848 beacon is visible on the left. The landing area between the beacon and the lighthouse built in 1870 was a key part of the building the towers, as well as making it easier to get keepers and stores on and off the rock.

Judging by news clips from 1950 and 1952, it was pretty hazardous in good weather and completely impossible in bad, which meant the keepers often went weeks on end without supplies or a relief crew if a storm was blowing. The problem was finally solved in 1972 when a helipad was built on top of the lantern, the first lighthouse in the world to be modernized in this way. Once the lighthouse was fully automated in 1988, there was no need to transport keepers or bring supplies.

Will climbed to the top of the 1848 beacon. Made of cast iron and filled with concrete rubble, it was the fourth attempt to build a light on Wolf Rock--all the others were swept away by the power of the waves.Nic Compton

Will climbed to the top of the 1848 beacon. Made of cast iron and filled with concrete rubble, it was the fourth attempt to build a light on Wolf Rock–all the others were swept away by the power of the waves.

Our solution to the problem of getting ashore was simpler. With the dry suits zipped up, they provided enough buoyancy to more or less float us over to the rock. Then it was a matter of choosing the right rock and the right wave, washing onto it, and hanging on for dear life as the water rushed out again. Will went first with the VHF and cell phones in the dry bag (in case the dinghy were swept away while we were on the rock), and I followed behind slightly apprehensively.

The Trinity House logo, cast in bronze above the main entrance, includes its motto Trinitas in Unitate—Three in One.Will Stirling

The Trinity House logo, cast in bronze above the main entrance, includes its motto Trinitas in Unitate—Three in One.

It was certainly more tiring than it looked, and by the time I had flapped my legs and arms at full tilt to navigate from boat to rock (pulling a leg muscle in the process, as I discovered the next day), then scrambled up the rocks and climbed up the platform sides, I was puffed out. That only added to the sense of achievement, however, as we stood there and gazed over what was really a different world.

The base of the lighthouse forms what must be one of the strangest mooring docks ever built, with rings to attach lines to, steps at the northern end (away from the prevailing winds) and the remains of the crane used to hoist those keepers and parcels onto the rock. Everything is covered with an even layer of barnacles, like a giant’s sandpaper, a reminder that everything we were standing on is submerged for much of the time. To one side, built into the concrete dock, is the 1848 beacon, a specter from the past, squat and defiant, an embodiment of man’s struggle with nature.

Standing guard over all of this is an almost dainty lighthouse. You would hardly believe this lofty structure is made up of 3,300 tons of granite, tapering from 41′8″ at the base to 17′ at the top, and completely solid for the first 30’. Above that, the walls of the hollow section are tapered, starting 7′9″ thick and gradually thinning to 2′3″ at the top—every external stone dovetailed not only to the ones on either side to it but the ones above and below it. It’s poetry in granite, and a complete contrast to the stumpy, rubble-filled beacon built 20 years earlier, yet equally able to withstand the might of the Atlantic storms.

When Will climbed the bronze ladder rungs to reach the lower front door of the lighthouse, he found it too was made of solid bronze. Above the doorway, also cast in bronze, is a bas relief of four sailing ships on a shield and the words Trinitas in Unitate—Three in One. It was the coat of arms of Trinity House, a charity devoted to maritime safety, responsible for all lighthouses built in England and Wales since 1514. Its motto is a reference to its original purpose of running lighthouses, providing pilotage, and serving as a charity for distressed sailors. It’s as if the builders recognized that, even in this harsh environment, a decorative touch would help ease the burden of the unfortunate souls confined to this inhospitable place for months on end. Sadly, this grand entrance has been blocked on the inside since the construction of the helipad.

We clambered around the rocks and a herd of seals sunbathing on the south side of the rock squirmed back into the sea when they caught sight of us. I climbed down to where they had been and was surprised to see a rainbow on the side of the lighthouse: dark brown barnacles at the bottom merging with the bright green seaweed which became yellow where it was dry, followed by pinky brown granite which became black at the top. Even in this most austere of places, nature performs its magic.

It was while photographing GRACE from the water, to provide documentation that Will had actually sailed around the lighthouse, that I had my close encounter with an amorous seal.Nic Compton

It was while photographing GRACE from the water, to provide documentation that Will had actually sailed around the lighthouse, that I had my close encounter with an amorous seal.

 

The wind was easing, and we were all too aware that if it died altogether we would have to row the 9 miles back to Sennen. So, about 20 minutes after we landed, Will swam back to the boat, while I swam farther out to sea to take pictures of GRACE sailing past the lighthouse—proof that we had indeed sailed there and that he could tick it off his list. It was then that I encountered my overly friendly seal. And to those who might scoff at my trepidation, I say: you weren’t swimming out at sea with a large sea mammal making unwanted advances.

A stronger-than-expected west-going current swept us off course and pushed us onto the infamous Longships Rocks (visible behind Will). Some committed rowing was required to get us past the rocks and into a more favorable current.Nic Compton

A stronger-than-expected west-going current swept us off course and pushed us onto the infamous Longships Rocks (visible behind Will). Some committed rowing was required to get us past the rocks and into a more favorable current.

Having been rescued by Will, and with both of us safely back aboard GRACE, we set course for Land’s End. As we feared, about halfway back the wind died and we were forced to bring out the oars, first Will rowing on his own with me at the helm, and then the two of us rowing side by side, each wielding an oar. It was at this point we realized we had misinterpreted the tidal charts and underestimated the strength of the west-going current, which had set us nearly half a mile west of our intended course. It doesn’t sound like much, but it meant we had to row straight into the current to stop ourselves being swept onto the Longships rocks, and added nearly an hour to our time. Once we were inshore of the Longships, however, we found a favorable tide which swept us back to Sennen.

The sun was setting as we pulled the boat out of the water and packed our gear. Our total journey time was 9 hours, quite a bit longer than the 6 hours Will had estimated in his passage plan, but then the wind was considerably less than forecast and we had had our mishap with the tidal charts.

Next on Will’s list is the Bishop’s Rock, 29 miles west of Wolf Rock, which guards the western edge of the Isles of Scilly. Would I be tempted to join Will again and become the only person to crew for him more than once on his madcap quest? Without a doubt.

Nic Compton is a freelance writer and photographer who grew up sailing dinghies in Greece. He has written about boats and the sea for more than 20 years and has published 12 nautical books, including a biography of the designer Iain Oughtred, available at The WoodenBoat Store. He currently lives on the River Dart in Devon, U.K. He previously wrote about his adventures in his Western Skiff.

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.

Sliding-Seat Conversion

Many years ago, I built a sliding seat for my Delaware Ducker using salvaged tracks and a carriage from a canoe’s rowing rig. The Ducker is a pretty quick rowboat, and can be kept over 4 knots; while I couldn’t go faster, with the sliding seat I could go fast longer. Equipping a traditional rowing boat with a sliding seat—without outriggers or longer oars—is an idea that has been around for a while. Mystic Seaport’s elegant Bailey Whitehall, built in 1879, has one and in the early years of the rowing revival, Dick Shew of South Bristol, Maine, was rigging his 16’ Whitehalls to switch between fixed and sliding seats, rowed with the same oars and with the locks set on the gunwales.

I’d been thinking about building a sliding seat for my dory, so I clamped the Ducker slide into it for a test. I knew there would be clearance for the oar handles over my thighs, because I could sit on a throw cushion and still have room. I rowed 15 or so miles in 4 hours, much farther than I anticipated. I liked it, and decided to make one for the dory.

The sliding seat rig, spanning a thwart in the author's dory, has shorter tracks than those used in racing shells, but is well suited to using the same oars and locks that are used for fixed-seat rowing. Note the foot brace secured to the floorboards under the aft thwart.Ben Fuller

The sliding seat rig, spanning a thwart in the author’s dory, has tracks shorter than those used in racing shells, but appropriate for using the same oars and locks that he uses for fixed-seat rowing. Note the foot brace secured to the floorboards under the aft thwart.

I dug around my shop and came up with a couple of tracks and a seat. The tracks didn’t need to extend very far forward of the fixed thwart—as with most fixed seats, my legs are fairly straight when I am on the thwart. I found I could move 7″ or so aft of the thwart before my shins hit the after thwart. The standard length for tracks is 32″ to 34″, longer than required for the length of the stroke in my dory; I trimmed mine to 20″, a couple of inches longer than I needed. The tracks each had a stop in one end, and I split some dowels for the other. Another option for stops is to secure blocks of wood across the ends of the tracks.

The distance between the seat’s wheels determines the span between the tracks and the length of the boards they’re mounted to. Some careful layout is required to make sure that the tracks are parallel. When everything was square, I drilled holes for the bolts to hold the tracks.

The extruded aluminum tracks are very strong and don’t require any additional support where they cross the thwart. If I had a nice varnished thwart, I’d glue a bit of carpet or neoprene to the track undersides. The wood boards joining the tracks also serve to locate them on the thwart; turn-buttons made of 1/8″ aluminum bar hold the rig in place. I put a hinged strut under the edge to help support my weight when I’ve moved aft for the catch.

The tracks rest directly on the thwart, keeping the seat as low as possible. A hinged support takes the weight at the catch.Ben Fuller

On the bottom of the sliding seat there are two aluminum toggles to hold the rig in place on the thwart. The support for the overhanging aft end of the rig folds flat for storage and transport.

With a GPS logging my speed, I found that switching from the fixed thwart to the sliding seat consistently added half of a knot. The 16’ dory isn’t fast, and I have to work hard to maintain 3.5 knots rowing from the thwart; with the sliding seat it is easy to maintain that speed. Rowing 24 strokes per minute, I could have kept going for hours. Pushing off with the balls of my feet helps power the drive; to get the full advantage of the sliding seat you should have a stretcher at the appropriate height. With the sliding seat I can reach farther aft at the catch, so the oar blades reach farther forward , and with the longer stroke I can get the blades buried and have more time to apply more power through the middle of the stroke where it does the most good.

One of the biggest issues with dory is its windage. The additional power of legs makes a significant difference on those days where I only gain half a boat length on a stroke. I took the dory out on an unpleasant rowing day; when I stopped rowing, a nasty chop with wind and tide pushed me downwind at 1.5 knots. With the rig in place I was able to make 2.5 knots to windward, barely 2 without it. I did switch to my shorter oars, shortened the stroke, and sped up the stoke rate, and if it had been rough enough to roll the seat off the tracks, or I had a problem getting the blades out of the water, I could have easily removed the seat and rowed from the thwart.

At only about 20″ long, the sliding-seat rig is compact enough to stow easily. Not having the outriggers and long oars typical of drop-in sliding-seat rigs keeps the versatility of a fixed-seat boat. Perhaps the most interesting possibility is the ability to use this compact slide with a sail-and-oar boat.

This design, with the tracks right on the fixed thwart, keeps the sliding seat as low as possible, so if you can sit on a boat cushion and row, you’ll have enough clearance. You could make higher rowlock socket pads if needed. The length of the rails depends on the rower, but they won’t extend much further forward than where you ordinarily sit. To check how far aft of your fixed thwart the tracks can go, take some scrap and make a temporary seat.

Seats and tracks can be bought from Latanzo or Pocock. They’ll run about $150 to $200. If you are near a rowing club, you may be able to find an old wooden seat, as most racing shells have converted to carbon-fiber seats.

Ben Fuller, curator 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 ranging from an International Canoe to a faering.

 

Editor’s notes:

I liked Ben’s idea and decided to put a sliding seat in my New York Whitehall. (If you’re wondering why they’re called sliding seats when they actually roll rather than slide, the earliest sliding seats, circa 1870, were wooden seats that had grooves on the bottoms that fit over brass tracks fixed to a thwart. They required lard for lubrication and would slide 10″ to 12″. The “sliding” part of the term stuck even after the transition to wheels.) All during my childhood, my father repaired racing shells and our garage was full of seats, wheels, and tracks. They were just common objects then and it didn’t occur to me then that one day I’d wish I’d kept a few for myself. To make my sliding seat I had to improvise with readily available materials. 

 

If a carved seat (center) isn't an appealing project, a carriage with flat plywood base can support a manufactured seat (left) or a homemade closed-cell foam pad.Christopher Cunningham

If a carved seat (center) isn’t an appealing project, a carriage with flat plywood base can support a manufactured seat (left) or a homemade closed-cell foam pad.

I had kept a lot of worn-out inline-skate wheels, and the bearings would serve as wheels. I carved the seat from a piece of 1-1/4″ vertical-grain Douglas fir from a salvaged gymnasium bleacher. Modeled after the molded seat shown above, it is 12-3/4″ wide, 7-1/4″, front to back; the centers of the 1-7/8″ holes are 4-1/2″ apart and 3-1/4″ forward of the aft edge; and the notch is 2-3/4″ deep. The carved contours are only about 1/2″ deep. If that project is a bit more work than you’d like to take on, a piece of dense foam cut to the outline of a rowing seat will serve well. The the large notch and the holes take the pressure off your tailbone and sit bones.

The inline-skate bearings fit 5/16" bolts. The hole in the aluminum angle is threaded and the nut opposite the bearing locks the bolt in place. I filed the bolt head smooth and polished it to minimize drag when it contacts the track's upright surface. Grease on both of each track's surfaces makes this arrangement run smoothly.Christopher Cunningham

The inline-skate bearings fit 5/16″ bolts. The hole in the aluminum angle is threaded and the nut opposite the bearing locks the bolt in place. I filed the bolt head smooth and polished it to minimize drag when it contacts the track’s upright surface. Grease on the tracks’ horizontal and vertical surfaces makes this arrangement run smoothly (see Update below).

The skate bearings fit nicely on 5/16″ bolts. Two pieces of 3/4″ aluminum angle serve to hold the bearings; they’re drilled and tapped and nuts lock the bolts. The same aluminum angle stock serves as the tracks. The bottom part needs to be kept smooth, so I added 3/4″ square ash pieces to the plywood base and drilled holes and countersinks in the vertical sides of the angles to fasten them to the ash. I screwed a block to the underside of the seat and two blocks to the plywood base as stops to keep the seat from running off the tracks.

I spent about $10 for the aluminum and the rest of the pieces were shop scraps. The bearings and the bolts can drag on the aluminum tracks, but an application of grease makes for smooth rolling (see Update below). I’ll be rowing my Whitehall a lot more now. My thanks to Ben for a great idea.

The support on the aft end of the base is a shouldered tenon that fit into a mortice that extends through the plywood into the hardwood stop block.Christopher Cunningham

The support on the aft end of the base is a shouldered tenon that fits into a mortice that extends through the plywood into the hardwood stop block.

 

 

 

 

The aft thwart is my preferred rowing position. I have a full foot board solidly attached to the floorboards and no obstructions for the sliding-seat stroke.Christopher Cunningham

The aft thwart is my preferred rowing position. I have a full foot board solidly attached to the floorboards and no obstructions for the sliding-seat stroke.

 

With a few modifications to get the centerboard pendants out from under the base, the sliding seat will fit over the the center thwart. The footbrace is slung from straps around the aft thwart. While that works for fixed-thwart rowing, I'd prefer a fixed footboard that braces the entire foot for sliding-seat rowing. My reach into the stern for the catch was slightly limited by the contact of my shins against the aft thwart.Christopher Cunningham

With a few modifications to get the centerboard pendants out from under the base, the sliding seat fits over the the center thwart. The footbrace is slung from straps around the aft thwart. While that works for fixed-thwart rowing, I’d prefer a fixed footboard that braces the entire foot for sliding-seat rowing. My reach into the stern for the catch is slightly limited by the contact of my shins against the aft thwart.

 

 

UPDATE

While taking a long row with the sliding seat in my Whitehall, I discovered that the lubrication on the bearings, bolt heads, and tracks would get pushed away and the bolt heads would then create some drag on the sides of the tracks. This was especially noticeable when I turned to look over my shoulder. That would twist the seat in the tracks, and when there wasn’t enough lubrication for the bearings to slip back into alignment with the tracks, I’d feel the bolts grating on the aluminum. I added strips of UHMW plastic in between the bearings. The surface of the plastic is just proud of the bolt heads and still fits in the tracks; it keeps the seat aligned and provides a low-friction contact against the aluminum. A dense hardwood, well greased, might be an adequate substitute. 

Strips of dense, slippery plastic now keep the bolt heads from grating against the sides of the aluminum tracks.

Strips of dense, slippery plastic now keep the bolt heads from grating against the sides of the aluminum tracks.

You can share your tricks of the trade with other Small Boats Monthly readers by sending us an email.

GoBag

The Minnow, shown here, is the smallest in the GoBag line and a snug fit for a MotoG smartphone.SBM photograph

The Minnow, shown here, is the smallest in the GoBag line and a snug fit for a MotoG smartphone.

For years, I kept my cell phone in a resealable plastic bag that was originally packaging for dried fruit. I knew that a critical and expensive piece of equipment should have a more secure means of protection, but I wasn’t impressed by dry bags designed for electronics. Each seemed likely to leak if I didn’t roll or zip the opening tightly enough.

Magnets embedded in flexible strips make the GoBag self-closing. The magnets can attract iron particles from sand and soil; it is important to keep the sealing surfaces clean.SBM photograph

Magnets embedded in flexible strips make the GoBag self-closing. The magnets can attract iron particles from sand and soil; it is important to keep the sealing surfaces clean to assure a watertight seal.

I recently upgraded to a new smart phone and decided that a reliable dry bag was in order. The staff at my local kayak shop pointed me to the GoBag, manufactured by H2Odyssey, a longtime scuba, surf, and watersports company. It is an envelope of clear TPU (thermoplastic polyurethane) film with an unusual closure system. The top of the Dolphin model I bought has two thick, sturdy flexible plastic strips, each studded with 12 powerful magnets. The two strips snap together quickly and automatically, sealing the bag. Once secured, this row of magnets folds down onto a second row of a dozen magnets, forming a tight double seal that further inhibits water from infiltrating the opening.

In immersion tests on a freshwater lake, the GoBag Minnow shown here endured a half dozen trips to the bottom, around 45' deep, without any leaks. Tissue paper was used in the bag for the test to safely indicate any intrusion of water.SBM photograph

During immersion tests in the middle of a lake, the GoBag Minnow shown here endured a half dozen trips to the bottom, around 45′ deep, without any leaks. Tissue paper was used in the bag for the test to safely indicate any intrusion of water.

The seal is so tight that I can’t squeeze excess air out after closing the bag. Having a bubble of air around the phone makes it difficult to operate, so the air must be squeezed out before the bag is closed. Once sealed, the bag is completely waterproof and is rated by the manufacturer for depths of up to 100 feet.

The transparent TPU film allows full operation of the touchscreen, camera, and telephone functions of my phone. With the GoBag I can safely operate my GoPro camera using the app on my phone, confident it won’t get wet. Further, the clear plastic doesn’t significantly affect the quality of photos I take with the phone’s camera, an advantage when taking a quick shot or video on a splashy or rainy day when I’d hesitate to use my bulky, more vulnerable camera.

The GoBag comes in a range of sizes that will accommodate devices from small smart phones to tablets as large as 8″ by 11″, which could be useful if you’re using navigation software on a tablet. If your phone is in a rubberized case, get a slightly larger bag to allow easy in and out. Even for a penny-pinching person like me, the GoBag is a worthwhile investment for protecting critical electronic devices.

Bruce Bateau sails and rows traditional boats with a modern twist in Portland, Oregon. His stories and adventures can be found at his website, Terrapin Tales.

The GoBag is available from GoBagPro.com. Prices range from $24.99 to $44.99. UPDATE 1/2/21: The company web site no longer exists, suggesting the company has gone out of business. Some retailers appear to be selling remaining stock. Do a Google search for “gobagpro” (in quotation marks) and select shopping from the search options. 

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.

Ugo

The Ugo's laminated fabric includes a layer of foam so the case doesn't depend entirely on the enclosed volume from buoyancy. The seams are all RF welded rather than sewn.photographs by James Bartick

The Ugo’s laminated fabric includes a layer of foam, so the case doesn’t depend entirely on the enclosed volume for buoyancy. All of the seams are RF welded rather than sewn.

I’ve had a snap-on case for my phone and a roll-and-clip style drybag for a few other things, and both left a lot to be desired— the former’s seals failed in less than a year, and the latter turned out to be not-so-dry when I was swimming ashore from my boat at anchor. Ugo has made a superior, truly dry case for my phone, which does duty as a navigation device, text messenger, journal, emergency beacon, and social-media hub.

James Bartick

Pulled up tight against the stop, the Tizip zipper creates a waterproof seal that the manufacturer had tested to a depth of 15′. The Ugo won’t sink, so the zipper won’t be subject to water pressure in normal use.

The Ugo has a single Tizip waterproof zipper, smaller than the waterproof zippers on drysuits but equally reliable, and has an IP68 rating and was tested to be submersible to 15′ for 24 hours. There is flotation between the layers of the back panel, which will still buoy the bag with up to three phones in it, so in normal use it’s not going to be subjected to pressure at depth. My iPhone 7 itself has a rating of IP67 (submersible to 1 meter for 30 minutes), but I regard that as a measure of protection against accidental drenching and dunking, and not suited to regular exposure to water, particularly salt water.

The compartment for a smart phone has a window that allows the use of the phone's touch screen.

The compartment for a smart phone has a window that allows the use of the phone’s touch screen.

The zipper allows for a clam-shell opening for easy access to the contents. On the front of the bag there are two D-rings perfect for hanging my phone from a gunwale via carabiner with a navigation app open. Inside the Ugo, there is a pouch to hold the phone up to the clear front surface, and on the back of the divider are some credit-card-sized slots. Then there’s a main pocket area about 1″ wide, and finally there’s an inner zippered pocket that is quite slim, but suitable for cash, business cards, or anything else you’d want tamed with a zipper.

Behind the compartment for the phone there is a space to organize ID, credit cards, cash, and your stash (tea).

Behind the compartment for the phone there is a space to organize ID, credit cards, cash, and your stash (tea).

When I made phone calls with the phone in the Ugo, I could hear and be heard just fine. I could take video with the front camera and record sound with very little muffling, and of course, I could take selfies. Also on the plus side, I don’t have to remove my phone from its impact-resistant case to use the Ugo, which makes it more convenient to use than smaller, tight-fitting waterproof bags and cases.

The Ugo does have some downsides. The camera on the back of the phone is enclosed by the Ugo and can’t be used. My phone’s fingerprint identification function didn’t work through the Ugo window, so I had to turn that locking function off, and I had to press the home button quite hard to wake my iPhone, but those are acceptable inconveniences for the serious protection offered by the Ugo.

I often row a dinghy in rough, wet weather to get out to my boat and to take the dog ashore while I’m cruising. I also row for adventure. My Ugo provides compact flotation and impact protection for my phone, the medications I carry, and important papers. I can chuck it into the bottom of the rowboat without a worry.

Anne Bryant is WoodenBoat’s Associate Editor.

Ugo is available at Ugowear.com for $129.

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.

KRAKEN and THE G.O.A.T.

The Museum's Workshop on the Water provides students not only with tools, materials, and instruction, but also a real-worked application to their classroom studies.photographs courtesy of The Independence Seaport Museum

The Museum’s Workshop on the Water provides students with tools, materials, and instruction, as well as real-world applications for their regular classroom studies.

The Independence Seaport Museum sits on the banks of the Delaware River in the heart of downtown Philadelphia. Like most museums, it preserves artifacts of the past, but the Independence Seaport Museum is also preserving skills. It has an active boatshop, Workshop on the Water, that is bringing the traditions of wooden boat building to the city’s youth. Among the programs at the shop is SAILOR—Science and Arts Innovative Learning on the River—for middle and high-school students. Groups of 10 to 14 students build small boats learning STEM skills (Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics) and the boats go to the museum’s community boating program fleet.

The Harbor Master Skiff was designed by John Brady, the President and CEO of the Museum.

The Harbor Master Skiff was designed by John Brady, the President and CEO of the Museum.

This past year 103 students from five local schools built two skiffs designed by the museum’s president, John Brady. The Harbor Master Skiffs are 11’6” long and have a beam of 4’. They’re flat-bottomed rowing boats meant for beginning rowers on calm waters. Plans for the skiff are not available for sale, but the museum offers drawings and plans for over 80 boats native to the Delaware River, the Schuylkill River, Delaware Bay, and the North Jersey shore.

The skiffs combine traditional riveted lapstrake planking on the sides with a plywood rather than a cross-planked bottom.

The skiffs combine traditional riveted lapstrake planking on the sides with a bottom made of plywood rather than cross-planked.

Alor Henderson was one of the students who built the skiffs—KRAKEN and THE G.O.A.T.—that were launched this year. Before joining SAILOR, she didn’t know too much about the program “except my school told me it was a four-year program with a STEM focus, and I love math. Building a boat sounded interesting and different. I don’t often get to experience water, so to learn how to build a boat and then launch it in the Delaware River basin was a new experience for me. I’ve learned patience, as we have to pay attention to key details.”

Alor Henderson, left, and Kawthar Aguivi are two students who worked on the Harbor Master Skiffs under the direction of David Dormond, center, an Independence Seaport Museum Boatshop educator.

Alor Henderson, left, and Kawthar Aguivi, right, are two students who worked on the Harbor Master Skiffs under the direction of David Dormond, center, an Independence Seaport Museum Boatshop educator.

Kawthar Aguivi was encouraged to join the SAILOR program by her soccer coach. “He told me it was going to involve a lot of engineering, and I really like engineering and have always been interested in the subject. I also thought it would be a fun way to make new friends. I learned how to work better with a team. When I was in middle school I didn’t like working in groups; this project taught me how to work with a team and what being a good leader to my teammates means. I like that I can learn how to build something I never thought I’d know how to build. I was so excited when I found out that we would be building a skiff this year. It helps me determine what I like and don’t like within the engineering field. Participating in this program has confirmed that I want to pursue engineering in the future.”

After launching, FRAKEN and THE G.O.A.T. joind other small boats in teh Museum''s livery.

After launching, KRAKEN and THE G.O.A.T. joined other small boats in the Museum’s fleet.

 

KRAKEN takes a spin with three of the student builders aboard.

KRAKEN goes for a spin with three of the student builders aboard.

 

Have you recently launched a boat? Please email us. We’d like to hear about it and share your story with other Small Boats Monthly readers.

All-Terrain Roller

I have developed a pretty good system for getting my lapstrake rowing canoe to the water. The canoe alone is pretty heavy, close to 80 lbs, and with the sliding seat, outriggers, and oars aboard, it tops 100 lbs, a lot more than I want to lift all at once. I keep the canoe on a shelf built into the garage so it slides straight across to my car’s roof rack and at the launch ramp I drag it off the back of the car, rest the stern on the ground at the water’s edge, and then lift the bow off. A pool noodle is all it takes to roll the canoe down the ramp into the water.

Getting the canoe launched at a beach is more of a challenge. I’ve been using the roller carts that I built for Ben Fuller’s article in our January 2017 issue. One has a wooden roller and the other a plastic pipe. The pipe has a larger diameter, 7”, and I figured it might work on sand. With the cart strapped to the canoe about amidships, the pipe made a lot of noise but worked fine over pavement, a gravel path, and a boardwalk. To my dismay, the pipe couldn’t handle sand. In short order, it bulldozed a pile of sand ahead of it and that was the end of it. To be fair, Ben had noted in his article that these carts are used upside down on soft ground and remain stationary while the boat rides the upturned roller. That does indeed work, but I have a broad beach to get across, and moving the canoe one boat length at a time and shuttling the roller ahead makes progress slow and tedious.

Several years ago, I had toyed with the idea of using an inflatable boat fender as a roller. The type of fender with a hole down the middle makes it possible to skewer one with a steel rod for an axle. The roller cart I made worked, but I didn’t really need it because I could just as easily carry a kayak on my shoulder. If I made a cart for the canoe with a larger fender, I thought I might have an easier time launching my canoe. Fenders are quite expensive, but I’ve had the good fortune to live by a mile-long lake almost completely hemmed in by marinas and there are a lot of runaway fenders. Just this fall I found five tucked under wharves and in the brambles.

A fender with a hole through the middle looked like a promising solution for managing hard and soft terrain.

A fender with a hole through the middle looked like a promising solution for managing both hard and soft terrain.

I bought a length of 1/2” steel rod for an axle to fit an old fender 24” long and 10” in diameter. With the kayak roller cart I’d made previously, I had hammered a length of PVC water pipe down the length of the hole in the fender to create a more rigid “bushing” for the axle. I didn’t bother with that for this new cart. The distances I haul the canoe are relatively short, and if I did wear through the hole down the middle of the fender, it had cost me nothing.

The wooden frame was easy to make from a piece of 5/4” Douglas fir that was once a gymnasium bleacher and some ash milled up from a windfall. The fender bowed up in the middle when I put weight on the axle so I pumped some more air in and added extra clearance under the deck of the cart frame.

The fender rolls almost as easily as the solid rollers on my other carts and is a lot quieter—the molded ridges on the fender make a nice soft on rumbling sound on pavement. On grass or cobbles there isn’t perceptible difference in drag and on sand, even soft dry sand, there is surprisingly little extra resistance to rolling. The roller has such a large area of contact that it doesn’t sink or pile sand up ahead of itself. The flattened trail it leaves doesn’t even fill in the deepest footprints in the sand. When the canoe is afloat, I unstrap the cart, slide it to the side and it floats to the surface.

The old fender and I had some good runs before it gave out. A newer fender less prone to cracking may be the solution.

The old fender and I had some good runs before it gave out. A newer fender less prone to cracking may be the solution.

My fender cart worked like a charm, but the old fender eventually gave out. I had noticed a small crack at the edge of the inflation valve, a sign that the aging material was losing its flexibility, so it wasn’t a great surprise to have a leak develop where axle bears on the hole at one end of the fender. I’ll try again with a fender that isn’t quite so old and still has good flexibility. Maybe a pair of smaller fenders. And I may take another shot at bushings, at least short ones in the ends. For now my heavy-duty all-terrain cart, built on the cheap, just needs the right fender to go adrift.

 

19′ Bartender

Back in 2004, I was looking for a boat to take us to our cabin on Galiano Island, one of the Southern Gulf Islands in British Columbia. We can only get to the cabin by boat, so I needed something that would safely and reliably transport my family of four, our dog, and enough provisions for a week through what are sometimes pretty rough conditions. I was drawn to the Bartender design for its reputation as a capable rough-water hull, for its beautiful lines, and for the fact that it would fit in my garage, which is also my boat shop.

The guard that rises toward the stemhead is the extension of the planing wing.Don Froese

The guard that rises toward the stemhead is an extension of the planing wing.

The Bartenders, in six models ranging from 19′ to 29′, were designed by George Calkins during the 1950s to negotiate the river bars along the Oregon coast. He died in 2008 at the age of 97. Bill Childs owned the rights to the designs, so we went to visit him in Bellingham, Washington.  Bill was kind enough to spend some time with us, answer all of our questions, and show us his cuddy-cabin 22.5-footer and some of the boats under construction in his shop. The Bartenders were even more beautiful up close, and I ended up buying a set of plans for the 19-footer. Plans are available for Bartenders up to 29′, but for me, the best boat is the smallest one that will do the job.

I started building my Bartender in 2005 and it took approximately two years of evenings and weekends to complete. The 19-footer just barely fit in my enclosed one-car garage when it was positioned diagonally. At the time, Bill sold frame kits, and this was a great way to get started. The frames, constructed of 3/4″ meranti plywood, fit together quickly and accurately on the jig.

The only fiberglass called for in the plans was on the bottom for stiffening and to provide a more abrasion-resistant surface for beaching. Standard 8′ plywood sheets were used for the bottom and side panels, and were butt-joined using an overlapping reinforcing piece of plywood, located between frames. The hull was sheathed in 3/8″ meranti attached with epoxy and silicon-bronze screws above the waterline and stainless-steel screws below. Bill strongly emphasized that the Bartender should be lightly built, very close to the plans with few or no modifications, especially those that would increase the weight of the boat or affect the hull shape or balance.

The plywood was coated in epoxy resin below the cockpit sole, and painted with a two-part industrial epoxy paint. This paint was also used on the sole and as a primer on the outside of the boat. The hull was finished off with Pettit EZ-poxy marine paint above the waterline and antifouling paint below. The finish has stood up very well, and has been refinished twice over the ten years the boat has been in the water.

The long motor well and the port planing wing are two of the Bartender's distinctive features.Don Froese

The long motorwell and the planing wings are two of the Bartender’s distinctive features.

Two very important features of the design are the planing wings and the motorwell with its plug. The Bartender is a planing-hull boat, and the 19-footer needs the surface area of these essential components in order to plane and handle properly. The motorwell plug is critical to the performance of the boat and must be made to fill as much of the area as possible in the motorwell. The plug is a plywood box-like fixture that has an angled forward face to reduce drag and push water down. It hinges down as the motor is lowered, and then locks in place. Lifting the plug and motor is a two-step process where the motor is lifted partway up, the plug is raised, and then the motor is lifted the rest of the way up. The extra step is unusual, but it allows the plug to be built with as much surface area as possible.

For the motor to tilt up, the plug has to be pivoted to a vertical position. This motor well has faceted expansions on its sides.George Costakis

For the motor to tilt up, the plug has to be pivoted to a vertical position. This motorwell has faceted expansions on its sides to provide room for the motor to turn.

Modern four-stroke outboard motors are much larger than the early two-strokes that were prevalent when the Bartender was first designed, and may require that the top of the well be flared outward to accommodate the power head and to allow the motor to turn. This modification to the well is not part of the plans, and its shape will depend on the motor to be used. The newer outboards—especially the four-strokes—are also much heavier, so choosing as small an engine as possible is a good idea. We decided on a four-stroke, 40-hp Mercury outboard. This motor uses the same size block as the 30-hp version and weighs approximately the same; it’s much lighter than the 50-hp, which is the next size up. With the 40-hp outboard the Bartender has a top speed of 25 knots and outstanding fuel economy.

The standard 19' Bartender has a low windshield built on top of the deck.Bill Childs

The standard 19′ Bartender has a low windshield built on top of the deck.

The boat was going to be in the water year-round, so it needed to have a self-bailing cockpit. The cockpit sole is elevated above the waterline, and scuppers drain water out through the motorwell. I also installed an electric bilge pump in the sealed compartment beneath the sole to remove water that seeps through seams and access hatches, but I have rarely needed to use it. The plans include details for positive flotation, which consists of blocks of foam glued underneath the fore, aft, and side decks. I also built sealed compartments in the bow and stern to help keep the boat afloat if it ever flooded.

The author elevated the windshield of his Bartender to provide more protection from the wind.Don Froese

The author elevated the windshield of his Bartender to provide more protection from the wind.

One aspect of the design that we did modify somewhat was the dashboard/windscreen area. We wanted a bit more protection from the elements. Bill had advised me not to increase the cockpit height too much to avoid problems with windage and weight balance, so we built a 10″-high step on top of the foredeck and attached the wind screen on top. There is plenty of sitting headroom under the dodger and very good protection from spray and rain. We had the dodger sewn up with a zippered panel above the driver’s seat. My usual driving position is sitting on top of the seat back with my head poking out above the top of the wind screen. This is a comfortable position for me and provides very good visibility.

The seats the author designed and built have folding seats facing aft for extra passengers and conceal the gas tanks. Don Froese

The author designed and built cockpit seating that conceals the gas tanks. Folding seats face aft for extra passengers.

The seats, which are my own design, are simple plywood boxes with fold-down seats on the rear-facing side that provide access to storage in the backrests. The portable fuel tanks are located under the seats, and the battery is just forward of the motor below the cockpit sole, keeping the weight of those items low and near the middle of the boat.

The boat comes up to plane very easily with the 40-hp motor, thanks to the planing wings. There is no noticeable change from displacement to planing, just a gradual transition as the bow drops a bit and the speed increases. The hull performs very well in both smooth and rough seas. The double-ended stern handles a following sea nicely, easily surfing down the wave faces, and doesn’t get pushed around by waves as transom stern would. Having the motor located close to the center of the boat gives it sharp handling. It likes to carve a turn and tracks very well. The only downside of the motor location comes when we’re towing anything from the stern cleat—it is difficult to turn. This problem would be easily solved with a towing post closer to the motor but has not prevented us from pulling the occasional water skier. The 40-hp outboard is just enough to get a slalom skier out of the water.

A Bartender with another builder modification has a cuddy-cabin roof supporting the windshield.George Costakis

A Bartender with another builder-designed modification has a cuddy-cabin roof supporting the windshield.

The Bartender has a generous dory-hull flare, and the beam at the waterline is just 58″. The narrow waterline beam makes the hull quite tender during boarding and very sensitive to weight shifts while under way. Moving around in the boat definitely makes the boat harder to handle, but if passengers stay seated the boat is a lot of fun to drive.

The hull’s flare provides very good secondary stability and handles waves and rough water very well. The only issue I have had is when crossing waves at a shallow angle. If the waves are almost parallel to the boat, the stern can sometimes break loose, causing the boat to spin out. This is easily avoided by approaching waves closer to head-on. The hull has a lot of freeboard, and the combination of flare and spray rails keeps the spray out of the boat.

We have been using our Bartender at least once a month for the last 10 years with very little maintenance and have been very happy with it. It does everything we want it to do and more. There is plenty of space for two adults, two kids, our dog, and all of our supplies. We have used the boat for fishing, water-skiing, and hauling way too much stuff to and from our summer cabin. The plans were very detailed, providing a materials list and all the information required. The building process was straightforward, and the Bartender forum group was a great resource.

The Bartender is a high-performance design that is fun to drive, safe to ride in, and sweet to look at. Ours gets a lot of attention at the dock, and I am surprised how many people recognize it and ask, “Hey, is that a Bartender?” It’s a great feeling to answer, “Yes, and we built it ourselves.”

Don Froese is an electrical engineer living in North Vancouver, B.C. He has built several small kayaks and rowing boats in addition to his 19′ Bartender.

19′ Bartender Particulars

[table]

Length/19′

Length on waterline/16′

Beam/6′8″

Draft/8″

Weight/1,350 lbs

Power/25- to 50-hp outboard

[/table]

Plans for the 19′ Bartender are available from Bartender Boats for $225. Plans with patterns sell for $325.

Is there a boat you’d like to know more about? Have you built one that you think other Small Boats Monthly readers would enjoy? Please email us!

Noank

Noank is a village in southeast Connecticut that looks out over Fishers Island Sound and the Mystic River. In the 19th century it was a major shipbuilding center, and about 700 wooden sailing ships came down the ways in shipyards in this picturesque little town. Noank is also the name given to an 18′ 2″ pulling boat designed by Nick Schade, whose small-boat shop is about a mile, as the gull flies, from the village. He is well known for his line of Guillemot kayaks, strip-built in wood, then ’glassed, varnished, and made show-room pretty.

The seat support rail is designed for the Piantedosi sliding seat rowing rig. Under each deck is a sealed compartment for dry storage and flotation. The manual includes instructions for making the hatches from plywood. photographs by the author

The seat support rail is designed for the Piantedosi sliding seat rowing rig. Under each deck is a sealed compartment for dry storage and flotation. The manual includes instructions for making the hatches from plywood.

The Noank, also strip-built, is his first boat with a sliding seat. It is a half-decked recreational boat, beamy at 36″, with generous freeboard, and designed for exposed, choppy water. Schade also intends this to be a light and fast camp-cruiser, so the bow and stern have large, dry compartments for camping gear.

Like Schade’s other designs, this is a pretty boat, such is the judgment of five of us, all local rowers, who took it out for a spin. Tom Sanford, Janis Mink, Biddle Morris, Tom Tobin, and I are all members of Mystic River Rowing, and collectively, we have about 140 years of experience rowing in boats with sliding seats. All of us have seat-time in both recreational and racing boats, and most have taught sculling using boats similar to the Noank. Biddle has done hundreds of miles of distance rowing-camping and is our go-to guy on open-water rowing.

With the rowing rig occupying the space along the centerline, the rower has to get aboard with a foot planted slightly off center.

With the rowing rig occupying the space along the centerline, the rower has to get aboard with a foot planted slightly off to one side.

Beyond good looks, what does the Noank offer? How well will it handle in the afternoon southerly that’s common to Fishers Island Sound, the place the designer had in mind when he went to his drawing board? How is its calm-water performance? Does it track well? Turn easily? Is it slow or will it go? Is it fragile? Would it be hard to build? The short answer is that the Noank does well what it set out to do. It is fun to row, forgiving, and tougher than it looks.

The specifications call for planking of 3/16″ x 3/4″ cedar strips, shaped over forms cut from 1/2″ MDF or plywood and spaced at 12″ intervals on a strongback. The stripped hull is sheathed inside and out with 4-oz fiberglass cloth set in epoxy, and the ’glass is doubled on the bottom. Built to the designed specifications, this will be a strong, tough boat. The high crown of the decking helps stiffen the hull without adding much weight.

Equipped with proper sculls, the rower have about a 6" overlap of the grips.

The Noank was designed with the Piantedosi rowing rig and conventional sculls in mind. For rowers new to sculling, the 6″ overlap of the oar handles will take some getting used to.

Schade notes that the Noank could be built without the decks and bulkheads if a lighter boat for protected water is the goal. The reverse transom keeps the waterline length almost the same as the overall length for speed’s sake. He says, “I really like the arched reverse transom, but it is a bit complicated. You could just have a flat vertical transom without changing the performance significantly.” A paper template, wrapped around the stern, indicates where it is to be cut to accommodate the curved transom panel. The stern is planked extra-long to make modifications possible.

The seat-support rail is designed to fit a Piantadosi rowing rig and adds significant strength to the hull. It is a wooden box beam 3-1/2″ x 4″ x 8′ 5″, with cutouts to reduce weight and provide drainage and ’glassed inside and out for rigidity. The anodized aluminum monorail of the rowing rig is held to the seat-support rail by two machine screws that are removable without tools. The rig weighs 22 lbs, and it can be put in the boat or taken out in less than a minute. It is designed to be rowed with racing sculls, which have a standard length of 284 to 290 cm (around 9′6″)

In a short sprint the Noank will do about 6 knots.

In a sprint, the Noank will do about 6 knots.

 

When completed, the Noank should come in around 53 lbs and all up, with rowing rig, weigh 75 lbs. For those of us who are not power lifters, loading a boat of this weight and girth onto a cartop carrier would be a two-person task. If it is to be beach-launched solo, a dolly or trailer is in order.

Getting in and out of wide rowing wherries can be awkward—for some it’s a long reach to get their weight planted over the centerline. The complication in getting onboard Noank is that you can’t put a foot on the centerline—the seat-support rail is in the way. Most of us just put a foot up against the box beam, held onto the oars, and accepted a quick heel angle as we shifted our weight onto the inboard leg. There is enough static stability in the Noank for this maneuver and for a rower to exit sideways, swinging both legs over the side to stand up in shallow water. The boat heeled sharply, but did not bury its rail. We tried the “Look Ma, no hands” routine while seated, letting go of the oar handles, and while this will result in a quick swim in most shells, the Noank only wobbled and did not flip. If you lashed the oar handles together in the middle of this boat—they overlap by 6″, the standard for sculling boats—the boat could look after itself while you eat lunch or take pictures.

The Noank would put beginning scullers on an easy learning curve. We would expect a novice to feel comfortable by the second or third lesson. That is largely because of the boat’s inherent dynamic stability: It wants to run on an even keel and if it is rocking side to side as it moves along, this is the rower’s fault for not sitting up straight and keeping the oar handles level. With its long skeg, Noank tracks straight, but is still easy to turn. In a moderate crosswind, a rower should have no problem dialing in a crab angle and maintaining a compass course.

Hobby-horsing can be a significant issue for most boats with sliding seats. The rower’s weight is two or three times the weight of the boat and rowing rig, and with that much mass moving back and forth, around 2’ with each stroke, the bow and stern want to bob up and down, killing speed. The goal is to keep the boat running level, and to that end this hull is designed with little rocker in the keel (only about 1”) and an almost uniformly rounded cross-sectional shape throughout the long cockpit of the boat. That provides needed buoyancy under the rower at both ends of the slide. Another speed killer, wetted surface, is kept in check by narrowing the beam at the waterline. The Noank has a beam of 36″ at the rail amidships; at the waterline it is 23”.  The narrow waterline and arc cross section cuts down the area of skin subject to friction as it moves through the water. It also reduces lateral stability, but the flared sides above the waterline give the Noank an abundance of reserve stability when heeled.

Scullers like to talk about speed. None will admit that their own boat is a slowpoke, and many of us tend to boast a bit, claiming speeds too good to believe—“stretchers,” as Mark Twain called them. For the Noank, our numbers come from an impartial GPS during speed trials on a light-wind day with calm seas and no current. It takes a few pulls to get the boat going, but once up to speed the boat carries and glides well. This is a 4-5-6 boat: In the hands of an experienced sculler, rowing leisurely at a pace that can be held indefinitely, it will run at 4 knots. To reach 5 knots calls for rowing at a racing pace that’s sustainable over a 2,000-meter course. And 6 knots calls for a sprint, a “Power Ten” in crew parlance, and holding that speed for any distance would involve serious pain. The Noank moves as well as could be expected for a displacement hull with its 17.7′ waterline length.  Once the Noank exceeds its theoretical maximum speed of 5.63 knots, even super-athletes are going struggle to make it move faster for very long. We found nothing to complain about in the Noank’s speed curve.

Building a Noank will call for time and patience, requirements for any high-quality, strip-built boat, whether the builder starts with plans or a kit. Both are available for the Noank. The finished product will require a reasonable amount of maintenance, but the construction is sturdy, and unless the boat is abused or neglected, it should outlive its builder. The five of us rowers agreed that the Noank is an all-round performer that rates well in its class. Tom Tobin even bought the plans and intends to build one.

Carl Kaufmann trained to be a naval architect and marine engineer, but a career in journalism paid the bills for five decades. He has always had a second career: making things out of wood. Most of his time has been spent building boats from scratch, 10 in all. His current family fleet ranges from a 12-ton, 40’ yawl down to a 34-lb cedar shell. For variety’s sake, he made some mandolins and acoustic guitars. His home is on Block Island, off the coast of Rhode Island, but he spends a lot of time at his winter address in Mystic, Connecticut. He has a workshop in each place, so he is never at a loss for something to do in retirement.

Noank Particulars

[table]

Length/18′2″

Beam/36″

Draft/4″

Freeboard/8″

[/table]

Full-size Plans for the Noank are available from Guillemot Kayaks for $130. Kits are available for $1850 from Chesapeake Light Craft.

Is there a boat you’d like to know more about? Have you built one that you think other Small Boats Monthly readers would enjoy? Please email us!

Back Door to Georgian Bay

I crawled out of the boat tent as soon as the sky started growing light; a few leftover raindrops rolled off the edge of the tarp and down my back as I wriggled past. I had spent the evening huddled in my sleeping bag reading and looking at charts, shuffling gear around to keep things dry as rain pattered steadily on the tent. With a wide sleeping platform and a tent to keep me dry, my new boat was proving to be luxuriously comfortable, at least by backpacking standards, but September nights on the Great Lakes are long. After so many hours aboard, I was ready to be moving again. I climbed out into knee-deep water and waded ashore.

I left my malfunctioning VHF radio in the car and returned to simpler methods of weather forecasting for this cruise—methods as simple as hearing the patter of raindrops overhead. An improvised boat tent and plenty of books helped me wait out the rain at South Benjamin Island.photographs by the author

I left my malfunctioning VHF radio in the car and returned to simpler methods of weather forecasting for this cruise—methods as simple as hearing the patter of raindrops overhead. An improvised boat tent and plenty of books helped me wait out the rain at South Benjamin Island.

The morning was clear and cool; the sky had washed itself clean of the thick gray clouds I’d encountered on yesterday’s 10-mile passage from my launching point in Spanish, Ontario. I’d never come to the North Channel so late in the year before. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the beach and promising shorter days. A stand of yellow-leafed birches at the edge of the beach shifted slowly in a slight breeze, and an osprey flew past with a faint flumph of wings. A dozen small islands and granite outcroppings rose from the water just offshore, and beyond them was the chain of pink rocks named the Sow and Pigs. Otherwise, nothing. There were no other boats in sight—and this at South Benjamin Island, one of the most popular cruising destinations in the North Channel.

After several hours of sailing to reach the Benjamin Islands, I was ready to leave the boat for a while. A tricky scramble through thick brush and up a steep granite slab led me to this overlook at the southern tip of South Benjamin Island.

After several hours of sailing to reach the Benjamin Islands, I was ready to leave the boat for a while. A tricky scramble through thick brush and up a steep granite slab led me to this overlook at the southern tip of South Benjamin Island.

By the time I had eaten a bowl of oatmeal, stowed my gear, and had the boat ready to go, a strong northwesterly wind had come up. The open water to the east was a flurry of whitecaps, and the big pines along the shore were shifting and creaking restlessly overhead. A bit uneasy, I rowed through the rocky maze at the tip of South Benjamin and out of the lee of the island. It was windy—maybe too windy for the 20 miles I’d have to sail to reach Bay of Islands, my next planned anchorage. I’d had visions of an easy broad reach and a few pleasant days of sailing to begin with while I learned what my new boat, a Don Kurylko–designed Alaska I’d launched in June, could do. Instead I’d be starting off close-hauled on a double-reefed mainsail. Maybe triple-reefed. Well, I told myself, you can’t always wait for perfect conditions.

With no tides, it’s always easy to get to your boat when you need to. I replaced the mast gate shown in the Alaska plans with a simpler lift-out partner, which made stepping and unstepping the mast from shore a little simpler.

With no tides, it’s always easy to get to your boat when you need to. I replaced the mast gate shown in the Alaska plans with a simpler lift-out partner, which made stepping and unstepping the mast from shore a little simpler.

I started pulling out the sail to tie in a deep reef, but stopped a moment later, shaking my head. What was I doing? I wasn’t on any schedule other than a vague plan to sail eastward into Georgian Bay for as long as the weather was good. To set out in conditions like this, triple-reefed, suddenly struck me as asinine. Laughing out loud at my near-stupidity, I set the sail aside, then pulled out the oars. I wasn’t going to raise the sail, but that didn’t mean I had to sit around on the beach waiting for the wind to die down.
I spent the morning rowing up the eastern side of the Benjamins, dodging through the wide band of rocks and shoals guarding the approaches to neighboring Fox Island. The boat, loaded heavily with cruising gear and ballast, took a half-dozen strokes to get up to speed, but kept moving through the waves with little effort and no fuss at all, no surprise for a design modeled on a classic Whitehall hull. With a deeply reefed sail, it would have been a struggle to work my way north. Under oars, it was a pleasant way to keep warm.

Looking over the chart at my South Benjamin anchorage to pick a destination for the day, my standard post-breakfast routine. With good visibility and no tides or currents, navigation on the North Channel rarely gets more complicated than eyeballing the islands as you sail past.

Looking over the chart, here at my South Benjamin anchorage, to pick a destination for the day was my standard post-breakfast routine. With good visibility and no tides or currents, navigation on the North Channel rarely gets more complicated than eyeballing the islands as you sail past.

The west side of Fox Island was all bare-boned ridges, dark pines, and narrow passages cutting through broad expanses of smooth granite. I rowed past the outlying rocks and up into Fox Harbor, a deep inlet I’d never explored before because it was always crowded with deep-draft sailboats and motoryachts. Today it was empty, except for one sloop anchored far up at the head of the narrow bay.

Roger Siebert

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I worked my way up Fox Harbor, making detours up the many side channels and backwaters whenever the opportunity arose. They were dead ends, I knew from the chart, but still worth exploring. Near the head of the inlet I turned to port into one last dead end that led me to a narrow channel lined with cliffs, barely wide enough for my oars. At a few places, with less than a foot to spare on either side of the boat, I had to trail the oars close alongside the hull and let the boat’s momentum carry me through. And then all at once I was past the narrows and into a wide bay—a bay on the north side of Fox Island, and, according to the chart, completely unconnected to Fox Harbor. I had rowed right through a gap that wasn’t supposed to be there, the kind of unexpected opportunity that sail-and-oar cruising has to offer.
I spent the rest of the day working my way through unlikely passages along the edges of Fox Harbor, slipping through channels so narrow I sometimes had to stand in the boat and paddle with one oar. Summer had been rainy, and water levels were about 3’ higher than indicated on the chart, opening a complex web of passages that would have been dry land on my last trip here three years ago.

With the wind out of the northwest at 20 knots or more, I was happy to spend a day exploring the rocky interior of Fox Island under oars. The narrow channels and sweeping granite slabs provide a good preview of Georgian Bay and the Thirty Thousand Islands.

With the wind out of the northwest at 20 knots or more, I was happy to spend a day exploring the rocky interior of Fox Island under oars. The narrow channels and sweeping granite slabs provide a good preview of tightly clustered islets of Georgian Bay.

After an afternoon of poking around and keeping out of the wind, I emerged on the south side of Fox Island and followed the shoreline east. After a mile or two, I rounded a corner to find a hidden alcove carved into the stony shore, a tiny bay hardly bigger than my boat. A lichen-spattered granite dome rose 15’ above the water’s edge on one side, with a single stunted pine standing just below its summit. I glided to a stop in a stand of half-drowned willows at the foot of the rocks, tied off to some branches, and waded ashore.
The wind seemed to be dying down. I had a quick snack and wrote some notes in my journal, then set out again under sail. Once out of Fox Island’s lee, though, the wind swept in even stronger than before—too much to face so late in the day. I lowered the sail, dropped the mast, and headed back to the hidden alcove under oars, easier and faster than sailing in this wind. I tied the painter to a stout birch stump, then pulled my gear out of the boat—a single trip, with only two large waterproof duffels to carry—and brought everything up to the top of the dome. I’d arrange things later. For now, leaving the bags at the foot of the lone, sentinel pine, I set out to explore the island. I spent the rest of the afternoon walking broad pathways of bare granite past reed-fringed ponds and forests of white pines and birches. Just after sunset I returned to camp, ate a supper of black beans, tomatoes, and chiles sprinkled with lime juice, then set up my tent at the very edge of the granite cliffs and sat back to watch the darkening sky fill with stars.

Fox Island’s rugged southern shores offer plenty of good campsites overlooking the water, and a pleasant break from sleeping aboard. Here the view is east toward Amedroz Island and the Bay of Islands beyond.

Fox Island’s rugged southern shores offer plenty of good campsites overlooking the water, and a pleasant break from sleeping aboard. Here the view is east toward Amedroz Island and the Bay of Islands beyond.

 

Morning brought blue skies and light winds. I ate breakfast—oatmeal again—and prepped a Thermos meal of red beans and rice for supper. After repacking the boat, I rowed a few yards offshore and raised the sail. After half an hour, though, I’d barely cleared Fox Island, and the breeze was swinging around eastward, forcing me well off my desired course. I dropped the rig and settled in for a long session at the oars. Far ahead, the rugged pine-clad La Cloche Mountains rose from the mainland to the northeast, with a line of big islands—Amedroz, Bedford, and East Rous—forming the southern edge of a broad channel leading eastward. Somewhere just beyond the horizon was Great La Cloche Island and, along its northern edge, the back door to Georgian Bay.
Eventually a westerly wind came up, putting me on a broad reach—perfect sailing. I let my 59-cent autopilot, a simple bungee-and-line tiller tamer, keep me on course. With the wind holding steady, I tied the sheet to an oarlock with a slippery hitch, and sat back to enjoy the ride. The wind grew stronger as I sailed on, the boat surfing the steeper waves with a smooth rush of speed and showing no inclination to broach. Perfect sailing indeed—20 miles of it.

Guarded by extensive shoals and a narrow, winding entrance, this hidden cove at the gateway to the Bay of Islands is a perfect small-boat anchorage. Even in mid-September the water was warm enough for a brief swim before supper.

Guarded by extensive shoals and a narrow, winding entrance, this hidden cove at the gateway to the Bay of Islands is a perfect small-boat anchorage. Even in mid-September, the water was warm enough for a brief swim before supper.

When I reached the entrance to Bay of Islands, I turned up into a beam reach and the strength of the wind suddenly became obvious, then made way up the shore of Great La Cloche Island: a dead-end bay for keelboats, but not for my Alaska. Twenty yards offshore I dropped the rig and rowed through a narrow knee-deep channel that led, eventually, to a sheltered bay hidden between a cluster of tightly linked islands too small to be named on the chart.
I dropped my 6-lb Northill anchor from the stern in the middle of the bay and rowed up to shore as the line ran out, cleating off just as the bow edged toward the rocks. Stepping out into knee-deep water, I took the painter ashore, tied the end to a tree, and headed off to explore, but it didn’t take long. The islands were nothing but jumbled heaps of moss-covered boulders that rolled and clattered underfoot, with nowhere to pitch a tent. I set up the sleeping platform and boat tent and got ready for a night aboard.
I woke in the night to the sound of loud splashing and grunting just outside the boat. Bears? I wondered, but dismissed the idea almost immediately—I’d expect a bear to approach from shore, and these sounds were coming from behind me, out in the water. I pulled up the side of the boat tent. Five or six white-whiskered faces were just visible in the darkness. They vanished with a sudden series of huffs and splashes as soon as I poked my head out. A minute later I heard them surface farther down the bay. Otters. They splashed their way out of the cove and the noise faded to silence. I went back to sleep smiling.

Rowing past Great La Cloche Island on a typically calm North Channel morning, I covered more than 10 miles under oars before the wind came up. I was pleased to find my new Alaska as well-suited for the task as I had expected.

Rowing past Great La Cloche Island on a typically calm North Channel morning, I covered more than 10 miles under oars before the wind came up. I was pleased to find my new Alaska as well-suited for the task as I had expected.

 

Daylight arrived without wind. No matter—I had oars. I pulled out a can of peaches to eat underway, packed up the boat, lowered the mast, and shoved off from shore, retrieving my anchor along the way. Soon I was rowing east along the north side of Great La Cloche Island, slipping along the southern margins of the Bay of Islands. Somewhere a loon called. Farther on, a bald eagle stood on the rocks at the water’s edge tearing a fish apart.
The water was dead flat, and the boat moved smoothly and easily. I was traveling 15’ per stroke, I decided, watching the hull slide through the water. A hundred strokes for 1,500’, 400 for a nautical mile. I pulled out my watch, set it on the bench beside me, and started counting strokes. Twenty minutes later, pulling steadily and easily, I hit 400. Twenty minutes meant 3 knots. And that was moving at an all-day pace, with the oars slipping in and out of the water so silently and smoothly that it felt like the boat was rowing itself. It hardly seemed necessary to have a sailing rig at all.
By late morning I reached the double bridge that joins mainland Ontario to Great La Cloche Island—my secret small-boat passage to Georgian Bay that bypasses the crowds, strong currents, and the open-on-the-hour swing bridge at Little Current on the south side of Great La Cloche Island. The bridges on my route were fixed: too low for even a short mast, and too narrow for oars, making it impassable for larger boats. In my Alaska, all I had to do was pull the oars in close to the hull as we coasted through.
I reached Killarney by early evening, and dropped the sail to row through the narrow dock-lined channel separating the town from George Island. With excellent anchorages just a few miles away at the northern edge of Georgian Bay, I had time for a stop in town to phone home. I pulled the boat onto the grass alongside one of Killarney’s many marinas, called my wife, and bought a few groceries. On my way back across town I treated myself to a local fish fry. As I was leaving, I saw a woman loading some bags into my boat.
“It’s the last day of our trip,” she said as I approached. I hadn’t even asked a question. “And it looked like you could use them in your little boat.”
When I opened the bags I found boxes and boxes of expensive cookies and candies: maple shortbreads maple creams maple peanut brittle maple sugar leaves maple everything. Only in Canada, I thought. And only in Canada would you find people putting stuff into your boat.

There was less than an hour of daylight remaining by the time I left Killarney. Out in Georgian Bay, beyond the end of the narrow Killarney Channel, a strong southwesterly was blowing, sending big waves crashing into cliff-lined lee shores. Not eager to face those conditions in the fast-approaching darkness, I turned back toward town and found a small sheltered bay near the end of the channel, just west of the lighthouse at Red Rock Point. I tied the boat up to a waist-high granite outcropping, slipped a cushion between the hull and the rocks, and set my tent up on a granite slab at the water’s edge.
The little bay was less than a mile outside of Killarney. It might as well have been a hundred. I spent the last of the day’s light looking over the small-craft charts for Georgian Bay, then sat outside the tent on a pile of boat cushions until late in the night, watching the broad belt of the Milky Way fade away with the light of the rising moon before I crawled at last into the tent. I drifted off to sleep to the sound of waves still crashing on the rocks below.

The good weather was holding, but I didn’t trust it. The long low slant of the sunlight, the coolness of the air, the emptiness of the popular anchorages—everything seemed to suggest the end of the season, as if November’s cold winds were waiting in the wings to sweep in and slam the door shut on summer. I didn’t want to be too far from my car and trailer when that happened.

Sailing eastward through Collins Inlet, a narrow cliff-lined passage 10 miles long. With a following wind that grew stronger as the day went on, I kept the boat on a broad reach and tacked my way downwind to avoid constant jibes in the shifting gusts.

I sailed eastward through Collins Inlet, a narrow cliff-lined passage 10 miles long. With a following wind that grew stronger as the day went on, I kept the boat on a broad reach and tacked my way downwind to avoid unpredictable jibes in the shifting gusts.

I’d left Killarney the day before, sailing a dead run eastward through Collins Inlet, a narrow fjord-like passage that ran for 10 miles along the north side of Philip Edward Island—an inland waterway lined with 50’ cliffs, occasional cabins and cottages, and here and there an outboard-powered fishing boat buzzing past. Now, tacking my way down Beaverstone Bay, the eastern end of Collins Inlet, I knew I’d have to decide soon: continue east to the Bustard Islands, or turn west and begin working my way back toward Spanish.
First, though, I had to find a way out of Beaverstone Bay. After a few false starts among the seemingly endless rocks and reefs, I found what I thought must be the entrance to an intricate boulder-studded passage just west of Toad Island. I short-tacked my way out through the gap, fighting strong winds dead on the nose, surging over steep waves that smashed themselves to spray on half-submerged rocks and shoals all around me. The boat handled it beautifully under full sail—I had learned to expect nothing less. It seemed a long time ago that I had been hesitant to set off from the Benjamins.
Once past Toad Island, I kept tacking out into Georgian Bay to get some sea room, heading south past the outlying rocks until there was nothing but hundreds of miles of open water ahead—a broad blue sky, a flat horizon, and an endless succession of waves rolling in from the southwest one after another, row on row, and row on row, for as far as I could see. Two miles offshore, far enough to be clear of shoals and shallows, I luffed up and released the sheet and let go of the tiller, leaving it to my bungee autopilot to hold us steady while I pulled out my large-scale chart. The boat drifted slowly downwind, rolling and yawing with each wave. I made dividers of my fingers and measured distances. It was 20 miles to the Bustard Islands—three days just to reach the islands and return to Killarney, and another three days back to Spanish from there at a minimum. Add time to explore, and I wouldn’t get back to my car until sometime in October.

Two nights in the Fox Islands gave me lots of time to explore. While circling West Fox Island on foot, I was caught by the play of light and shadows on the wave-sculpted granite.

Two nights in the Fox Islands gave me lots of time to explore. While circling West Fox Island on foot, I was caught by the play of light and shadows on the wave-sculpted granite.

I finally decided it was better to turn west and start closing the loop. The Bustards would have to wait. Taking a last look out across the open waters of Georgian Bay, I folded the chart and turned off the wind on the port tack, heading east. Close-hauled, I could just hold a course for the Fox Islands. I hauled the sheet in tightly and moved up onto the rail, smiling as the boat surged forward, shouldering past the waves and sending glittering arcs of spray flying over the water. I leaned farther outboard and reached one hand down to skim the surface of the water as we flew along.

North Benjamin Island’s hidden west-side lagoon is inaccessible to all but the shallowest-draft boats. With water levels 3’ above chart datum this year, the channel was less than 4’ deep.

North Benjamin Island’s hidden west-side lagoon is inaccessible to all but the shallowest-draft boats. With water levels 3’ above chart datum this year, the channel was less than 4’ deep.

 

Late that night, on a broad bare summit at the eastern end of the Fox Islands, I unzipped my tent and stepped out into the darkness. I could hear the quiet rush of waves on the slabs below, the ceaseless surge and retreat of wind-driven water that had scoured and smoothed the rock I was standing upon, and would continue to wear away the edges of the islands, slowly shaping them into fair curves and flowing forms until there is no water left for the wind to move, and no wind to move it.
From somewhere within the shadow of the pines a barred owl called. Slowly the northern sky filled with twisting ribbons of green, gold, and white, broad translucent bands of living light rising from the dark horizon in shifting curves to weave themselves together in silence, glowing brighter and still brighter until it seemed the sky was filled with fire.
I stood and watched until the colors began to fade, then made my way barefoot over cool, smooth stone down to the water’s edge where my boat was waiting, anchored just offshore. Her pale green hull, lit by a quarter moon, was mirrored in dark water that rippled and wavered and reformed itself beneath her with each breath of air until it was impossible to see where the work of human hands ended and the endless smoothing and shaping of the wind and waves began.

Tom Pamperin is a writer and small boat sailor based in northwestern Wisconsin, and the author of JAGULAR Goes Everywhere: (mis)Adventures in a $300 Sailboat. He is a frequent contributor to Small Boats Monthly.

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.

A Downdraft Table

A simple downdraft table can put the space between the rip-fence rails to good use.photographs by the author

A simple downdraft table can put the space between the rip-fence rails to good use.

Building and maintaining a wooden boat involves a lot of sanding and a lot of dust. I have an exhaust fan for the shop, a dust collector connected to my tablesaw and jointer, and shop-vacuum connections for the belt sander, disc sander, bandsaw, and random-orbit sander. My latest addition to my arsenal of dust-collection devices is a shop-built downdraft table. It comes in handy for capturing the dust from sanding small pieces by hand or with a random-orbit sander. There’s nothing special about the box. I used 3/4″ fir from some old shelving and 3/8″ plywood for the top and bottom. Most of the downdraft tables I found on the web had interior panels sloped to draw the coarse particles toward the hose fitting, but with my shallow box, I didn’t think they would be very effective. The top is removable, so it is easy enough to get to the interior with the shop vacuum whenever it’s time to clean up the interior.

The downdraft table must provide clearance for the rip fence. A washer and a 1/4" nylon-sleeve spacer work for this tablesaw.

The downdraft table must provide clearance for the rip fence. A washer and a 1/4″ nylon-sleeve spacer work for this tablesaw.

Cleats set inside the perimeter of the box provide ledges for the plywood after they’ve had their holes drilled. The top has a grid of 7/8″ holes drilled on 2″ centers; the bottom has one large hole to fit the dust-collector hose fitting, and a second smaller hole to fit the shop-vacuum hose. The bottom is glued and nailed in place. The dust collector normally does the work while the downdraft table is in the shop, and I’d take the table and the shop vacuum for jobs elsewhere. A foam plug blocks the unused hole.

I had to drill an additional hole in each of the rip-fence rails to support the downdraft table. Your tablesaw may require different modifications.

Additional pieces of plywood reinforce the perimeters of the holes for the shop-vacuum and dust collector hoses. A foam plug normally keeps the idle shop-vacuum hole closed.

Additional pieces of plywood reinforce the perimeters of the holes for the shop-vacuum and dust collector hoses. A foam plug normally keeps the idle shop-vacuum hole closed.

 

The dust collector is hooked up to the back of the downdraft table, the shop vacuum at the front. The shop vacuum is used if the downdraft table is removed for work outside of the shop table; its hole is plugged when the dust collector is in use.

The dust collector is hooked up to the back of the downdraft table, the shop vacuum at the front. The shop vacuum is used if the downdraft table is removed for work outside of the shop table; its hole is plugged when the dust collector is in use. The box is shallow enough to maintain clearance for the tablesaw’s tilt control.

 

Stops come in handy for keeping the workpiece from drifting while it's being sanded. These are short sections of 1" dowel with one end trimmed to fit the 7/8" holes in the table top. A piece of paper draped over the unused area of the table increases the airflow around the workpiece.

Stops come in handy for keeping the workpiece from drifting while it’s being sanded. These are short sections of 1″ dowel with one end trimmed to fit the 7/8″ holes in the table top. A piece of paper draped over the unused area of the table increases the airflow around the workpiece.

 

A box fan with a 20″ x 20″ furnace filter will pull stray particles in. The fan’s own suction is all that’s needed to hold the filter in place. Letting the fan run whenever there is dusty work being done in the shop will recirculate air and capture dust.

The downdraft table doesn’t interfere with the operation of the tablesaw. The fence slides over it and I have enough room under it to adjust the tilt without barking my knuckles. The extra surface area supports pieces being sawn on the right side of the blade and offers a place to set push sticks, pencils, and measuring tools. The downdraft table helps assure that what happens in the shop stays in the shop.

Christopher Cunningham is the editor of Small Boats Monthly

You can share your tricks of the trade with other Small Boats Monthly readers by sending us an email.

StopLossBags

The StopLossBag system offers a way store paints and varnishes without the exposure to air that causes the contents of a partially used can to skin over.SBM photographs and video

The StopLossBag system offers a way store paints and varnishes without the exposure to air that causes the contents of a partially used can to skin over.

StopLossBags provide a unique solution to a common problem. We’ve all been there. You’ve got a little bit of wear in your varnished rubrail, and it just needs to be touched up to keep it Bristol. You grab that can of varnish you know is at least half full, but you discover that it has skimmed over with a hardened amber-colored hockey puck on top. You then spend the next half hour straining what’s left of the still-liquid contents out into a new container. The quick touch-up has turned into a messy project and much of that expensive varnish has been lost.

The connection between the funnel and the bag spout is a slip fit that holds as long as they are dry and you’re careful not to pull the two too far apart while pouring. Both the author and the editor inadvertently separated the connection in mid-pour, spilling some of the cans’ contents and discovering that the bag and funnel cannot be reconnected when slippery with paint or varnish. The instructional video on the StopLossBag web site shows the joint being pinched by hand during the pour. A small hose clamp provides a secure hands-free connection. The clamp only needs to tight enough to gently pinch the funnel nozzle against the threads at the base of the bag’s spout.

The connection between the funnel and the bag spout is a slip fit that holds as long as both are dry and you’re careful not to pull them too far apart while pouring. Both the author and the editor inadvertently separated the connection in mid-pour, spilling some of the cans’ contents and discovering that the bag and funnel cannot be reconnected when slippery with paint or varnish. The instructional video on the StopLossBag website shows the joint being pinched by hand during the pour. A small hose clamp provides a secure hands-free connection. The clamp only needs to tight enough to gently pinch the funnel nozzle against the threads at the base of the bag’s spout.

StopLossBags are collapsible 1-liter (1.05-quart) bags that eliminate the open space, and therefore, exposure to air, which triggers curing in paint and varnish. The top of the bag has a spout with a twist-on cap. The bags are especially handy when you need only a small amount of finish. You can quickly pour out the exact amount you’ll use without fussing with a crusty lid and having the contents dribble all over the can.

Prior to the pour the bag must be inflated for the can contents to flow.

Prior to the pour, the bag must be inflated for the contents to flow in from the can.

I tested the bags with Interlux Brightside Polyurethane Topside Paint and Epifanes Varnish. The collapsible, reusable funnel available with the StopLossBags simplifies transfer between a standard quart can and the bag. The rubbery funnel’s wide end stretches around the open end of the can, creating a secure seal, and its nozzle then connects around the spout of the StopLossBag. Flip the can upside down while holding the bag, and the contents transfer without the mess you’re likely to make pouring from the open can into a rigid funnel. In testing, varnish easily transferred into the bag; I had a little more trouble transferring paint. It was a little too thick to easily flow into the spout. Pumping the funnel helped coax it along.

After filling, the bag is squeezed to push the contents to the tip of the spout. The clear space at the top of the bag is devoid of air; the front and back surfaces are mostly in contact with only a thin transparent layer of the product between them. The funnel will be set aside to dry.

Before putting the cap on, the bag is squeezed to push the contents to the tip of the spout, eliminating air space. Here, the clear area at the top of the bag is devoid of air; the front and back surfaces are mostly in contact with only a thin transparent layer of the product between them. The funnel was set aside to dry.

After the material flowed into the bag, I disconnected the funnel and squeezed the air from the bag per the instructions before sealing it with the twist-on cap. For cleanup, I let the funnel dry, then peeled off the dried film the next day. I used a little denatured alcohol on a rag to wipe off some residual flakes.

The interior surface of the funnel has a slick glossy finish, making it easy to remove dried paint or varnish after use.

The interior surface of the funnel has a slick glossy finish, making it easy to remove dried paint or varnish after use.

StopLossBags have a labeling area on one side so you can record what you put in it and when it was transferred. A Sharpie pen writes well on the plastic surface. The bags are stiff enough to stand up on their own, which makes them store neatly on the shelf.

One side of the bag has a space for identifying what is in the bag and when it was poured. Alcohol will remove the permanent marker when the bag is reused and requires new information.

One side of the bag has a space for identifying what is in the bag and when it was poured. Alcohol will remove the permanent marker when the bag is reused and requires new labelling.

At the Center for Wooden Boats, we often have multiple varnish projects going on simultaneously, and these bags organize mixes of various ratios of varnish to thinner for quick use. The bags have the added benefit of easily allowing small amounts of finish to be dispensed. Even the slow-flowing paint was easy to dispense by squeezing the bag.

On each bag is printed: “Not for use with finishes containing acetone, benzene, lacquer thinner, MEK, toluene, or xylene.” However, Interprime Wood Sealer (Interlux 1026) is a popular product containing xylene and is notorious for quickly skimming over. The StopLossBag’s manufacturer had reported that lacquer thinner and acetone have led to a softening of the bag’s plastic laminate, but when we asked about xylene they said they hadn’t specifically tested it, so we gave it a try by filling a bag with straight xylene. After a few weeks the StopLossBag was holding up perfectly with no signs of softening. Maybe now we’ll be able to use a whole can of the sealer without having a good portion of it turn gummy. The bags can be reused after cleaning. I had good results filling them with some denatured alcohol and swishing it around the bag. The alcohol can also be used to erase the Sharpie pen for relabelling.

I’ve tried an argon-gas product meant to prevent skinning, but had little success with it. Some folks on the web suggest using a circle of waxed paper to prevent skimming, but that seems like a messy solution to me. The StopLossBags are a tidy, effective way to store different types of finishes that are going to be used over a prolonged period. The cost of the bags is easily recouped when good finish is prevented from skinning over.

Josh Anderson attended the Apprenticeshop boatbuilding program in Rockland Maine, and has since worked at several boatbuilding and carpentry shops. He and his wife, Sarah, restored a 25′ Friendship Sloop, operated a charter business with it, and spent several years sailing the Maine coast. Josh has a Masters in Maritime Management from Maine Maritime Academy and is now the Lead Boatwright at the Center for Wooden Boats in Seattle, Washington.

StopLossBags are available from the manufacturer and from Duckworks. Prices vary with single bags priced at $4.95 and sets of bags reducing the cost to $2.75 apiece. The funnel is priced at $5.98 and $7.95, depending on the vendor.

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.

Moor n Stow

Cabela's self-inflating Moor n stow is a good match for small boats that have little space for stowing a set of ordinary fenders.photographs by the author

Cabela’s self-inflating Moor n Stow is a good match for small boats that have little space for stowing a set of ordinary fenders.

Fenders keep docks from chewing up the flanks of our boats, but when we cast off, those fenders can eat up a lot of space on board. Cabela’s has come up with a self-inflating fender that rolls up into a very compact bundle that is much easier to tuck away. The Moor n Stow is constructed like a self-inflating camping mattress, and rolled up it is just 7″ long and 5″ in diameter. A strap with a buckle keeps the roll tight; when it is released and the valve is open opened, the Moor n Stow inflates itself in about one minute and doesn’t need to be topped off by blowing into the valve.

Fully inflated, the Moor and Stow has an ample 18" of cushioning.

Fully inflated, the Moor n Stow has an ample 18″ of cushioning.

The open-cell foam core has a 1,680-denier polyester oxford cover. The fabric seems quite tough—I could stand on the fender with my 200-plus pounds without damaging it—and even if the fender were punctured, the foam is dense enough to cushion the boat from the dock. While you’re away from the dock, the fender makes a nice pillow or a low-back support cushion, but is too narrow to provide comfortable seating.

Deflated and rolled up the fender is much smaller and easily stowed.

Deflated and rolled up, the fender is a compact package that is easily stowed.

Inflated, the Moor n Stow has an overall length of about 25″ and its foam-filled section measures 18″ x 6″ x 5″. That’s more than adequate for most small boats; if the fender is longer than the boat’s freeboard is high, the fender will float on a diagonal and still do its job of protecting the boat. A plastic grommet fused to the fabric provides a sturdy point for a line to hang the fender. The strap included with the fender could be used to hang the fender from a deck cleat or oarlock, but adding a short, light line would be more versatile.

A little work with a marker will tone down the large and garish logo.

A little work with a marker will tone down the large and garish logo.

The price for a Moor n Stow is quite reasonable, about $10 less than a similarly sized conventional plastic fender. My only complaint about the Moor n Stow is the bright yellow Cabela’s logo on one side. I’d rather not have any of my gear doing double duty as advertising. I’ve started coloring over the logo with a black permanent marker and will soon have a nice, anonymous fender.

Christopher Cunningham is the editor of Small Boats Monthly.

The Moor n Stow is available from Cabela’s for $19.99.

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.

HARMONY

David MacLean lives in Sedgwick, Maine, a town surrounded by the waters of Penobscot Bay. He sails a 32′ Eastport pinky, INTEGRITY, built in Rockport in 1972, and wanted to have a tender that would complement his classic sloop. A peapod, he thought, another smaller Maine-coast double-ender, would fit the bill.

INTEGRITY is currently getting a new, more easily managed rig. When she's afloat again she'll take HARMONY in tow.David MacLean

INTEGRITY is currently getting a new, more easily managed ketch rig. When she’s afloat again she’ll take HARMONY in tow.

 

Work began with 13 molds and two plywood forms for the stems.David MacLean

Work began with 13 molds and two plywood forms for the stems.

David, an architect, said he decided to design his own peapod, “to expand my design sensibilities and thoughtfully explore the world of naval architecture.” His pinky is a scaled-down version of a Howard Chapelle boat, so he turned his attention to Chapelle’s American Small Sailing Craft and took an interest in the “Old Sailing Peapod” on page 220. The lines for the type were taken from a peapod built around 1886. It was “the last of its kind in Washington County when taken off in 1937” and “of a type once much in favor among lighthouse keepers.” David saw a strong resemblance between the peapod and his pinky.

During the planking of the hull, cam-buckle straps pulled each new strip tight against its neighbor. A mahogany sheer strake, finished bright, will give the peapod a more traditional appearance when the rest of the hull is painted.David MacLean

During the planking of the hull, cam-buckle straps pulled each new strip tight against its neighbor. A mahogany sheer strake, finished bright, will give the peapod a more traditional appearance when the rest of the hull is painted.

 

With the cypress planking completed, the centerline can be smoothed or the installation of the keel and false stems.David MacLean

With the cypress planking completed, the centerline can be smoothed for the installation of the keel and false stems.

He purchased the plans for the Old Sailing Peapod from the Smithsonian and used the lines as the starting point for his tender. At 15′ 3″, the peapod was a bigger boat than he required; he opted for an overall length of 13′6″. He also decided to strip-plank his peapod to save on the weight of the original lapstrake construction.

Work resumed on the hull after moving the project to Eric Dow’s shop in Brooklin, Maine.David MacLean

Work resumed on the hull after moving the project to Eric Dow’s shop in Brooklin, Maine.

 

While many peapods have curved stems fore and aft, HARMONY, like its 1886 predecessor has a straight sternpost, which simplifies the installation of a rudder.David MacLean

While many peapods have curved stems fore and aft, HARMONY, like its 1886 predecessor, has a straight sternpost, which simplifies the installation of a rudder.

 

The strip-built hull, reinforced with fiberglass inside and out, offers a clean, easily maintained interior.David MacLean

The strip-built hull, reinforced with fiberglass inside and out, offers a clean, easily maintained interior.

 

Tom Wolstenholme of Rivendell Marine in Monument Beach, Massachusetts, was just 4 miles up the road David’s office in Cataumet, and David apprenticed himself to Tom from the lofting to the completion of the bare hull. Together, the two planked the boat with 3/8″ bead-and-cove strips topped with a mahogany sheerstrake before work paused as Tom got busy with other projects. Progress resumed when Eric Dow in Brooklin, Maine (WoodenBoat’s hometown), agreed to help David bring the boat to completion. The hull, still on its strongback, was loaded on a U-Haul truck for the drive north. Mahogany seating and trim were soon installed along with white oak rubrails and knees and iroko floorboards.

Trailered up in Eric Dow’s boat barn, HARMONY is ready for the water.David McLean

Trailered up in Eric Dow’s boat barn, HARMONY is ready for the water.

 

HARMONY is equipped with two rowing stations, one in the center for rowing solo or with two passengers, and one forward for rowing with a single passenger.David MacLean

HARMONY is equipped with two rowing stations, one in the center for rowing solo or with two passengers, and one forward for rowing with a single passenger.

The finished peapod was launched on Walker Pond, a short drive from Brooklin, and christened HARMONY. David reports the tender has “proven to be a dream to row and sail.” The first year’s sailing has been done with a sprit rig meant for one of Eric’s 13′ 6″ peapods. It proved a good fit for HARMONY, and the new rig David had Eric build is nearly identical.

David reports: "HARMONY is just a dream in the water. She rows effortlessly and..."Chris Raphael

David reports: “HARMONY rows effortlessly, feels very stable, and…”

 

"...and accelerates so fast when under sail."Chris Raphael

“…her acceleration under sail is quite impressive.”

HARMONY and INTEGRITY will make a well-matched pair on the Benjamin River, not far from David’s Maine home in Sedgwick.

Have you recently launched a boat? Please email us. We’d like to hear about it and share your story with other Small Boats Monthly readers.

Surviving Hurricane Harvey

On August 25, Hurricane Harvey tore through Port Aransas, Texas, bringing 130 mph winds and a 9′ tidal surge. I had been corresponding with Rick Pratt, the director of Port Aransas Museum and a boat builder at Farley Boat Works, an extension of the museum. He emailed me on September 1, a week after the Category 4 hurricane. Here’s Rick’s description of the damage:

The devastation of Port A is incredible; the fact that no one died is even more so. [One Port Aransas resident who had stayed to ride out the storm was found dead on September 3. That has been the only reported fatality in Port Aransas. —Ed.] This is a storm far worse than Celia or the 1919 storm, which were on record as our worst.

Our house came through with very little damage due to skilled building, good maintenance, and a careful selection of building site. We chose a spot high in the dunes and then built a low-profile house. It worked. Then add the major ingredient: luck. Neighbors all around us took a lot of damage. Much of my next-door neighbor’s house is now in my pond.

The storage barn was the most badly damaged of the building. The photograph at the top of the page shows the wreckage behind the plywood wall in the middle of this image.Harry Martinez

The storage barn was the most badly damaged of the building. The photograph at the top of the page shows the wreckage behind the plywood wall in the middle of this image.

Farley Boat Works fared much worse. Our shop is coated with mud up to the 3′ mark where the storm surge came through and left indescribable mess behind. Everything is scrambled together. The motors on our big tools will need replacement. The row of boat storage barns we converted to a maritime exhibit hall was damaged but not destroyed. The row of barns immediately behind the shop is a tangled mess of boats, wires, tin roofing, rope, mud, and Lord knows what else.  The antique Farley fishing boat stored there was badly damaged. The third row of barns lost a roof, battered by the parts of the building next door as it exploded and sailed away. The shop yard is covered in roofing tin, broken wood, and insulation.  

This storage barn was not so badly damaged, but the storm surge got to the contents of the building, now pilled along the street.Harry Martinez

This storage barn was not so badly damaged, but the storm surge got to the contents of the building, now pilled along the street.

The town is a mix of piles of rubble, seaweed and wrecked buildings interspersed with damaged, but standing, houses and then collapsed houses. Many, many roofs are gone, framing and all. Mixed in are houses with no apparent damage at all.

Several of my friends lost houses, one in particular pulled up its foundation and floated off a few feet. Another traveled 50′ and stopped in the middle of the town’s drainage channel, leaning at a steep angle.

The liquor store peeled away from its foundation but left all the bottles standing in their racks. The local scavengers made short work of that and it likely kept them drunk and happy and saved our houses from looting for three days.

The marina took a big hit and lots of boats sank or rammed into other boats and took them down. One big one broke loose and raised havoc all across the harbor finally fetching up on the Coast Guard station bulkhead. The three folks inside it were unharmed. They now have one hell of a story to tell and a big case of PTSD.

The University of Texas is nearly destroyed. Both major buildings were damaged so badly they may have to be torn down, I am told. Then insult to injury, a big drill ship moored up the channel broke loose and destroyed the university’s research pier. The ship is now grounded against the jetty.

The beach is now far wider and lots of new sand was deposited there. It is littered with a nice collection of seashells but farther down toward the south end, it is covered with wreckage. The light house, all by itself a mile from town, was damaged heavily, but all the buildings are structurally intact and the tower lost only a lantern window. The dock raised itself up to the limit of its sunken pilings—10’—and is now as high as the porch on the first house.  

And on and on and on.

We are now staying at a cousin’s house on North Padre Island, about 30 minutes from town, until power is restored in Port Aransas. We are told that might be as long as a month. The power lines are all down and tangled and many poles are snapped or uprooted. Water came back yesterday, and is most welcome.

A crew of faithful followers of Farley Boat Works and some family members are on their way down today to help us dig out and recover.

K BABY was stored in a boat barn that collapsed under the 130mph winds. Still strapped to the trailer, she floated free of the wreckage on the 10' storm tide, fetching up in someone's walled garden several blocks away. We found her nestled in the mud and wreckage five days later with a broken telephone pole laying lengthwise inside. With a lot of effort Ken Curlee and crew freed the boat, removed the pole, and towed her home.  She had only a few scratches. photographs courtesy of Rick Pratt

K BABY was stored in a boat barn that collapsed under the 130-mph winds. Still strapped to the trailer, she floated free of the wreckage on the 10′ storm tide, fetching up in someone’s walled garden several blocks away. They found her nestled in the mud and wreckage five days later with a broken telephone pole laying lengthwise inside. With a lot of effort, Ken Curlee and crew freed the boat, removed the pole, and towed her home. She had only a few scratches.

 

I checked in with Rick again on September 23 and received this reply:

Things are still pretty tough here at the moment. There is some improvement, but many have lost everything and are just now realizing it. The insurance folks are coming up with amounts way below what actual repair costs are. Many of the volunteers are now gone or leaving. We are coming up on crunch time.

The annual Port Aransas Wooden Boat Festival is held in October, which would be quite soon after such a devastating event, but Rick writes, “We are going to do the show just to show the world we can.” The festival, subtitled “The Harvey Edition,” will keep to its scheduled weekend, October 20 through 22, along with the Old Town Festival and a surfing contest. I hope those of you who regularly attend will show up and be joined by anyone interested in wooden boats and willing to support Farley Boat Works and the community of Port Aransas. There are hotels in nearby Corpus Cristi and camping spaces in Port Aransas. 

UPDATE: October 3. The organizers of the Port Aransas Wooden Boat Festival held a meeting today and decided it was best to postpone the festival. It will be rescheduled for the Spring of 2018 on a date to be announced.

For those unable to attend, the festival’s web site has a link for (tax deductible) contributions to support the restoration of Farley Boat Works.

15′ Sailing Dinghy

Will Stirling’s 15’ Sailing Dinghy has a shape that emerged gradually over a period of 15 years. He built his first dinghy in 2002, while he was in Cornwall working for Working Sail, a boatyard that builds pilot cutters. In his time off from building cutters, most of them over 40’ long, he decided to build a boat (just for a change!) and, constrained by the size of the small bedroom/workshop he inhabited at the time, settled on the 7’10” Auk designed by Iain Oughtred.

That dinghy, built of larch on oak, ended up as the tender to EZRA, one of the pilot cutters built at Working Sail. Stirling reshaped the design of the Auk to create his own 9’ lapstrake dinghy and so started a process of refinement—adjusting the shape of the transom, the stem, the sheer, and even the number of planks—that homed in on a hull shape he was satisfied with. By 2004 he had built four dinghies, and six years later he was producing a steady stream of dinghies, ranging from 9’ to 14’ long. He’s currently building his 38th dinghy.

It wasn’t until he had built 14 or 15 of the small boats that he was happy enough with the shape to commit it to paper as a set of lines, the first of what is now a range of six dinghies available as plans from Will’s company, Stirling & Son, in Devon, England.

When it came to building a boat for himself for coastal voyaging in 2012, he naturally chose what was then the biggest boat in his range, the 14’ Sailing Dinghy, and adapted it for adventure sailing. It was on that boat that he made the first two voyages of his slightly madcap project of sailing around every offshore lighthouse in Britain. A potentially dangerous incident (a near-capsize too complicated to explain here) during a 120-mile offshore trip from Devon to the Channel Islands and back, however, convinced him he needed something a bit more seaworthy.

The Stirling dinghies are all built of mahogany on oak and copper riveted.Will Stirling

The Stirling dinghies are all built of mahogany on oak and are copper riveted.

The 15’ Sailing Dinghy was born by simply spacing the molds of the 14’ dinghy apart an extra inch per foot. The main changes were an extension to the foredeck and the addition of side decks and a deck aft with a coaming around the cockpit to keep the water out. The longer foredeck allows someone to sleep under it without getting a shot of spray in the face. The 15-footer also has a slightly stronger sheer. Like most of Stirling’s dinghies, it is varnished on the outside and oiled inside.

The rudder blade is weighted with disks cut from lead sash weights. Hammering the lead spreads it out to cover the bevelled edges of the hole, locking the lead in place.Will Stirling

The rudder blade is weighted with disks cut from lead sash weights. Hammering the lead spreads it out to cover the beveled edges of the hole, locking the lead in place.

Well-thought-out details abound in the 15-footer; some are purely decorative, others extremely practical. The sheerstrake has an elegant, gold-leafed cove; the thwarts have nice decorative beads scribed into their bottom edges. The dinghy also has some special features to fit its role as expedition boat, such as the enclosed centerboard case, which prevents water flooding into the boat in case of capsize. The plate-brass centerboard will drop when the uphaul is released, but it is fitted with a downhaul in case stones jam in the board and prevent gravity from doing its job. There is even a short length of line, which Stirling calls a “pig’s tail,” secured to the lower aft corner of the centerboard so it can be pulled out of the slot from beneath the hull if all else fails.

The sheer strake is protected above and below and decorated with gold leaf coves and carvings.Will Stirling

The sheer strake is protected above and below and decorated with gold leaf coves and carvings.

For planking, Stirling long ago abandoned larch in favor of mahogany (Khaya ivorensis, FSC-certified). To keep the garboard from cupping, small wedges are inserted between the plank and the steam-bent frames, and riveted through to hold them in place. It takes about 2,000 copper rivets to build the boat, with three rivets per foot on each of the planks holding the laps together and the frames to the planks. The plank ends are triple-fastened with bronze nails.

The dinghy's bottom has brass half-oval along the keel and bilge guards to protect the hull on the beach.Nic Compton

The dinghy’s bottom has brass half-oval along the keel and bilge guards to protect the hull on the beach.

The boat I sailed, christened GRACE after Stirling’s seven-year-old daughter, had been out of the water for nearly two years before we launched her at the end of this past summer, yet she only took on a wee bit of water before the planks swelled up and she was watertight again. She certainly made a pretty sight, bobbing at her anchor in Sennen, Cornwall, with her balanced lug sail set. Weighing in at almost 500 lbs, she’s not the lightest boat, and while it was easy enough for the two of us to drag her across the 30’ strip of sand from the stone slipway down into the sea, we were glad to have help with her recovery eight hours later, by which time the strip of sand had tripled in size. But lightness is not necessarily what you are looking for in a small boat intended for big voyages, and this boat is built to last.

Cast bronze outriggers add 18" to the span between locks.Nic Compton

Cast bronze outriggers add 18″ to the span between locks.

 

There was a light westerly breeze and a confused sea as we headed out of Sennen, but GRACE cleared the off-lying rocks without any fuss and we were soon in the open sea making good, if not spectacular, progress. GRACE has a burdensome hull well suited to her role as expedition boat, but that doesn’t mean she’s slow. Stirling has combined a full ’midship section with moderately fine bow and a nicely tucked-up transom—a hull form that slips along very nicely indeed.

Stirling opted for a balanced lug rig, which performs excellently on every point of sail except close-hauled. The boat slowed down whenever we tried to pinch her up into the wind, and took off as soon as we eased off onto a more comfortable angle. It was probably no better or worse than on many traditionally rigged boats, where it’s usually better to opt for the extra speed rather than try to claw an extra few degrees upwind. Once she was sailing at a sensible 45 degrees or so to the wind, GRACE was unfailingly steady and, well, graceful.

A half jaw is used instead of a parrel to keep the boom tight to the mast.Nic Compton

A half jaw is used instead of a parrel to keep the boom tight to the mast.

Even though we were only sailing 8 miles offshore and the wind was never more than moderate, mostly 4 to 6 knots rather than the forecast 7 to 10 knots, I was grateful for the extra protection provided by the side decks and cockpit coaming. The only slight drawback is that, when seated inside the cockpit, you can’t lean out as much as you would on a completely open dinghy. You soon get used to this, however, and when the boat does heel over you can sit out on the rail and take advantage of the extra comfort provided by the side decks.

On the longer journeys this expedition dinghy is intended for, you can’t always rely on having continuous wind, so it’s important the boat rows well. Stirling fitted a pair of custom-made bronze outriggers, which were bolted through the side decks and extended the rowlocks a good 9” outboard of the hull. The arrangement was fine when I rowed the boat in flat water but awkward in a seaway when the oar blades tended to catch the waves and the looms chafed the top of the coamings. Stirling has since added a pair of collars around the rowlock shafts which should raise the oars enough to clear the coamings and the water.

The dinghy's deck keeps spray out on rough passages and are wide enough to sit on to get some weight on the weather rail when the wind has piped up.Nic Compton

The dinghy’s deck keeps spray out on rough passages and is wide enough to sit on to get some weight on the weather rail when the wind has piped up.

GRACE proved a pleasure to row, even against the strong contrary current we encountered at one point. I’m a sucker for rowing and will happily row at my own slow but steady pace for hours on end, but if you’re looking for a dinghy that you’ll mainly row, there are other boats that will be more nimble under oars. One obvious use for Stirling’s expedition dinghy is for so-called “raids.” The boat is both seaworthy and fast enough with two people on board to do very well in the events.

The balanced lug sail is made of Clipper Canvas, a stable fabric woven of spun polyester designed to look and feel live canvas.Nic Compton

The balanced lug sail is made of Clipper Canvas, a stable fabric woven of spun polyester designed to look and feel like canvas.

GRACE was sold just a few weeks after I sailed her and packed off to some superyacht in Mallorca to start a new life in the Mediterranean. Whatever use any of the Stirling dinghies are put to, it’s a comforting thought to know they will almost certainly end up as someone’s family heirloom, with owners decades down the line appreciating their handsome design and solid construction.

Nic Compton is a freelance writer and photographer who grew up sailing dinghies in Greece. He has written about boats and the sea for more than 20 years and has published 12 nautical books, including a biography of the designer Iain Oughtred. He currently lives on the River Dart in Devon, U.K.

15′ Sailing Dinghy Particulars

[table]

Length/15′

Beam/5′2″

Draft, board up/8.75″

Draft, board down/32″

Sail area/130 sq ft

[/table]

 

The lines for the 15' Sailing Dinghy were stretched from those for Stirlings 14' Sailing Dinghy (shown here).

The 15′ Sailing Dinghy is a stretched version of Stirling’s 14′ Sailing Dinghy (lines shown here).

The 15’ Sailing Dinghy is available as a finished boat from Stirling & Son. The company also offers plans for some of their other sailing and rowing dinghies, including the 14′ Sailing Dinghy that preceded the 15′ Sailing Dinghy.

Glen-L Zip

I am frequently asked why I built a boat, and particularly, why I built a Glen-L Zip. The first part of the question is easy to answer: I love to build things and I can’t afford to go out and buy a new boat, so a set of plans was my preferred starting point. And why the Zip? I was initially drawn to it because it has style and character, more than I’d ever be able to find in any boat on the market, whether or not I could afford it. But I didn’t have much boatbuilding experience, other than a stitch-and-glue plywood kayak I had finished, so I was unsure if a Zip would be within my abilities. As I searched the Web and corresponded with other novices who had successfully built one, it quickly became clear that it was the obvious choice.

I am a Fire Chief in a small community in Michigan, and our Village Manager is my good friend Art Atkinson. One day Art walked into my office and said he was considering building a boat for himself. He had just returned from northern Michigan where old wooden boats are almost everywhere along the shores of Lake Michigan and Lake Huron. I told him I’d been considering building a boat for myself, too. He liked the idea, and we decided we would both build wooden boats while helping each other along the way. I ordered plans for the Zip, and Art settled on an equally classic-looking runabout, the Glen-L Squirt.  Both Art and I would be building our boats in our basements and so had limitations on the size of the boats we could build. The 14′ 4″ Zip was the largest boat I could build and still get it out of my walkout basement. The 10’ Squirt was small enough to be carried up the stairs from Art’s basement, and through the kitchen to get it outside.

 The 5' 9" beam provide the Zip with good stability and the flared sides help keep the occupants dry.photographs courtesy of the author

The 5’9″ beam provides the Zip with good stability and the flared sides help keep the occupants dry.

The plans for the Zip came from Glen-L with a step-by-step instruction manual and full-sized patterns for the transom, frames, gussets, stem, breasthook, and knees. Builders can shorten the boat by 10 percent if they reduce the frame spacing, but Glen-L recommends against lengthening the Zip. There is also an option to either set the boat up as a utility skiff with an open cockpit or as a runabout with decking surrounding two cockpits. I built my boat to the designed length as a runabout.

I bought rough-cut African mahogany from a local sawmill, brought it home, and milled it for the frames. The frame pieces are joined by plywood gussets at the corners. The stem is made of two layers of 3/4″ plywood, and the transom is a single thickness of 3/4″ plywood, framed and reinforced with mahogany. Mounted on a dual-beam strongback, the three completed frames, the transom, and the stem define the shape of the hull—there are no temporary forms. The keel, chines, and inwales then connect the transom, frames, and stem. The chines were the most difficult longitudinals to install. Each is a two-piece laminate, and each of those pieces required steaming to coax it into the needed bend and twist. Later it took a lot of clamps to tightly close the glue joints between the chine halvess.

The materials list specifies 1/4″ Douglas-fir exterior plywood for the hull, and while it’s an economical choice, I had a bright-finished boat in mind and so opted to use mahogany marine plywood. For the side panels, I cut two 4×8 sheets of plywood in half and joined the pieces to make a pair of 2×16 sheets, with the seams butted and ’glassed.

With a 45-hp outboard on the transom, the Zip gets on plane quickly.

With a 45-hp outboard on the transom, the Zip gets on plane quickly.

The side panels came under a bit of strain when I started to wrap them around the framework, so I applied towels and hot water to soften them up a bit. They then bent easily and held their new shape when dried, ready for epoxy and screws. The bottom went on in three pieces—one full-width piece aft and two half-width pieces forward. None required steaming to be applied to the framework. The hull, while still upside down, got a layer of 6-oz fiberglass, a skeg, and bottom paint.

Work on the interior started after the boat was flipped upright. Floorboards were not included in the plans, but I opted to add them to provide both a more finished look and a stable platform for my passengers to stand on when entering and exiting the boat. I was also worried about feet and gear getting wet, but water never seems to accumulate in the Zip. I used ash for the floorboards because of its strength and for the contrast of color.

The plans call for a deck of mahogany or fir plywood, and while that would be sufficient for a utilitarian boat, many builders of Glen-L runabouts opt to dress the plywood up with covering boards and deck planking. It makes a striking difference. I used mahogany for all of my decking. I bookmatched the broad covering boards to create a symmetrical pattern in the wood grain, then dyed them to create contrast with the deck planks. I added some decking beyond what was detailed in the plans to reduce the open area of the motorwell and provide a tidier appearance. Rather than use white caulk to accent the deck seams, I filled them with epoxy mixed with white pigment. When covered with varnish, the bright white took on a nice, aged golden color.

The plans for the Zip call for a plywood deck, but builders of Glen-L runabouts often lay deck planking over the plywood for a more classic and elegant look.

The plans for the Zip call for a plywood deck, but builders of Glen-L runabouts often lay deck planking over the plywood for a classic look.

Glen-L recommends powering the Zip with a short-shaft outboard of up to 40 hp, and I initially used a 1962 two-stroke 40-hp outboard on mine, but I didn’t care for the noise or the smell. I later equipped my Zip with a 1999, 45-hp four-stroke outboard. With the larger and heavier motor the Zip sits just a little lower at the stern, but when I’m riding alone or with one passenger and give full throttle to the Zip, it jumps out right on plane. With four adults aboard the boat does get up on plane quickly—it just does so a few moments after giving it the gas. I have had five people in my Zip many times, and I feel very safe in this boat with it fully loaded. I have no hesitation to go at full speed; I am just more aware of my weight and balance by always putting the heaviest passengers in the front. The only issue when it is fully loaded is that the bow will pitch up a little higher and the boat takes a few more seconds to get up on plane. The speed and handling characteristics do not seem to be affected by a full load.

Using a handheld GPS or the GPS app on my cell phone I have recorded a consistent top speed between 32 and 33 mph when I’m driving solo. The boat does well in light chop and begins to porpoise in moderate chop unless I apply full throttle and get up on plane. Once the waves get above 2′, I really need to cut the power back to quarter speed and just plow through the waves rather than subject the boat, and myself, to a lot of heavy pounding.

The boat handles like a dream, and I credit this part of the performance to the skeg; in calm water, I can race along at full throttle and make a sharp turn with little skidding. The Zip has bumper rails to protect the hull below the tumblehome at the stern; they also serve to deflect water away from the aft cockpit, but if there are passengers in the rear seats, I need to warn them they may get some spray in a sharp turn.

Builder Ted Gauthier has three young passengers aboard here, but has carried five in comfort. people.

Builder Ted Gauthier has three young passengers aboard here, but has carried four with him in comfort.

It took me 22 months of working on and off to build the Zip, and I could not be happier with its performance. I gladly recommend the design to others. It is a great first boat to build and an exciting boat to use. It is easy to trailer, and everyone who sees it gives it a thumbs-up. The design, drawn up in 1954, prompts many people to ask how old my boat is, and they’re surprised to hear that it hasn’t been around for decades. It is a great pleasure to own a boat you can proudly say you built yourself that has both classic design and modern features. If you’re thinking of getting an outboard boat that will last for years, that will handle well, that carries up to five people, takes up little space in the garage, and won’t break the bank to build or operate, you may want to consider a Glen-L Zip.

Ted Gauthier is the Deputy Fire Chief of Bloomfield Village, Michigan. His passion outside of his dream job as a fireman has always been boating and flying. Ted has built himself many things including an airplane, a hot-air balloon, a kayak, and a CNC machine. He grew up with his five brothers by a lake in lower Michigan where he learned to swim, water-ski, and handle boats. He spent almost all his free time as a child saving for gas so he could go out in small boats to enjoy the summer days. He always remembers his first ride in an old wooden boat and has promised himself that one day he will have his own.

Ted documented his progress on the Zip in his blog. He would be happy to help or answer any questions readers may have about building a Glen-L Zip. Emails to Small Boats Monthly will be forwarded to him. His review of a rivet spacing fan appears in this issue. 

Zip Particulars

[table]

Length/14′ 4″

Beam/5′ 9″

Depth/27″

Weigh/approx. 375 lbs

[table/]

Plans and patterns for the Zip are available from Glen-L for $108.

A Faering for New Zealand

 

Sitting in my shop was a freshly oiled, clinker-built 14′ faering. Three friends and I, working in Russell, a coastal town on the north end of New Zealand‘s North Island, built the boat over the course of just two weeks; it was the first boat of its kind ever to be produced in New Zealand. As we prepared to carry the finished boat out of the shop and into the street where friends and reporters were eagerly awaiting the fruits of our labor, it occurred to me that we’d never measured the doorway.

I set out on the path to building this boat three years earlier when I had traveled in the middle of winter to Nordland, a Norwegian county that straddles the Arctic Circle, to produce a film about how Norwegians, considered some of the happiest people on Earth, remain so even when the sun does not shine for months on end; where the darkness is interrupted only by an ethereal blue light.

Vern Cummins, my partner in making documentary films, had come with me to make a film about a man we had yet to meet, Ulf Mikalsen, a traditional boatbuilder who is one of only a handful of people left in Norway making a living building the iconic 18th-century Nordlands boat. “Fly to Bodø,” he told me over the phone, “and drive north from there, crossing on the ferry until you reach the small town of Kjerringøy. There, go past the church on the right; my house is the one with the red trim around it.” And that was that.

Two weeks later, frost crunched under my boots as Vern and I stepped off the plane in Bodø. We drove in the February twilight and by the time we arrived at the only house in Kjerringøy with red trim a heavy, wet sleet was hammering down. Out in front of the car, through the downpour, I could just make out a figure in dingy oilskins approaching us. He walked up to the window beside me and pushed back his hood, revealing a broad smile. It was Ulf, a man who would leave an indelible mark on my life. “Velkommen til Kjerringøy,” he smiled. “Welcome to Kjerringøy, Jamie.”

The village of Kjerringøy is nestled among the fjords and coastal mountains of the north central Norwegian coast. The red and white buildings on the left are part of the Kjerringøy Museum and Old Trading Postphotographs by the author

The village of Kjerringøy is nestled among the fjords and coastal mountains of the north central Norwegian coast. The red and white buildings on the left are part of the Kjerringøy Museum and Old Trading Post.

Inside Ulf’s cabin, it was apparent he had a love of natural materials and a superlative skill for working with them. The timber post-and-beam frame enclosed a warm, modest room where, in typical Scandinavian fashion, everything, even the most utilitarian objects, was handmade and beautiful. Hanging over the kitchen sink were clay mugs made by Ulf’s wife, Ingvild, each adorned with the names of everyone in the family. Ulf wore a hand-knit wool sweater with a Nordlands boat decorating his chest and his name stitched onto its sleeve. Ingvild showed us around the house; downstairs through a hidden doorway in the wall was the sauna, a vital Norwegian staple—without which communities like Kjerringøy would be unable to function socially during winter. Where else would you discuss politics, offshore oil drilling, or the best recipe for infusing home-distilled aquavit, if not in an excessively hot, cramped room with strangers wearing no more, and often less, than a towel?

In his shop in Kjerringøy, Ulf works on a nearly completed Nordlands boat.

In his shop in Kjerringøy, Ulf works on a nearly completed Nordlands boat.

Prior to becoming a boatbuilder, Ulf was a carpenter and student of social anthropology. His studies took him as far as southern Africa, as well as southern Norway, but he admits, “I knew I couldn’t live there for very long.” The call of the north lured him back, and he settled in the small town of Kjerringøy where he took a job at the museum.

At the museum, housed in an historic 17th-century trading post on the shores of the fjord, Ulf first worked on the restoration of Nordlands boats and on some of the buildings on the property, and discovered a love for joining history with craft. He enrolled in a boatbuilding school in Saltdal and returned to the Nordland Museum as resident craftsman, director, and general manager of Kjerringøy Handelssted, the Kjerringøy Old Trading Post.

Ulf's Sami knife, forged by hand and set into a handle made of reindeer antler, is one of his primary tools and he used it throughout the process of building the spissbåt.

Ulf’s Sami knife, forged by hand and set into a handle made of reindeer antler, is one of his most-used boatbuilding tools.

Next to the museum is Ulf’s boatshed and workshop where I spent the dark hours of the Norwegian winter mesmerized by a master artisan at work. The boatbuilders I’d known back in my home on Cape Cod worked with electric planes, drills, and band saws, but Ulf shaped sheerstrakes by eye with a Sami knife and scarfed planks with an axe. I’d never seen precision like it in my life, and I occasionally stood in the middle of a floor carpeted by fresh wood shavings contemplating what I ever had to show for myself after a day’s work back in my office: never anything so substantial nor so fragrant. “I’m not exaggerating when I say that nine out of ten visitors who stick their noses into my boatyard take a deep breath, smile and exclaim, ‘It sure smells good in here.’” It was time to toss in the towel, learn to speak Norwegian, and become an apprentice boatbuilder. I mentioned the idea to Ulf, and he just smiled.

Over the next week, Vern and I filmed a documentary that we would title “The Fox of Bloody Woman Island” (Mikalsen means “son of the Fox” and Kjerringøy translates to “Hag Island,” or as Ulf calls it, “Bloody Woman Island).” On our last day of filming, Ulf launched the largest of his Nordlands boats for us. It was only February—several weeks earlier than normal for Nordlanders to launch their boats back into the recently thawed waters around Kjerringøy—but Ulf could see this was the moment we had been waiting for.

Nordslands boats have been sailing Norwegian waters for over 1000 years, and Ulf is making sure they'll continue to grace the coastline in the future.

Nordslands boats have been sailing Norwegian waters for over 1000 years, and Ulf is making sure they’ll continue to grace the coastline in the future.

We rowed out of the harbor, set the square sail, and the boat moved through the waves flexing like a snake. In the brisk winter twilight, listening to the waves slap against the hull, I began to understand why Ulf chose to live here and pursue this passion, despite the fact that the young girls working in a store near his boatshop earn twice as much as he does as a boatbuilder. “I made a decision,” says Ulf, “not to make a lot of money, but to do what I really wanted to do. Let’s say I feel quite happy about my life.” As we sailed the Nordlands boat I trolled a line over the side and landed the biggest, laziest cod I have ever caught.

About a year after my time in Nordland, my wife and I emigrated from the Falkland Islands to New Zealand where I began working with a handful of friends to establish an adventure education center called Adventure For Good. We’d settled in Northland, New Zealand’s northernmost province, on a beautiful, protected inlet in the Bay of Islands.

This was the area where the first European missionaries landed, setting up missions and trading posts at points all along the coasts. Just across the bay was the small town of Russell, New Zealand’s first capital and an important 19th-century whaling port. Looking to introduce new opportunities to the area, we decided to establish a traditional boatbuilding school to celebrate and foster the region’s rich maritime heritage. So I mentioned to the board of directors of Adventure For Good that I in fact knew of a skilled boatbuilder in northern Norway who uses the natural curves in the roots of spruce trees to create his boat’s ribs. This impressed them as it had impressed me, and the next morning my boss told me he’d received approval from the board. Within weeks a plan was hatched to bring Ulf and Ingvild from Nordland to Northland to build a Norwegian faering in the gutted remains of our Russell shop front.

A few months later, I drove to Auckland to pick Ulf and Ingvild up from the airport. It had been nearly three years since I had seen them, and I was suddenly overcome with feelings of excitement and nervousness. Would we be able to build this boat and justify this entire ordeal? As I pulled up to the arrival area of the airport, Ulf and Ingvild were already waiting for me. It was easy to spot them; Ulf was wearing a “Kjerringøy Handelssted” T-shirt with drawing of the Trading Post in the background and a Nordlands boat in the foreground.

After our Norwegian friends settled in, it was our time of reckoning. Word had gotten out about what we were up to, and we needed to get ready to build our boat. Ahead of Ulf’s arrival, we had enlisted the help of John Clode, a local boatbuilder, to organize tools, materials, and our workspace. John was an equally inspiring craftsman, largely self-taught, and had restored several steamboats for use as charter vessels around New Zealand. Like Ulf, he was an accomplished sailor, commercial fisherman, and adventurer. John and his wife Bridget opened their home to Ulf and Ingvild for their six-week stay. John, it turns out, had an immense interest in Nordic design ever since hitchhiking through Troms, one of Norway’s northernmost counties, 40 years prior in search of a fishing vessel to crew on. To my relief, John and Ulf hit it off and soon were inseparable.

The keel was assembled in the old boathouse before we moved the project to the workshop in Russell. Ulf held the stem in place to give us our first glimpse at the shape of the boat.

The keel was assembled in the old boathouse before we moved the project to the workshop in Russell. Ulf held the stem in place to give us our first glimpse at the shape of the boat.

For our build, we wanted to build a fearing, a four-oared boat, but also hoped to do something unique, so we had left the choice of the type up to Ulf. He had given it some thought before leaving Norway and had chosen a spissbåt, a lapstrake working boat from 20th-century coastal Norway. A spissbåt is literally translated as “tip boat” or “pointed boat” and is distinguished from other similar types by that sharper prow. From the early 1900s through to the 1960s the spissbåt was one of Norway’s most popular boat designs. Prior to the introduction of roads along Norway’s vast coastline, the spissbåt was often built by its owners, who were responsible for daily duties like catching supper, taking the family to and from church, and ferrying fresh supplies home. The spissbåt’s eventual demise in the 1960s was largely due to the rising popularity of the outboard motor. The double-ended spissbåt was designed to be powered by sail and oar, but was never adapted to carry an outboard motor.

In Norway, the spissbåt is traditionally built of Douglas-fir and spruce, neither of which are in ample supply in our part of the world. That would become our first obstacle. What we hoped would be the solution presented itself in the form of an enormous boatshed stocked to the ceiling with rare and exotic woods collected from across the globe. It belonged to one of Adventure For Good’s directors, an enthusiastic Russell businessman who was more than happy to let Ulf and John rifle through its contents.

The pair looked like kids in a candy store lifting up rotting canvas covers and rummaging through dusty piles. Within a few hours, my pickup overflowed with planks of timber. We would use red cedar and teak instead of fir and spruce, and copper roves and nails instead of iron, which would not hold up well in the South Pacific. Our New Zealand spissbåt would be more fragile than a traditional Norwegian one perhaps, but it would also be lighter, faster, and just as beautiful. Ulf had never worked with cedar, but John was confident it would serve us well.

Hand axes have always been essential tools in traditional Norse boatbuilding. Ulf found an old hatchet in John's garage and put a sharp edge on it, transforming it from a crude chopping implement to an edge tool for fine work.

Hand axes have always been essential tools in traditional Norse boatbuilding. Ulf found an old hatchet in John’s garage and put a sharp edge on it, transforming it from a crude chopping implement to an edge tool for fine work.

At the boatshed, we milled the lumber and Ulf began construction by shaping the 14’ keel with a hatchet. I’d seen him do this in his shop in Norway, but this was new to John, who intently studied Ulf’s technique as each precise strike peeled away wood fibers in shavings instead of chips. John followed Ulf’s lead, chopping with light glancing blows and dressing newly cut surfaces with the axe head in both hands, fingers lined up on the side of the axe and pushing the cutting edge like a chisel.

When the keel was complete and the stems were attached to it, we moved the project to the shop in Russell where we’d resume construction. We set the boat’s backbone upright on a heavy beam resting on chocks on the floor. We turned our attention to the planking. Unlike many lapstrake boats, the spissbåt doesn’t begin upside-down, but rather it is built right-side up. In the Nordland style of boatbuilding there is no steaming involved in getting the planks to take their shape in the hull. Instead, each is fixed to one of the boat’s stems before being gradually and gently bent into place using one’s hips and cut-to-length, wooden props that hold tension between the interior side of  the plank and an overhead beam. We pinched the laps together with shop-made wooden clamps called Brenne klammen. Ulf had brought one with him for reference and John used it to make several copies.

One of Ulf's handmade instruments, a båtlodd, measures the angles of the planks. Much of the shaping of the boat was done by eye and feel rather than precise measurements.

One of Ulf’s handmade instruments, a båtlodd, measures the angles of the planks. Much of the shaping of the boat was done by eye and feel rather than from precise measurements.

Coaxing the planks into the necessary curves and twists was a critical step in the boat’s construction—too much pressure could crack or split a cedar plank, and we would have to make a new one. Ulf listened to the boards as they bent and felt their strain against his hip. Sensing the wood’s limits, he manipulated the planks as easily as if they had been steamed.

Together we slowly planked the hull outward and upward from the keel. Ulf cut plank sections to shape on the bandsaw, then cut a scarf in one end using his axe and Sami knife. He checked the other end for fit against the stem, refined further by hand, and repeated until he nodded that it was time to make it permanent. Between strakes Ingvild and John laid a strip of thin cotton twine over a dribbling of pine tar heated slowly to thicken the consistency of honey. No other sealing was required; the cedar would swell when the boat was in the water, and the planks would press against each other to tightly seal the laps.

The Brenne klammen is a planking clamp named for Harald Brenne, a Norwegian boatbuilding instructor. It has a long reach to hold laps on wide planks and can be operated with one hand.

The Brenne klammen is a planking clamp named for Harald Brenne, a Norwegian boatbuilding instructor. It has a long reach to hold laps on wide planks and can be operated with one hand.

It was often my job to stand by ready with a Brenne clamp as Ulf brought over a new plank. With the plank locked in place, John used a traditional handheld gimlet ready to bore holes for the rivets. This was hard going and rough on the wrists, but as we became familiar with using the simple hand tools, we gained a greater appreciation for the old ways and worked through the tasks faster. In the end, we barely missed our power tools.

The sides rose up and a spissbåt took shape. “In Norway this would be the most expensive version of this boat I have ever built,” Ulf said, “but I am happy to see the different woods responding well to their new position in life.”

Ulf makes one last final check of the fit before making this strake permanent. Note the wooden props both above and below the hull helping it maintain its shape until the frames can be fixed in place.

Ulf makes one last final check of the fit before making this strake permanent. Note the wooden props both above and below the hull helping it maintain its shape until the frames can be fixed in place.

During the construction, people stopped by daily to take a peek at the unusual kind of boatbuilding that was going on in the shop. The visitors popped in so frequently and became such a distraction that we were hardly getting any work done. I took a scrap of wood and a paintbrush and made a sign to hang on a chain across the open doorway. It read, “Craftsmen at work. Don’t feed the boatbuilders!” After that the curious continued to stop by, but were satisfied to peek through the bay windows and double doors. We felt like zoo animals, but our work resumed at a steadier pace.

After the hull was planked, Ulf and John fastened the beautiful teak gunwales, breasthooks, and coaming, then the cedar thwarts and floorboards. Two pairs of oars took shape on the workbench.

Ulf fits the first of the frames. The small gaps outside of the frame at the keel and the plank laps allow water to pass through.

Ulf fits the first of the frames. The small gaps outside of the frame at the keel and the plank laps allow water to pass through.

As the launching of the spissbåt drew near, we held a competition among locals to name our boat. I was surprised at the number of entries we received and the thought that had gone into the names. I wrote the submissions down on a scrap of spare cedar, and each of us builders cast a vote for the name we liked most. The winner was AORUA, a Maori word meaning “Of two worlds.”

 

After weeks of hard work, Ulf, Ingvild, Jamie, and John get ready to launch and the spissbåt boat at the beach in Russell.Natalie Gallant

After weeks of hard work, Ulf, Ingvild, Jamie, and John get ready to launch the spissbåt at the beach in Russell.

 

With the weeks of hard work behind us, it was time to move the boat out of the shop and carry it to the beach. Ulf, John, a few friends, and I lifted the spissbåt and carried it toward the shop door. It was clear that the boat was too beamy to squeeze through. We turned the boat on edge and easily slipped through the doorway. Outside we were surrounded by friends, townsfolk we recognized, and people we had never met before. Cameras flashed as we carried AORUA a block down to Russell’s waterfront. By the time we reached the beach where we’d launch, there were eight of us carrying the boat. We set AORUA down on the gentle slope of gravel in front of a 190-year-old hotel. With dozens of people circled around us, John popped open a bottle of champagne and the cork went flying over the boat. He poured champagne over the stem and white foam flowed across the breasthook.

Ulf takes to the oars in Kororareka Bay off Russell.

Ulf takes to the oars in Kororareka Bay off the town of Russell.

We slid AORUA into the water, and Ulf and John stepped aboard. I kicked off my sandals, handed the oars to them, and climbed over the side to take my seat in the stern. They set the oars between the thole pins and turned AORUA parallel to the crowd gathered on shore. The honey-colored hull gleamed in the sunlight. Ulf and John took their first stroke together, the spissbåt slipped cleanly through the glassy waters, and in less than a minute we were at the other end of the bay, a hundred meters or so away.

One of the launch party takes a turn at the oars with Jamie rowing in at the forward station and Ingvild seated in the stern.Natalie Gallant

One of the launch party takes a turn at the oars with Jamie rowing in at the forward station and Ingvild seated in the stern.

 

We returned to the shore beaming. Ulf and John hopped out and were replaced by a crew of interested locals who had cheered us on throughout the process of building the spissbåt. New crews formed with friends and strangers alike, brought together by a boat from the other side of the world. Though AORUA was born in New Zealand, she is undeniably Scandinavian: handmade, utilitarian, and beautiful.

Jamie Gallant was born on Cape Cod and from a young age become fascinated by the area’s maritime traditions. He went on to explore this theme further as a documentary filmmaker, sailing Nordland boats in Northern Norway and retracing the story of the Columbia Expedition—the first American expedition to circumnavigate the globe—through treacherous seas off the Falkland Islands and Tierra Del Fuego. Today, he is a rescue specialist in the Coast Guard.

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.

Vacuum-Bagging

Some may think vacuum-bagging is intimidating, but it is an easy, multi-purpose technique that’s within reach of most amateur boatbuilders. While vacuum-bagging an entire hull may be beyond the means and requirements of the home boatbuilder, there are lots of small parts that would benefit from a simple vacuum system.

My Rietschle Pico vacuum pump is now 22 years old, has a small capacity of 350 cu ft per hour but has been more than adequate for all the jobs I’ve needed to do on my 20' ultralight stitch-and-glue coastal trekker, including a 28' carbon-fiber mast.photographs by the author

The author’s Rietschle Pico vacuum pump is now 22 years old and has a small capacity of 350 cu ft per hour, but it has been more than adequate for all the jobs he’s needed to do on his 20′ ultralight stitch-and-glue coastal trekker, including its 28′ carbon-fiber mast.

There are different types of suitable vacuum pumps. At the lower end of the scale, a salvaged refrigerator compressor is enough for occasional use. You can find compressors for under $100 on eBay. For more advanced work, rotary-vane pumps are the most popular, with second-hand prices beginning around $225 or less and around $675 new. My pump is an industrial-grade oil-free, graphite-vane pump with a small but sturdy 370-watt motor, designed to run continuously.

Small self-adhesive felt pads keep the airway open on this tile setters suction cup.

Small self-adhesive pads keep the airway open on this tile setter’s suction cup.

Connecting suction pipe to a vacuum bag can be done several ways. An industrial silicone vacuum cup is the most efficient, especially with a quick vacuum coupling (compressed air connectors cannot be used here because gaskets are designed to cope with internal and not external pressure), but it’s difficult to find and expensive. I use a $7 homemade alternative: The rubber disk of a tile setter’s suction cup with a piece of copper tubing, two hose clamps and some adhesive furniture pads. It works perfectly well, without any leaks. The pads prevent the cup from closing the hole in the bag.

With the relatively flat locker doors, vacuum bagging has the advantage of working several of them at the same time. Excess epoxy seeping through the holes in the perforated release film is darkening the bleeder fabric. At right is the suction cup fitting at the end of the hose to the vacuum pump and the pressure gauge is at the left.

With the relatively flat locker doors, vacuum bagging has the advantage of working several of them at the same time. Excess epoxy seeping through the holes in the perforated release film is darkening the bleeder fabric. At right is the suction cup fitting at the end of the hose to the vacuum pump and the pressure gauge is at the left.

A vacuum gauge is very useful for maintaining pressure. For a laminating process, average pressure should be around 0.3/0.4 bar (4.3/5.8 PSI), and for gluing, pressure may be higher, up to 0.6/0.7 bar (8.7/10.1 PSI). A gauge helps also to check chamber airtight integrity. When pump suction stops, the gauge needle must fall very slowly. If it falls quickly, chase the leaks!

To make my 1/4″ plywood cockpit locker doors rigid so they’d seal properly against their gaskets, and to keep them light, I stiffened them with a layer of a 1/2” PVC foam and two layers of ‘glass.

You need a mold (here a chipboard panel with a laminate surface) and a soft bag (warehouse polyethylene sheet or best, special composite nylon bagging film).  A temporary gasket of double-sided adhesive tape or special automotive sealant tape between bag and mold makes the chamber airtight. Inside the bag, the first layer put on the laminate is a peel ply which helps soak excess resin and makes the surface ready for bonding or finishing.

The second layer is made of a perforated release film (obtained from a supplier of composite materials or bread packaging) to keep resin from sticking on the last top layer, the bleeder layer. Colored in brown here, it is used to suck air out of the chamber. It can be a non-woven geotextile fabric used in landscaping or a special polyester breather/bleeder film. If vacuum bagging is used to glue foam to wood or wood to wood for example, peel ply is not necessary because foam and wood have a ready-to-work surface.

When the workpieces are coated or saturated with epoxy as appropriate and all layers have been stacked, the bag is closed and a tiny hole is poked in a corner for the vacuum cup.  Since my locker doors are less than 1” thick, I used double-sided adhesive tape to seal the perimeter of the bag, which is flexible enough to absorb deformation and leave the edges flat and easy to tape. The adhesive tape is easy to peel off without damaging the bag so it can be reused several times. I usually add adhesive tape—the orange tape here— all around to make a safe double seal.

The pump is started and begins to draw air out after bag is fully sealed. Air is sucked through reinforced water tubing; it resists a vacuum well and doesn’t collapse. Depending on resin formulation and workshop temperature, the pump runs for a few hours, the time for the epoxy to partially cure. Excess epoxy goes through the perforated film and slowly soaks the bleeder layer, which will later be discarded. The resulting ‘glass/wood composite is very uniform void-free laminate with just the right resin-to-fiberglass ratio, and extremely rigid and light.

The combination of plywood, foam and fiberglass made the locker doors flat and quite stiff without making them heavy.

The combination of plywood, foam and fiberglass made the locker doors flat and quite stiff without making them heavy.

For my outboard motor bracket, I cut a simple mold from a polystyrene block with rounded corners to create strong curves, then covered it with an ordinary adhesive PVC white film. A plasticine fillet at the base under the adhesive film helped to make a large rounded corner.

Draped over the mold, the bag had a lot of wrinkles and the edge sealing must be done with a sealant tape (found in automotive or composite supply stores) which closes the gaps created by the folds. It was quite tacky and impossible to peel the bag off without tearing it into pieces.

The outboard motor bracket had more depth than the locker door, requiring sealant tape to seal the pleats created in the vacuum bag.

The outboard motor bracket had more depth than the locker door, requiring sealant tape to seal the pleats created in the vacuum bag.

 

To make the bracket as light and vibration-resistant as possible, I used a mix of ‘glass for shock and vibration resistance and carbon for rigidity.

Once the outside part of the outboard bracket was cured, I trimmed it to size and installed a plywood core held in place by second lamination done with the whole assembly inside of a small vacuum bag.

Inside laminates are done along with the outside layer, using it as a mold. The bag was made of two polyethylene sheets, sealant taped. The suction cup had to be placed outside of the laminate, because the vacuum level was a little bit lower under the connector and the cup would have created a bump in the laminate.

The motor mount will get a coat of paint before being put into service supporting an electric outboard.

This motor mount will get a coat of paint before being put into service supporting an electric outboard.

The finished bracket weighs only 30 ounces. I used scraps of fabric and plywood, so the total cost was under $17, and that was mainly for the bag, sealant, and finishing.

Vacuum-bagging is a bit like steam bending—a bit mysterious before you try it; simple and effective afterwards.

Jean-Yves Poirier is a dedicated amateur boatbuilder with 19 boats to his credit and is a freelance writer working in France. He is a frequent contributor to WoodenBoat’s sister publication, Professional Boatbuilder.

You can share your tricks of the trade with other Small Boats Monthly readers by sending us an email.

Mud Pattens

Mud flats don't invite strolling, so with a pair of pattens you can have the intertidal all to yourself.photographs by the author

Mud flats don’t invite strolling, so with a pair of pattens you can have the intertidal all to yourself. A staff is a useful accessory for checking the depth of mud and water and maintaining balance.

When I rowed down the Ohio River, mud was something I had to deal with almost every day. It was the consistency of vegetable shortening and often as deep as my rubber boots were high. Ferrying camping gear from the boat to shore in the evenings and from shore to the boat in the mornings was an arduous process. I would have had an easier time of it if I had known then about mud pattens that waterfowlers use on the mudflats surrounding shoal inland waters along England’s southern coast.

If you’ve read Arthur Ransome’s book, Secret Water, you may remember splatchers: “two large oval boards, with rope grips in the middle of them for the heel and toe, and stout leather straps for fasteners.” Ransome’s drawing of them shows them about twice as long and twice as wide as the soles of the boots of the boy who is wearing them. I once improvised a pair of splatchers with driftwood and rope, and didn’t get far on an intertidal mudflat before I found myself stuck. Both splatchers were so firmly held by suction that I had to cut my feet out of the rope bindings to escape.

Boots alone sink into the mud, and suction can sometimes pull them right off your feet.

Boots alone sink into the mud, and suction can sometimes pull them right off your feet.

Mud pattens have been in use for centuries and are effective for walking on mud. They’re squares of wood or plywood with three cleats on the bottom, and two loops of thick rope on top. A separate length of lighter rope binds the thicker rope over the boot heel and instep. It’s best to use line that is not slippery, such as nylon, so the knots don’t loosen. I use manila; it has a coarse texture and stays tight.

Pattens distribute spread weight out over a larger area to minimize sinking. The positioning of the ball of the foot at the edge of the patten is what makes it possible to break the suction.

Pattens distribute weight out over a larger area to minimize sinking. The positioning of the ball of the foot at the edge of the patten is what makes it possible to break the suction.

I made my first two pairs of pattens 12″ square, a common size in England. They can vary in size according to the softness of the mud and the weight of the wearer. I made my third pair 14″ square, and it’s a better match for my 220-lb frame.

Cleats on the bottom add strength and traction to the pattens.

The grain of the board or plywood runs perpendicular to the boot. The bottom is reinforced with three hardwood cleats—two running the full length from front to back and beveled at the ends, and one in the middle running side to side. The middle cleat stops shy of the longer pair; the gaps make it easier to wash mud off that would otherwise get stuck at the intersections of the cleats. The H-pattern of the cleats help the pattens resist slipping in all directions.

The traditional method of tying a platten on is makes solid connection to the boot. Manila rope holds the knots well. See the video below to see how the line is tied.

The traditional method of tying a platten on makes a secure connection to a boot. Manila rope holds the knots well. See the video below to see how the line is tied.

The proper placement of the boot on the patten is with the toe sticking beyond the edge. This puts the ball of your foot close to its forward edge, and your heel near its middle. When walking on mud, you use a normal stride, putting your weight first on your heel, where it is distributed evenly across the patten. At the end of the stride, your weight transfers to the ball of your foot and the front edge of patten. That edge sinks while the back edge lifts, breaking the suction and prying the patten out of the mud.

That transfer of weight to the edge is what sets the mud patten apart from the splatcher. Splatchers extend beyond the toe of the boot, as well as the heel, so the weight remains within the perimeter of the splatcher. Since you can’t use the downward force of your weight to break the suction, you have to resort to lifting. That’s not only an ineffective way to break the suction, the upward force you apply with one foot adds to the downward force on the other foot. The more you struggle to release one splatcher, the more difficult you’re making it to release the other. That’s what I discovered with the improvised splatchers I had to cut myself out of. Trying to lift them only got me more deeply mired.

This 12”-square plywood patten has ash cleats, 3/4” by 1”, set on edge and screwed to the base. The cleats on my 14’ pattens are a bit heavier—7/8” by 1-1/4”. The 1/4” gaps at the ends of the middle cleat let water sluice the mud out of the corners when it’s time to clean up. The stopper knots on the rope ends are Figure-8 knots.

This 12″-square plywood patten has ash cleats, 3/4″ by 1″, set on edge and screwed to the base. The cleats on my 14″ pattens are a bit heavier—7/8″ by 1-1/4″. The 1/4″ gaps at the ends of the middle cleat let water sluice the mud out of the corners when it’s time to clean up. The stopper knots on the rope ends are Figure-8 knots.

 

The 1/2” manila loops are set at a boot’s width and each loop, requiring about 2’ of line, is laced through holes drilled 6” apart. The lacing line, coiled up here, is about 6’ of 1/4” manila with a half hitch in each end to keep it from unravelling. The base is made of 1/2” plywood, the same as I used for my 14” pattens. My other 12” pattens have a base of 3/4” pine.

The 1/2″ manila loops are set at a boot’s width and each loop, requiring about 2′ of line, is laced through holes drilled 6″ apart. The lacing line, coiled up here, is about 6′ of 1/4″ manila with a half hitch in each end to keep it from unravelling. The base is made of 1/2″ plywood, the same as I used for my 14″ pattens. My other 12″ pattens have a base of 3/4″ pine.

It takes me less than an hour and a few pieces of wood from my pile of scraps and cutoffs to make a pair of pattens. With them, mud doesn’t have to be a barrier to exploration. They’ve opened up a new landscape just as snowshoes do in snow.

Christopher Cunningham is the editor of Small Boats Monthly. He’s grateful to the Langstone & District Wildfowlers & Conservation Association for steering him away from splatchers.

A note about safety: If you encounter mud that is so soft that the pattens begin to sink, retreat to firmer ground. Larger pattens may work, but it’s possible that the mud is too soft to be traversed safely. Given my experience getting stuck with my jury-rigged splatchers, I’d advise carrying a knife and extra lacing lines.

Rivet Spacing Tool

At its full expansion of 36", the rivet spacing tool will mark twenty intervals of 1.8", an awkward number to work with if you're marking the intervals along a ruler.photographs by the author

At its full expansion of 36″, the rivet spacing tool will mark twenty intervals of 1.8″, an awkward number to work with if you’re marking the intervals along a ruler.

Between 1999 and 2003 I built a single-engine airplane in my basement. Precision is important in the building aircraft, so you can’t have haphazard spacing between all those rivets that hold an aluminum plane together. Fortunately there is a tool used by many amateur aircraft builders that facilitates the even spacing of fastenings without a measuring tape, complicated math, or walking intervals with dividers. It’s called a rivet spacing tool—a lattice of stainless steel pieces with pivots at their intersections so it can be compressed or stretched. The lattice-ends along one edge of the tool have holes for marking intervals with a pencil or an awl.

My rivet spacing tool came in handy when I was building my Zip runabout. I used it to mark locations for screws at an arbitrary, but exact, 3″ interval along the edges of the plywood panels that made up the hull and deck. The screws were all countersunk and puttied, and while some would later be painted over, others along the sheer would remain visible under varnish, so even spacing was important for appearance’s sake. The device would also be handy for spacing rivets or clench nails on lapstrake boats or for spacing wire holes in stitch-and-glue boats. It can also aid in figuring out plank widths for decking.

Closed, the tool will marke 20 1/2" intervals.

Closed, the tool will mark twenty 1/2″ intervals.

The spacing tool comes in two sizes: 10 units and 20 units. My 20-unit spacing tool has a span of 10″ when compressed, and 36″ expanded. For wide intervals, I can just skip holes. When I found a need to mark an area longer than 36″, I would just line up my last marked hole again after sliding the tool to the first hole in the tool and keep on marking. Given the even number of holes, the tool doesn’t naturally provide a way to find a center, but if you ignore the last hole on one end, and use an uneven number of holes, the middle hole would locate the center of the span. One of the bars in the lattice has stamped diagonal lines that are used to align a crossing strip of the lattice and achieve the spacing marked next to the line. These settings are for 3/4″, 1″, 1-1/4″, and 1-1/2″.

This tool is quick and easy to use. It avoids the awkward math of fractions and decimals. The rivet spacing tool is as useful on boats as it is on aircraft and in any workshop that requires fast and accurate evenly spaced marks.

 

Ted Gauthier is the Deputy Fire Chief of Bloomfield Village, Michigan. His passion outside of his dream job as a fireman has always been boating and flying. Ted has built himself many things including an airplane, a hot air balloon, a kayak, and a CNC machine. His review of the Glen-L Zip appears in this issue.

The Rivet Spacing Tool is available from the Aircraft Spruce & Specialty Company and is $25.85 for the 10-hole version and $41.50 for the 20-hole version. Northern Tool also carries a 20-hole version for $39.99.

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.

SYNCHRONY

The Tread Lightly's mizzen was the feature that drew Steve to the design.photographs courtesy of Steve Judson

The Tread Lightly’s mizzen was the feature that drew Steve to John Welsford’s design.

Steve Judson of Annapolis, Maryland, was thinking seriously about building a Scamp. His wife had given him the plans for Christmas and he had thought highly of the Scamp’s performance during a test sail. But he had his heart set on a boat with a mizzen so he could more easily heave to. He did a bit of research and discovered that John Welsford had designed another boat with a hull very much like that of the Scamp, but longer and equipped with a mizzen. Welsford’s Tread Lightly is 13′ long with a beam of 5’. That’s 13″ longer than the Scamp and 4″ narrower.

The shortened cabin leaves more room in the cockpit; eliminating the bulkhead and hatch makes access to day-sailing gear easier.

The shortened cabin leaves more room in the cockpit; eliminating the bulkhead and hatch makes access to day-sailing gear easier.

The Tread Lightly was designed with overnight cruising in mind and so it has a cabin with sitting headroom and room for a solo sailor to sleep with legs stretched out under a bench in the cockpit. Steve planned to use his boat primarily for daysailing and found his inspiration for a number of modifications to that end in Bob Trygg’s Tread Lightly, GIZMO. He shortened the cabin to provide more space in the cockpit, and eliminated the bulkhead that enclosed the cabin to make more a readily accessible space for stowing gear. Fore-and-aft benches took the place of the bridge deck in the original design; the side decks are 2″ narrower to keep them from crowding the side benches and footwell. The Tread Lightly centerboard was drawn offset to port, and Steve put his on the starboard side and pushed it a 2″ farther from the centerline to make more room in the footwell.

The step for the mizzen mast is above the tiller, allowing both the mast and the tiller to be on the centerline and not get in each other's way. Note the yuloh's fitting connecting its handle to the blade of one of the oars used to make the yuloh.

The step for the mizzen mast is above the tiller, allowing both the mast and the tiller to be on the centerline and not get in each other’s way. Note the yuloh’s fitting, which connects its handle to the blade of one of the two oars that were combined to make it.

He also made a few modifications of his own. He equipped the mast with a tabernacle to shorten his time at launch ramps. The tabernacle required the replacement the foredeck with an anchor well and moving the mast 3″ aft from its designed location.

Cutting the Tread Lightly's foredeck provided clearance for the mast to heel to pivot in its tabernacle and recessed well for the anchor.

Cutting the Tread Lightly’s foredeck provided clearance for the mast to pivot in its tabernacle and created a recessed well for the anchor.

Steve used recycled lumber for almost all of the solid wood parts, and even worked bits of maritime history into the construction of his Tread Lightly. He made his mooring cleats of teak from the decking of both the USCG barque EAGLE and the WWII submarine USS TORSK. A bit of Santa Maria, a wood also often used for decking, cast off from the PRIDE OF BALTIMORE II became another cleat and part of the pinrail. The pinrail also had some Osage orange from the schooner SULTANA. Steve’s brass builder’s plate is mounted on a piece of mahogany from the ferryboat GOVERNOR (formerly KULSHAN of Washington State) used by the Coast Guard when it operated a base at Governor’s Island in New York harbor.

He used less notable pieces of wood too: the boom was once a mast for a sailing dinghy, the yard is a section of a Star-class sailboat. The spars were dimensioned to fit a lugsail that Steve had on hand; its shape is slightly different than the main drawn by Welsford, but has the same area.

For auxiliary propulsion, Steve made a yuloh from a pair of 5′ oars that were too short to use on any of his other boats. A carbon-fiber ferrule joins the oars at the handles to make a 10′ long yuloh. He reshaped inboard and added a section of fiberglass tube added at a slight angle for a handle to get the proper feathering action when stroking.

Auxiliary power is provided by a yuloh fashioned from two short oar joined by a carbon-fiber ferrule.

Auxiliary power is provided by a yuloh fashioned from two short oars joined by  ferrule. The two halves of the yuloh are easy to store aboard SYNCHRONY.

Steve launched his Tread Lightly this year, christened it SYNCHRONY, and has sailed solo and with his wife on the tidal waters of several of the rivers that feed Chesapeake Bay. He reports that the boat—beyond being easily trailered, launched, and sailed singlehanded—is a magnet for compliments.

Have you recently launched a boat? Please email us. We’d like to hear about it and share your story with other Small Boats Monthly readers.

A Leeboard for a Motorboat

In the wind, our canal boat, BONZO, wanders like an off-leash dog. The design, Phil Thiel’s Escargot, is intended for thin waters that aren’t likely to be subject to breezes, but my son Nate and I often get into little skirmishes with the wind on Seattle’s Lake Union, Lake Washington, and Puget Sound. The hull draws only 6″, and above the waterline are flat sides, each measuring 70 sq ft, so when the wind’s on the beam, BONZO’s bow falls off, sometimes quite precipitously. And motoring into a headwind is like balancing a broom upside down—there’s a lot of movement at the bottom to keep the top in line. The boat is also slow to respond to turns.

The dark ipe board on the outside of the leeboard is meant to provide a structure stronger than a pivot bolt going through the leeboard and the hull.

The dark ipe board on the outside of the leeboard is through-bolted to the sheer guard and the hull and meant to provide a structure stronger than just a pivot bolt going through the leeboard and the hull.

I thought a leeboard, something you don’t often see on powerboats, might help. A little more lateral resistance would both keep BONZO on course in the wind and provide a pivot point for turning. I got some confirmation of the notion of improving steering just a few days before I started the project when I saw a Boston Whaler equipped with two large leeboards. Its owner had it outfitted as a push boat with two braced, vertical bumpers on the bow and was using it to move a houseboat out of a marina slip, a job that required maneuvering in close quarters. He said that he could spin his Whaler around in its own length with the leeboards in place.

The single leeboard has deep roots. Howard Chapelle notes: “The single leeboard…was a very cheap and simple off-side centerboard, in effect, which not only required no case but was also out of the way of cargo placed in the hold or on deck. The advantages of the single were so great, particularly in scows carrying deckloads, that the centerboard never replaced it before the end of sail.”

The single leeboard has deep roots. Howard Chapelle notes: “The single leeboard…was a very cheap and simple off-side centerboard, in effect, which not only required no case but was also out of the way of cargo placed in the hold or on deck. The advantages of the single were so great, particularly in scows carrying deckloads, that the centerboard never replaced it before the end of sail.”

At a local store selling salvaged construction materials, I bought a gymnasium bleacher seat, 16′ of flawless 1-1/8″ vertical-grained Douglas fir. I edge-glued a full-width piece to a 3″ strip to get a 12″ wide leeboard that would fit right under the sheer guard and ride above the waterline when retracted. The 4′ length would put 30″ of the board beneath the hull when deployed.

The board is not weighted so a haul-down is require to lower it. The line to raise the board has a single block and a runner to halve the effort required to lift the board.

The board is not weighted, so a haul-down is required to lower it. The line to raise the board has a single block and a runner to halve the effort required to lift the board.

I took BONZO out on Puget Sound for an overnight cruise and the leeboard seemed to live up to my expectations. Turning was sharper and in what little wind I had, leecocking didn’t seem to be a problem. When we get out of the August doldrums into the fine sailing breezes, we’ll be able to do some more testing. We’ve already rigged the boat with a mast partner and a new mast to carry a square sail I made for one of my other boats. I’d only intended it for downwind sailing, but who knows, maybe with the new leeboard we’ll soon be sailing on a beam reach in a canal boat.

The Solar Eclipse

The homeward leg of my overnight cruise with BONZO was on Monday, August 21, the day of the solar eclipse; Puget Sound was to get a 95 percent eclipse at 10:20 am. I anchored on the east side of the Sound that morning. I didn’t have goggles for viewing the eclipse directly, so I had to improvise. I took a section of the stovepipe from the stove, and used rubber bands to hold a piece of tin foil over one end and a square of toilet paper over the other. I didn’t have a pin to poke a hole in the tinfoil, so I pulled a bristle from a wire brush that we use to clean the portable gas grill we often carry aboard.

To watch the eclipse I made a pinhole viewer with a piece of stovepipe, aluminum foil and toilet paper.

To watch the eclipse I made a pinhole viewer with a piece of stovepipe, aluminum foil and toilet paper.

 

Just before the peak of the eclipse, the breeze turned cool and fog settled in over the Sound and shore. It didn’t get as dark as I had hoped, but the sunlight took on an odd silvery cast. I retreated to the cabin, slipped the stovepipe into the sleeve of a black jacket, and aimed it out the slightly open doorway at the sun. Each pinhole cast a crescent image of the shadowed sun.

Each of the holes I poked in the aluminum foil projected an image of the obscured disk of the sun.

Each of the holes I poked in the aluminum foil projected an image of the obscured disk of the sun.

As the sun was returned to its full brightness, the fog cleared, and I headed home with BONZO, leeboard deployed, running straight and true.

Milford 20

The diminutive yacht OYSTER, a Milford 20, is a modern take on the early New Haven sharpies that worked the oyster beds along Long Island Sound’s Connecticut shores. Inspired by Mark Fitzgerald’s FLORIDAYS in Reuel B. Parker’s The Sharpie Book, the 20′ 6″ OYSTER was designed and built by Neville Watkinson of Milford Boats in Christchurch, New Zealand, and carries either a cat-ketch or a cat-schooner rig.

The sharpie design is well known, but the elements setting the Milford 20’s classic design apart are the counter stern and the cabin with its elliptical port-lights and trim, details that would usually be found on a much larger yacht. OYSTER has been greatly admired at recent classic and traditional boat events in our area of New Zealand. Its classic lines, beautiful counter stern, and immaculate finish readily show the careful thought that has been given to the integrity of the design and the quality of craftsmanship.

The 52-page build manual is comprehensive, with full sequential notes on the whole process enhanced with clear photographs and detailed drawings. The documentation would put the boat within the range of an amateur builder with good woodworking skills and access to a reasonable range of tools and workshop facilities. On OYSTER, the time and care that went into building the coach roof, coamings, lazarette, bulkheads, portlights, rails, and moldings were well rewarded. OYSTER took approximately 1,000 hours to build and outfit.

OYSTER, the first Milford 20, had sapele chine logs,sheer clamps, frames floors, and keelson. Any durable straight-grained wood may be used.Neville Watkinson

OYSTER, the first Milford 20, had sapele chine logs, sheer clamps, frames floors, and keelson. Any durable straight-grained wood may be used.

Construction largely follows that of traditional plank-on-frame boats, but uses plywood for sheathing the hull. The Milford 20 is built upside down over a ladder frame without any temporary molds; the hull is built around the permanent timber frames and longitudinal members. The bottom is 12mm plywood, the sides 9mm, and the deck 6mm. To plank the strong curve of the counter, three layers of 3mm plywood were laminated. There are three 12mm plywood bulkheads: The bulkhead in the bow is open, and the stern bulkhead, set just ahead of the rudderpost, encloses a lazarette that provides buoyancy when its watertight hatch is sealed. The addition of some foam throughout the hull would be advised to add sufficient positive buoyancy to support hull and crew in event of a capsize. The hatch on the foredeck provides access to the anchor, which stows in the bottom of the boat where it can contribute to the boat’s stability.

A double luff tackle (with a double-sheave block and a triple-sheave block) stretched out along the top of the trunk greatly eases the burden of raising the board. The anchor and chain have their place in a box in the bow.Matt Vance

A double luff tackle (with a double-sheave block and a triple-sheave block) stretched out along the top of the trunk greatly eases the burden of raising the heavily weighted board. The anchor and chain have their place in a box in the bow.

The boat’s centerboard has an unusual construction. It’s a stack of thirty 1-7/8″-thick NACA foil sections, 17 of them hardwood, nine of them half wood, half lead, and four of them entirely made of lead, adding 121 pounds to the board’s weight. The stack is assembled on three 10mm stainless-steel rods with threaded ends for nuts and washers to pinch the epoxy-slathered sections together. The board then gets its sides sheathed with 6mm plywood, a leading edge of oak before a layer of epoxy and ’glass or Dynel.

The plans include a sheet devoted to the installation of an air-cooled gas engine. It is "intended as a concept guide" rather than a DIY guide. In the construction manual the designer notes: "The clutch, timing belts and pulleys cost more than the engine! This is one reason I would probably just go with electric drive if starting over."Neville Watkinson

The plans include a sheet devoted to the installation of an air-cooled gas engine. It is “intended as a concept guide” rather than DIY instructions. In the construction manual the designer notes: “The clutch, timing belts, and pulleys cost more than the engine! I would probably just go with electric drive if starting over.”

Although not essential, auxiliary power makes it possible to get through marinas and lulls in the wind. OYSTER has a 6-hp, air-cooled Honda GX 200, an industrial four-stroke engine, neatly and unobtrusively mounted under the bridge deck. The engine was easy to start with a pull or two of its cord, quiet, and provided ample power for launching and hauling out as well as for a short passage in a short choppy seaway. Milford Boats reports that the inboard pushes the boat along at 4.5 to 5 knots and sips gas at the rate of about 1 gallon per sailing season.

The optional inboard motor will keep the Milford moving at up to 5 knots when there isn't any wind.Matt Vance

The optional inboard engine will keep the Milford moving at up to 5 knots when there isn’t any wind.

The engine is set to port, and a belt drive turns the prop shaft that emerges from the skeg forward of the rudder. The three-bladed prop is protected by a stainless-steel plate connecting the skeg and bottom of the rudder. The prop doesn’t feather or freewheel and causes a little drag, but this is a minor concern as the auxiliary power is a major benefit. A bracket for mounting a small outboard to one side of the hull may be a more appealing option to those who are uneasy about installing a shaft log. The long, slender hull and cockpit geometry suggest that the boat could be comfortably rowed if a builder wanted to fit a thwart or two and oarlocks.

Sitting on the trailer designed for it, the Milford 20 doesn't obscure the view to the rear. The towing weight with trailer, boat, rig, and gear is 1320 lbs.Neville Watkinson

Sitting on the trailer designed for it, the Milford 20 doesn’t obscure the driver’s view to the rear. The towing weight with trailer, boat, rig, and gear is 1,320 lbs.

The build manual includes plans for a steel trailer custom-fit to the Milford 20. It was easy to use and, with the boat aboard, weighs around 1,320 lbs—an easy towing load for a small to average-sized vehicle.

At the launch ramp, two of us easily assembled the schooner rig in about 20 minutes. While the unstayed Douglas-fir masts, each weighing 30 lbs, are not heavy, they are awkward to maneuver, and best handled by two. Once the masts are stepped, the rest of the preparation is quickly accomplished. Most lines and sheets are kept in place when the masts are down for trailering, so it takes little time to rerig the boat at the ramp.

Similarly, retrieving the boat from the water and securing it on the trailer at the end of our outing took about 20 minutes. With all sailing gear packed easily in the boat and the masts resting in three crutches, one in each mast step and a third in the hollow rudder post, the Milford 20 is ready for travel. The compact and low profile of the boat on the trailer makes for easy towing and clear all-round vision on the road.

The Milford 20 has a third mast step for sailing with a single sail. A deck plate covers the hole in the forward end of the cabin roof when the that step is not in use.Neville Watkinson

The Milford 20 has a third mast step for sailing with a single sail. A deck plate covers the hole in the forward end of the cabin roof when that step is not in use.

We sailed OYSTER on the open water of Lyttelton Harbor on the east coast of New Zealand’s South Island on a late autumn day under clear skies with a breeze at 5 to 8 knots, later rising to over 10 knots. The Milford 20 is only about 4′2″ across at the widest part of the bottom, but was extremely stable under sail. It proved to be a responsive and easy to handle while underway. The thoughtful placement of the fittings and lines ensures that any adjustments can be made from a sitting position in the comfort of the main cockpit.

The low sharpie profile makes the floorboards the best seating for the crew. The mainsail sheet is led to the tiller.Neville Watkinson

The low sharpie profile makes the floorboards the best seating for the crew. The mainsail sheet is led to the tiller.

The cockpit isn’t deep, so the floorboards, along with throw cushions and a broad coaming, provide comfortable, dry seating as well as a secure feeling while underway. Even as the wind strength increased soon after we got underway and both sails were reefed, it was not necessary sit out on the windward side decks to counter the heeling. If we had additional crew sitting in the cockpit forward of the bridge deck/mizzen partner, they too would have been very secure, dry, and well clear of the rigging as we sailed the boat from rear cockpit.

Both cockpits are long enough to sleep in—6′2-1/2″ forward and 5′11″ aft—but the available spaces in the forward cockpit, either side of the centerboard trunk, have maximum width of about 22” and the aft cockpit has a 4’2″ maximum width. The limited space would be rather restrictive for sleeping. It would be a much more practical proposition to carry a tent and camping equipment on board for parking the crew onshore overnight. The generous space under the fore deck and in the enclosed aft compartment provide adequate out-of-the-way stowage for cruising and camping gear.

With a hull draws only 10", and a forefoot right at the waterline, the Milford 20 takes well to nosing up on a sandy shore.Matt Vance

With a hull that draws only 10″ and a forefoot right at the waterline, the Milford 20 takes well to nosing up on a sandy shore.

During our sail we raised the centerboard and ran OYSTER gently on a sandy beach, stepped ashore, and made a cup of hot coffee using a small portable stove and supplies stowed in the watertight locker under the lazarette. The hull is well protected by Dynel, providing a hard, damage-resistant surface. The Milford 20’s light weight—695 lbs for the hull, including the weighted centerboard—and its shallow 10” draft made the beach landing and relaunching a very easy exercise.

The balanced rudder is 37″ long and 13″ tall at the trailing edge, and has a shape typical of traditional sharpies but with a more modern feature: a 6″-wide horizontal bottom plate to keep water from decreasing the rudder’s effectiveness by slipping under it.

The cat-schooner rig, seen here, has 67 sq ft in the main and 76 in the foresail. The alternate cat-ketch rig has 80 sq ft in the main and 62 sq ft in the mizzen. The designer favors the cat-schooner rig.Matt Vance

The cat-schooner rig, seen here, has 67 sq ft in the main and 76 sq ft in the foresail. The alternate cat-ketch rig has 80 sq ft in the main and 62 sq ft in the mizzen. The designer favors the cat-schooner rig.

The modest sail area performs very well in both light and brisk breezes. However, having a long and slender hull and a tall rig, the Milford 20, like most sharpies, needs to be sailed with no more than 10 or 15 degrees of heel. It did sail comfortably with the lee rail under, although it is preferable to reduce heel in a choppy sea to prevent water from entering the cockpit. In winds of 10 to 12 knots, reefing the main would be advised for stability and comfort and in 15 knots it’s recommended that both sails be reefed. Reefing either sail is easily managed from the cockpits.

The Milford 20 obviously does not sail as close to the wind as a sloop-rigged boat of similar size, but it was very secure with a desirable positive helm. It moved readily in light airs, in a rising wind, and was very comfortable both upwind and running downwind.

The structure and configuration of the boat makes it a safe and pleasurable sailing boat in a range of conditions on moderately sheltered waters. It is not an offshore or coastal cruiser but an able craft that could appeal to sailors of all ages and abilities. The dry, secure cockpit and centralized rig controls would obviously have a wide appeal for older sailors or those with limited mobility.  For the inexperienced, it is easily managed and forgiving underway.

Overall the Milford 20 design appeals as a very elegant, classic craft for home building, and gives a great sailing experience for both experienced and inexperienced sailors. It also would be a suitable craft for a couple or family of four; a delight to sail and appealing to those who want a safe boat for leisure and pleasure.

Peter Braithwaite ONZM has had a career as a teacher, school principal, administrator, training manager, consultant and foreign-aid adviser in New Zealand and the Pacific islands. He now lives in Christchurch where he continues his lifetime passion for recreational sailing and building small boats from RC pond sailers to competitive racing dinghies and harbor racing yachts. For the past ten years he has been the organizer of the Canterbury Classic & Traditional Boats group that promotes and organizes regular regattas and activities for classic, restored, and replica traditional boats in the local region.

Milford 20 Particulars

[table]

Length/20′6″

Beam/5′8″

Draft, board up/10″

Draft, board down/3′3″

Sail area/145 sq ft

Displacement/1,360 lbs

Hull weight (including centerboard)/695 lbs

[/table]

 

Schooner rig

Schooner rig

 

Ketch rig

Ketch rig

Plans for the Millford 20 are available from Milford Boats on paper for $120 and as digital files for $80.

Is there a boat you’d like to know more about? Have you built one that you think other Small Boats Monthly readers would enjoy? Please email us!